Tales From The Wyrd Museum 1: The Woven Path

by Robin Jarvis

  The grotesque travesty of a real, animated squander bug burned into Doris Meacham's fainting soul as the loathsome semblance of the Fuhrer's face taunted and mocked her. Beneath the wiry moustache its white lips curled back over pale gums and a bloodcurdling growl rose from its black throat.

  Like a cornered mouse, Mrs Meacham pressed herself into the walls, hiding her face in her hands.

  Then it sprang.

  With its limbs flailing wildly, the squander bug pounced on her, hurling the woman to the ground whilst it laughed demonically. Doris Meacham's struggles were brief, the light from her torch threw the desperate contest against the wall as she screeched in torment. But the sound was lost as the tremendous blare of the air-raid siren suddenly warbled through the streets.

  Reaching upwards, the evil, distorted cockroach gave a gruesome chuckle. Snapping and crunching, the claw that curled from one of its spindly legs began to stretch and straighten as the skin flaked away to reveal a gleaming spear of burnished metal.

  Where its talon had been, there was now a huge sewing needle that winked and flashed in the torch beam. For a moment it continued to glitter, then its rapier point came knifing down.

  In the narrow alleyway, Mrs Meacham's terrified screams abruptly ceased.

  Gurgling with delight, the squander bug scuttled over the body of its slaughtered prey and lowered its already blurring face.

  A vile lapping sound drifted out into the jet black night and then there was silence. Belial had claimed his first victim.

  Chapter 13 Bearnapping

  Jean Evans sat at the small table and shuffled along the seat as Angelo came to join her.

  ‘You dead beat already?’ he asked.

  ‘I'm not really in the mood for dancing,’ she replied.

  Sitting at the edge of the dance floor, they watched as other couples gracefully sailed by in time to the lilting strains of the dance band. Somewhere amongst the milling throng, Kath and Frank were holding each other close, but it was impossible to see them.

  The dance hall was full tonight and not one person had bothered to leave when the siren sounded. GIs, glamorous and debonair in their pink and green uniforms, already outnumbered the few local boys who stood together in a resentful group, unable to compete with the allure and dash of the Americans.

  It was baking in the packed hall and the tropical air was misty with cigarette smoke. In spite of the soothing music, there was a tenseness in the air, the atmosphere was charged and electric, at any moment it seemed as if tempers would erupt.

  Feeling edgy and uncomfortable, Jean looked at Angelo. ‘Don't you ever take that flying jacket off?’ she finally asked him. ‘I should think you must be done by now.’

  Angelo slicked back his hair and shook his head. 'I'd take a shower in this, baby, if I could,’ he told her, ‘it's my protection see—nothing can happen to me whilst I got it on. It's one of my lucky pieces.’

  ‘Superstitious, are you?’

  ‘Hell, every airman is—though not as much as me, mebbe. I got enough charms to open a store.’

  Shifting in the seat, he turned away from her so that she could see the design painted on the back.

  Jean studied the colourful and highly exaggerated figure of a beautiful woman reclining in a provocative pose and arched her eyebrows.

  ‘A friend of yours, is she?’

  ‘She better be,’ he replied. 'That there is Lady Luck. Hey, read what it says underneath.’

  ‘The Kismet,’’ she said aloud.

  That's the name of our bomber,’ Angelo told her, quickly turning round once more, ‘as in Fate—you know, hocus-pocus. The guys let me christen her, she's a beauty—you ever seen a B-17?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ah, everyone should see one of them honeys in flight, they got a grace about ‘em, even when they ditch there's a spooky kinda elegance—like a ballet. Unnerstand what I'm sayin’?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Angelo shrugged, then snapped his fingers. ‘You wanna see some magic?’ he asked, taking a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. ‘Here, duchess, put your kisser on there.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I want your lipstick on the paper, trick won't work otherwise.’

  Jean complied and along the side of the cigarette was a perfect print of her lips.

  ‘Ahh,’ Angelo cooed, ‘that's one lucky smoke. Now, watch—this is so great.’

  From his wallet he took a one pound note and rolled the cigarette inside it.

  ‘OK, sweetlips, you ready? Here she goes.’

  Flicking open his lighter he thrust the paper tube into the flame and the money fizzled between his fingers.

  Angelo dropped it into the ashtray and waited until there was nothing left but ash.

  ‘Now!’ he cried, reaching behind the woman's ear and pulling out a cigarette. ‘Hey presto! Look see, it's the same one, there's your lips—ain't it a scream?’

  Jean looked down at the ashtray then glared at him angrily. ‘Do you know just how much money people earn a week?’ she snapped. ‘Have you any idea what I could have bought for Daniel with that?’

  Taken aback by the ferocity of her outburst, Angelo fished out his wallet again.

  ‘Don't you dare offer me money!’ Jean raged at him. ‘What do you think I am? Do you have to keep showing off and throwing your weight about?’

  Angela rammed the wallet back into his jacket and threw his hands into the air in defeat.

  ‘I give in!’ he cried. ‘Maybe I'm losin’ it. You done nothin’ but gripe and drag that long face round with you ever since we met. I can't do anythin’ right, an’ God knows I tried, lady. What you doin’ here anyways? I thought you changed your mind ‘bout me when I saw you'd come out tonight.’

  Jean folded her arms stiffly and gazed at the passing dancers. ‘I only came ‘cos Kath kept on at me all day to keep her company,’ she said, ‘certainly wasn't to see you again.’

  ‘Oh, gee babe, thanks a bundle!’ the American muttered, rising from the table and sulkily pushing his way through the couples.

  Jean watched as the painted figure on the back of the flying jacket disappeared in the crowd and a wave of guilt flowed over her.

  'That was a cruel thing to do, Jean Evans,’ she scolded herself, ‘you've really hurt his feelings now, he was only trying to be friendly.’

  Springing out of her seat, she hurriedly chased after him, hoping that he hadn't already left.

  Outside the dance hall, Angelo leaned against the wall and lifted a cigarette to his mouth, then realising it was the one marked with her lipstick, he scrunched it up and cast it to the ground.

  Lighting a second, he took a deep lungful of smoke and blew a continuous stream from his lips.

  It had turned into a beautiful night. The obscuring clouds that made the blackout so bleak and impenetrable had cleared to reveal a radiant, full moon and London was dipped in a pool of silver.

  Inside the building, the band began to play ‘Stairway to the Stars’ and Angelo raised his eyes to gaze at the glimmering lamps of heaven above.

  ‘Penny for them?’ a voice said behind him.

  Angelo drew on the cigarette. ‘I'm not gonna take your money either,’ he answered but there was a lightness in his tone that showed he didn't bear any grudges.

  ‘If I stay in there a minute longer, I'll punch someone,’ she confessed, shaking off the tension.

  ‘You got a pretty sky here,’ he marvelled as Jean came to stand beside him.

  ‘No sign of the planes yet, then?’ she asked, scanning the night. ‘Maybe it was a false alarm.’

  Angelo smiled. ‘Didn't mean it that way,’ he said gently, ‘can't see stars like that in Brooklyn—sets you thinkin’, a sky like that. Would ya just look at that old moon blazin so cold an’ frosty up there?’

  ‘I hate the moon,’ the woman bluntly replied. ‘I dread nights when it's full. It makes it easier for the Germans to drop their bombs.’

  The American lo
wered his eyes for a moment. ‘Yeah,’ he slowly agreed, ‘it does.’

  ‘What's it like?’ she asked.

  ‘What’s what like?’

  ‘Dropping bombs on people.’

  Angelo stared at the glowing end of his cigarette as he considered her question and his face lost its natural impudence.

  ‘Weird,’ he answered. “We hurl ourselves into the backyard of heaven, hoping all the while that whoever's up there can hear us. ‘Cos we're all prayin’ like crazy, and you know—I get to thinkin’, what makes our prayers better'n those of Jerry? I don't know how many civilians our bombs have killed. Not every German's a Nazi, an’ that's somethin’ that'll hit me when all this craziness is over. Don't reckon them faceless people'll ever leave me—I gotta carry them round till I buy mine, an’ then what?’

  Jean shivered staring up at the brilliant, swollen disc. ‘I don't know what it is,’ she said, ‘but for some reason it seems worse tonight—as though there's something out there—prowling under that bright moon. It's horrible that something so lovely could be the cause of so many deaths.’

  ‘Hey,’ Angelo murmured, ‘if you really think that, then there's no point fighting this war. What victory would there be if beauty's gonna be feared and cursed? I wouldn't wanna live in a world like that, would you?’

  ‘I think I already am,’ she breathed.

  ‘No crime in havin’ fun, Jean,’ he told her. ‘You scared you might like it?’

  ‘You called me Jean,’ she said in surprise, ‘not babe or honey.’

  ‘Mebbe I decided I like Jean better.’

  Within the dance hall the band began to play ‘Moonlight Serenade’ and the woman laughed, finally dispelling all traces of her earlier stress and unease.

  ‘You wanna go back inside?’ Angelo asked. ‘It's mighty cold out here an’ my footwork ain't as bad as my personality.’

  Jean shook her head. ‘No,’ she replied, ‘dance with me out here, just once—under that bright moon, then maybe I won't hate it no more.’

  *

  ‘Yer wasting your time, kid,’ Ted had said, back in the box room of number twenty-three. Won't do you no good goin’ to that museum—not in this time. It's just a heap o’ bricks, all it ever had goin’ for it was me.’

  ‘You mean you won't come with me?’ Neil asked. ‘Mr Stokes is taking me to the wardens’ hut tonight—we can slip away dead easy when he goes out.’

  The bear shook his head and primped the red ribbon about his neck. ‘Snoopin’ round that place is the last thing I wanna do right now. I told ya, we got three more days till the gateway appears an’ you meet up with Joshy again. Goin’ to that museum is just a waste of time—’sides, I gotta stay in to see the look on that lieutenant's face when Jean snubs him. Right now, they've got a truce goin’ but it won't last long an’ the schmuck'll step outta line pretty soon. I gotta stick around to see that.’

  ‘I’ll go on my own then,’ Neil decided.

  Ted eyed him cautiously. ‘You just be careful if you're really gonna do that. You oughta know by now, that museum ain't no amusement park. It might not take kindly to any intruders—there's a helluva lot you don't know and can't guess about it. That building ain't no ordinary place, you musta figured that out by now.’

  ‘I've got to go,’ the boy answered. ‘Apart from you, it's the only link to my real time and Josh. I've got to feel as though I'm doing something—I wish you'd come with me.’

  The bear rubbed his furry chin. ‘I can't,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just believe me—I got a reason to be here tonight, it ain't just to see the lovebirds when they come back—really. Oh, kid, I don't want you wanderin’ round that kooky museum on your own but believe me my place is here tonight. I'm sorry.’

  With this exchange ringing in his ears, and determined to visit the Wyrd Museum that very night. Neil had left the Stokes and accompanied Peter to the wardens’ post.

  In the sandbagged hut, Peter gave the boy a copy of the Magnet—a comic for boys, to keep him occupied whilst he was on his patrol.

  As soon as he was alone, Neil waited a further ten minutes then darted from the post and into the moonlit night.

  To avoid bumping into another warden, he had decided to cut through the bomb sites and in a matter of minutes was standing at the edge of the large expanse of ruined houses and wasteland.

  Before crossing over the rubble-strewn threshold into that eerie devastation, Neil held his breath. It was not the most inviting place in the world. The baleful moonglow cast great gulfs of shadow below the irregular broken walls that jutted from the landscape and these tapering black chasms were pointing at him like accusing fingers.

  There's nothing to be scared of,’ he whispered, ‘it's not as bad as when I followed Josh up to The Separate Collection. That really was creepy.’

  Heartened by this recollection, the boy clambered over a mound of bricks and passed into the bomb site.

  Bathed in a ghostly radiance, the desolation was a startling environment—as though an avenging spirit of destruction had stormed over the land, leaving nothing but decay in its wake.

  Yet this strange, barren country was starkly beautiful. A dusting of frost sparkled over the wreckage of a hundred homes and a profound, graveyard silence lay heavily over all.

  Scrambling over the uneven ground, warily keeping a sharp eye where he trod, Neil made slow progress and he began to wish he had kept to the roads.

  Into the hollow between the burned-out husks of two houses he went, swallowing nervously as he ventured through their deep shadows.

  ‘It's like walking in a city of the dead,’ he reflected grimly, and at once regretted giving voice to the macabre thought. ‘Brilliant,’ he muttered with a frown, ‘that's just the right frame of mind to be in—well done. I'll be seeing bogey men in every shadow now.’

  The sooner he left the ravaged area behind the better—he could already see the dark perimeter of the bomb site where it butted on to a row of terraces and he knew that the preternaturally strange Wyrd Museum lay in that direction.

  Moving as quickly as he could, he journeyed deeper into the cold heart of the demolished realm—and then the voices began.

  At first they were indistinguishable from the slight breeze that blew icily into his ears; but it was not long before he could discern actual words floating through the night and, as the hairs on his neck prickled, the boy stopped dead in his tracks.

  ‘Boy!’ a plaintive, melancholy voice whispered, ‘Boy!’

  Neil cast around to see who had spoken but could see no one. Surrounded as he was by the ramshackle remains of blasted buildings, the countless shadows provided innumerable places to lurk unseen—the boy longed to be back in the wardens’ hut.

  Then the voice spoke again. ‘Come to us,’ it called softly. ‘Be with us.’

  In the gloom the darkness was stirring, writhing with dim shapes that stealthily crept out into the deathly moonlight.

  ‘We see you, boy,’ came a bleak, chanting chorus. ‘We have watched you. We know where you are headed. We cannot permit you.’’

  From the deep shadows they came. Eight misty figures with sunken eyes and ashen faces, wearing the clothes their bodies had perished in. No shadows were cast beneath them as they shambled from the dark recesses and as one they lifted their grasping hands to Neil.

  Spluttering in dread and horror, the boy fell back into a clump of weeds and, with faltering steps, the murmuring phantoms crossed the stony ground that separated them.

  ‘Get away!’ he yelled. ‘Keep back!’ But his terrified voice was thin and without force, dissolving feebly into the freezing air.

  ‘You must not go.' their empty, lifeless voices called as he dragged himself up and lunged away from them. ‘Come and join us.'

  But Neil did not listen. He sprang over the ruins, not daring to look back.

  Behind him, one of the wraiths let out a terrible shriek and to his dismay, Neil heard answering calls all around
the bomb site.

  They're everywhere!’ he cried.

  From the consuming night that pressed and smothered the haunted wasteland, he saw more shapes drift towards him. Four indistinct forms were already melting from the shadows ahead and to the left he could hear many discordant wails growing louder with every instant.

  Nervously, he glanced to his right, where the rolling devastation reared and dipped towards the chimney-topped outline of the shops that lined the high street and the boy wept with relief- as yet that way was deserted.

  Jumping a low wall, he pelted over the rubble, towards the welcoming, empty darkness. If he could only escape those horrific spectres—if he could only reach the world of the living once more.

  At once, the gathering shades sent up a frightful howl and, with an unearthly gale tearing at their ragged clothes and hair, they hastened after him.

  Beyond a ridge of crumbling ruins, Neil could already see the solid, black shapes of the street buildings growing closer, drawing him on and inspiring him with hope. But close behind, the wraiths’ chilling, frenzied clamour was increasing and their hideous cries now filled his ears, killing all other sounds.

  Recklessly, Neil launched himself up the uneven scree of the final mountain of wreckage, scrambling over tumbled masonry and blocks of ravaged stone. With his heart smashing against his ribs, he sped on, ploughing through the dirt, heedless of everything except his desperate plight.

  Then it happened. With the top of the hill almost within his reach, Neil's foot slipped on a broken timber. Hurling clouds of dust out over the bomb site, the beam went crashing down the slope and, yelling for his life, Neil came slithering after.

  At the base of the ridge, the phantoms were waiting and their lifeless eyes watched keenly as the boy toppled and fell, powerless to stop himself.

  Into their ghastly midst Neil plunged and when his violent lurchings came to an abrupt halt at their shadowy feet, he lifted his aching head and saw the now silent crowd flock around him.

  Their faces were awful to look upon. Expressions, as desolate and lonely as the wild terrain they haunted, plagued their tormented features.