‘Oh, that is very true. But you don’t need to sleep to experience our gift. Soon, every waking moment shall be a nightmare, and we shall have very full bellies indeed. Is that not so, brother of mine?’
Mr. Spike nodded and made a horrid gurgling sound.
‘As a special treat,’ said Mr. Cotton, ‘how about my brother takes off his mask and shows you the true face of terror? Would you like that?’
Marie ran.
‘I do not believe she desires said treat, Mr. Spike. But not to worry, they will all see your face, given time.’
Marie spent the rest of the night wide awake, TV blaring to fill the silence, checking and re-checking that all the doors and windows were locked.
All across Blackpool, people were having bad dreams, whether they were asleep or not.
Rita Hobbes was no different. She was in the void again. In whatever formless, empty space inside the artefact—the axe—that the sacrificed souls of Jane Bowan and Ellie Mason were trapped within.
‘Hello? You two playing hide-and-seek?’ asked Rita, now used to her regular sleep trips. She couldn’t say she enjoyed them, as each time she spoke to the souls of the trapped women it just reminded her that the axe she wielded was essentially their prison. No, it wasn’t her fault they were trapped inside, but she was a police detective—or had been—and failing to provide help where help was needed was the kind of thing that gnawed at her.
‘Come out, come out wherever you are, girls,’ she said, kicking at a stone that wasn’t there.
A shape began to emerge from the grey fog.
‘Ellie, is that you?’
It was not Ellie.
‘Hello, Rita Hobbes,’ said the Angel of Blackpool.
Rita made to grab her axe, then remembered she was inside the axe. Or her unconscious, sleeping mind was inside it at least. Somehow.
‘Where’s Carlisle?’ she demanded, trying not to look nervous.
‘Why so nervous?’ asked the Angel.
Damn.
‘I said, where is Carlisle?’
‘In a Parisian cafe within his mind, at least he was the last we spoke.’
‘Right.’ Rita rolled that one around in her head for a few seconds. ‘I’m sorry, what? Are you saying he’s alive or not alive?’
‘I have not harmed him.’
‘Well, that’s good.’
‘Others have.’
‘Not so good.’
‘I… request your help.’
Rita attempted to reply in at least three different ways, before simply giving in and laughing. Loudly.
The Angel waited for her to finish. ‘Release Alexander Jenner from the dreamscape you fashioned to imprison him.’
‘Yeah, unlikely.’
‘Release him and the power shall be his again.’
‘Sort of why I won’t be doing that.’
The Angel began to flicker and fade, Its mouth moving but the words missing.
‘What? What is it?’ asked Rita. ‘Why in the name of my arse would I ever help you, or release the guv? You’re off your angelic rocker.’
‘...power… his… will flow… away from… to him…’ Its voice came through like a detuned radio, slipping in and out.
‘Sounds like we’re about to lose our connection, so let me make this clear before you get cut off. I’ve only got one thing I’m going to offer you, you big twat.’ Rita held up her middle finger. ‘That’s all yours. Now go with God.’
The Angel of Blackpool’s face creased in silent fury, and then It was gone.
‘What a total arsehole,’ said Rita. But she found herself smiling. Carlisle was alive.
Probably.
The wind roared in Carlisle’s ears, only it wasn’t actually the wind as he didn’t actually have ears.
He was not exactly sure how much time had passed since his astral form had vacated his body. It could have been seconds. Or hours. Or years. Time was a nebulous concept when one was traversing the astral plane.
Reality shook and rushed and warped around him, a kaleidoscope of images, sounds, times, realms, realities, all jammed together and behind and on top of each other. Noisy, disorienting chaos. No up, no down, no here, no there, no clear sense of anything to get a grip on.
Carlisle was in big trouble.
He opened his mouth to say “Shit” but had no idea whether he had a mouth or how to use it, forcing him to think the word “Shit” instead. It was a rather understated way of expressing how deeply in trouble he was.
He tried to ignore the madness surrounding him, and reached out to get hold of one true thing. One real, alive, solid thing that might anchor him as he tried to get to grips with reality as it bucked and raged and tried to shake him off.
Patience.
That’s all it would take.
Don’t get overwhelmed. Don’t let that seed of panic take hold and bloom.
The sound of everything assaulting him at once began to fade as he willed himself into a state of calm.
He was Carlisle. He could find his way through anything, and do it with style.
He was Carlisle.
...so scared, is he following…?
There! An Uncanny voice in the madness.
He wasn’t sure if he had hands, but he reached out as the beacon wafted in and out.
‘...ears and the birds in Not Dad’s…’
Almost there. Reality scratched at him, tried to shred him, but the beacon was shining bright and clear. A lighthouse beaming into the fog to lead his ship to safety.
‘...so dark, I shouldn’t be out here so late at…’
Carlisle screamed, though of course he didn’t scream at all, and the whirl of chaos shuddered to a stop.
A small boy on Blackpool beach. He was in his pyjamas, his feet were bare, his cheeks red, eyes too. He was shaking and crying in the cold, and he was worried about going home because of the terrors, the terrors, the terrors, even though he was brave, really, and knew that the dark hid secrets that others couldn’t see. Knew about the Uncanny without really knowing about it at all. Was the Uncanny.
‘Who’s there?’ asked the boy, asked Liam, aware of something holding on to him. ‘Are you going to try and hurt me, too?’
Liam felt as though he could almost see a person. Tall and pale, with a long, dark coat and a wicked grin spreading across his face.
‘Many thanks,’ said the almost-there person with a slight bow, and then he was gone.
Liam rubbed the last of the tears from his eyes, his toes curling in the damp sand. He’d run from home, scared by the rabbit mask and Not Dad with his head full of birds, but he’d have to go back.
They were only nightmares, probably. Nightmares in the awake world. He thought that lots of people were seeing these thing now, too.
He looked out to sea and saw things reaching out from the horizon. Things he had not been able to see just moments before. They looked like smoke trails, the kind a plane left as it passed overhead, only these were black. They reached out from the sea and arced high across the water, over Liam’s head and then down into Blackpool. Thousands of them, writhing like snakes.
Yes, Liam thought a lot of people in Blackpool were having bad dreams that night. Perhaps even worse than bad dreams. Liam thought the nightmares meant them all harm.
He wrapped his arms around himself and tried not to shiver.
8
Joan looked down at the dead bird that had been deposited on her kitchen floor. Its neck had been torn open and a wing was missing. She clucked her tongue with annoyance and retrieved a plastic bag from the cupboard, dropping the poor creature inside and placing it into one of the outside bins. She wasn’t squeamish about it, she’d had more than one grisly present left for her over the years.
‘Birds, rabbits, even had a bat, once. Lord alone knows how they caught that bloody thing,’ Joan had told her young neighbour just a few days earlier. ‘It’s not down to my cats, you understand, Mandy. No, no, no. Jackson, Mr. Tabby and Ginger would never
dream of killing anything. They’re very cultured cats, you see. I’ve brought them up from newborns to act in a respectable manner. Plus they’re very well-fed; they’ve no need to go trawling the garden like common animals.’
Well-fed was certainly one way of putting it. All three of Joan’s cats were more than a little on the chunky side. She couldn’t help but lavish attention and treats upon the trio. There came a point when they struggled to squeeze in and out of the cat flap into the back garden, but instead of putting the chubby threesome on a diet, Joan had had a larger cat flap installed.
‘No, no, no, not my cats. They would never leave such things in my kitchen. That’s the thing with cat flaps, you see. It helps my cats get out and about, but it lets other things get inside.’
Joan’s neighbour, Mandy, was a single mum who had left the father of her child to bring up little Ashton alone. Not that Joan held that against her, it was a modern world after all. You have to move with the times. Would’ve been a scandal if Joan had done the same in her time of course. Just imagine the horror if she’d bundled up baby Celia and done a midnight flit from Frank! Her mum would have disowned her, and that was just for starters!
But no, that wasn’t what happened nowadays, and who was she to look down upon it? Truth was, she admired Mandy in a way. Being strong enough to go it alone with a little kiddie. They’d had a cake and pop party for his second birthday only the other week. Cute as a button, he was.
Joan’s daughter, Celia, had never had kids of course, and it was too late for that now. Celia wasn’t a young woman anymore. She could maybe adopt, though. Joan had mentioned that once or twice, read up about it down at the library even, but Celia wasn’t interested. ‘I’m not the nurturing sort, Mum,’ she’d said, over and over again.
Joan knew it, and she wanted her own daughter to live the life that felt right for her, but a part of her, in the pit of her stomach, hadn’t stopped longing for grandchildren. She supposed a head-shrink type might say that’s why she doted on her cats the way she did, and had taken such an active interest in little Ashton.
Well maybe it was, but then who else was she going to dote on? Celia was all the way down in London, Frank dead for almost twenty years, no grandchildren; should she just sit there alone and let the cold creep in? A loving heart was a healthy heart. That’s what Joan always said, when people stopped to listen.
‘You know, one time, after getting that bigger flap fitted, I actually came home to find a fox asleep in my kitchen. Not a small one either; a big ol’ boy! Chased it round the place with my broom before I managed to shepherd it back through the flap. Cheeky thing! So regal though, foxes, don’t you think? Make a riot of your rubbish bins, of course. That’s the thing you see, that’s the thing with these cat flaps: other things can get inside. Things that aren’t supposed to. That’s why I know it isn’t my cats leaving these presents. It’s that big, black moggy from across the road, oh, I’ve no doubt about that. I see him skulking across my back fence when I’m washing the dishes. I’ve been over there to tell Mr. Wright about it more than once, but you know that grumpy old codger. Not interested. Ah, well. What’s the harm though? Probably wants a little extra love and food, that’s why he comes round my kitchen. Can’t see Mr. Wright offering much in that department.’
Joan had taken to calling the black mog Charlie Boy. She’d wave to it as it passed and call out its new name. Poor thing wouldn’t come near when she was around though. A nervous mite. Clearly, Mr. Wright had not treated him well.
‘Lord alone knows what I’ll find coming though that cat flap next, Mandy.’
Joan sank to her knees on the kitchen floor with difficulty. She dunked a sponge into the bucket of soapy water and scrubbed at the tiled floor. She liked to keep a good household, always had done. Point of pride. Now that Celia was coming back in the morning to stay for a few days, she was making sure every inch glittered.
‘You’ll be able to eat your dinner off the toilet seat by the time I’m through!’ Joan had said to Mandy, hooting with laughter.
It had been so long since Celia had been up for a visit. Going on a year now. Had to cancel her trip earlier in the year, work needed her, so she said. Celia was always so busy, and so very far away. Joan had made the trip a few times over the years, down on the train, but the older she got, the more of a drain it was. So now she sat at home and waited for Celia to find the time. Or a “window”, as Celia liked to call it.
She didn’t blame her daughter—of course not—she had a busy life. She was a success! Built that interior design business up from the ground, now she had a whole host of people who worked under her. Joan bragged to anyone who would listen about her clever daughter down in London with her own business. Joan liked to think that it was something to do with her own flare for keeping a tidy home that had rubbed off on her daughter. Helped cultivate the spark that had flared up into such a wonderful skill. Well, it certainly wasn’t down to Frank. Football, beer, and naps, that’s all he’d been interested in.
Joan grunted as she pushed her way up and on to her feet. She made her way to the counter and put a pot on the stove, then poured some milk into it. She’d always liked a cup of hot milk, ever since she was a little one and her own mum had made it for her. She smiled as she watched the milk begin to bubble.
She glanced out the window. It was pitch black. Mad old woman, staying up all hours cleaning a house she’d already been over twice that day.
Joan went to lift the pan of milk off the stove when a streak of movement caught her attention.
‘Ginger? Jackson? Mr. Tabby? That you, there?’
She turned to look, and as she did, something shot between her legs. Joan shrieked as the creature hit her ankle at speed, causing her to lose balance. She threw out her arms to steady herself, but it was no use. In what seemed to her like slow motion, Joan fell, twisted, to the floor.
She knew as soon as she hit down that something had broken. She felt it go. Heard it, like a rifle shot. She would have screamed out, but the pain was so sharp and sudden that it robbed her of the power to vocalise, and instead her mouth stretched wide in an anguished mute cry.
‘Okay… okay…’ She took a few calming breaths, then tried to move, crying out in pain. She was broken good, she wasn’t going anywhere.
She wasn’t going to be able to make it to the phone. Even if she wasn’t as busted up as she was, she didn’t have the strength to drag herself to the other side of the house for the land line, and she knew her mobile phone was all the way upstairs. No, she was going to have to stay right where she was until her daughter arrived. Maybe… maybe, when Celia found her this way, she’d decide to stay for longer. Look after her. Maybe she’d even want to keep a closer eye on her. Visit more often, or split her time between here and London to take care of her poor old mum who could no longer be trusted on her own.
Perhaps this wasn’t such a terrible thing to have happened. Maybe it would even be a good thing.
Something moved at the other end of the kitchen. Joan lifted her head and squinted. A small, dark shape was sat on the floor a few feet away.
‘Who is that? Ginger?’ Joan knew that it wasn’t. ‘Oh… Charlie Boy? Charlie Boy, that you over there?’ The dark shape shuffled into view, then sat looking directly at Joan.
‘It is… it is you, isn’t it?’ The cat just looked at her, quite still and unconcerned. ‘Not your fault, that’s okay, you weren’t to know.’ Joan was surprised to see her neighbour’s cat actually inside her house, sitting there, calm as you like. He was always so wary and liked to keep his distance usually, but now there he was, fearless.
‘Decided to come inside at last, Charlie Boy? After a little attention, I’ll bet.’
Charlie Boy stood, eyes unblinking, and padded across the floor towards her, stopping by Joan’s head.
‘Hey there, Charlie.’ Joan didn’t like the cat’s eyes. Something was wrong with them. Something that made her heart flutter. ‘Okay… okay… now you just go over
there, Charlie. You just—’
Charlie Boy bit Joan’s face.
She screamed and flapped at the hissing cat, causing it to back off, but not to run away entirely. Instead, it took back its position at the other end of the kitchen and sat staring at her with its amber eyes.
Joan touched the wound on her face, her breath quick, and felt the blood smear between her fingertips and cheek.
‘Scat…! You scat, you hear me? You get out of my house!’ Charlie Boy ignored her. ‘This is my house, you get out of here!’
Squeak.
Three more cats entered through the cat flap. ‘Ginger, Jackson, Mr. Tabby, you be careful of that bad cat! Be careful now!’
Joan’s three cats sat beside Charlie Boy. Their eyes didn’t look real. It looked as though someone had removed them and sewn on glass ones. Joan began to feel very frightened. She used what little strength she had to push herself as far back from the cats as she could, until she was pressed up against the larder door.
The cats stood.
‘Please don’t.’
As one, the cats made their unhurried approach, their glass eyes never leaving her.
‘Please.’
The cats hissed as they swarmed her, needle teeth and claws flashing as they attacked again and again. Joan lifted her arms to try and protect her face from the worst of it, but they were too many.
Not my cats, not my cats, oh no! I’ve brought them up from newborns to act in a respectable manner.
As quickly as it had started, the attack stopped.
Joan lowered her lacerated arms, a sharp pain in her chest. The cats had their backs to her. They were looking towards the cat flap.
‘Well… oh my…oh dear…’
Joan gulped down air and tried to ignore all the blood.
Squeak.
The cat flap was pushed open by a tiny hand.
‘Please,’ Joan begged. ‘Please, I need help.’
The hand was joined by a second, then two arms slid inside, followed by a head. It was a small child, no more than two years old. Joan recognized the child; it was Ashton, her neighbour’s little boy.
Night Terrors_An Uncanny Kingdom Urban Fantasy Page 6