Fragmented Evil

by Craig Wrightson

  Fragmented Evil

  A Compilation of Eight Spine-Chilling Horror Stories

  Written by

  Craig Wrightson

  Copyright © Craig Wrightson 2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, please contact me by my email address below:

  craigwrightson@laughcryandwrite.com

  First eBook Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental

  Dedicated to my wonderful and funny children, Kacy and Leon.

  This one is for when you’re older. Much older!

  Contents

  Marked for Death

  Tortured Souls

  The Resurrection Men

  Contagious

  The Haunting of Back Beck House

  Der Devil Komando

  Specimen One

  The Calling

  Words from the Author

  About the Author

  My Other Books

  Marked for Death

  Danger will wink on opportunity.

  John Milton, 1667.

  Chapter 1

  The bleakness of the sky was depressing as dark clouds hovered low, almost touching the rooftops. It had rained non-stop for days. Brenda Cole could not remember when it had last been dry. There looked to be no let-up, and still, after all this time, the rain fell with ferocity.

  In her ground floor flat at Cedar House Sheltered Accommodation, she sat comfortably in her armchair with her white cat Snowy cuddled up on her lap, content to watch the water cascade down the plastic gutters like a waterfall, splurging out onto the pathways that linked the twelve other residents together. She would have no visitors today, no coffee, cake or chitchat, that was for sure.

  Brenda Cole had lived here for three years now. Initially, she had fought against the move and had done everything in her power to resist. Even when she had reluctantly given in to her son's reasoning, she had made little effort to settle in. Locking herself inside her little self-contained flat, she had shut herself away from everyone, refusing visitors, being rude and sometimes downright disrespectful to the other residents. It was probably her gypsy’s blood, she had told herself. Luckily her resolve had weakened over time, and she had cautiously begun to explore her new environment, interacting with others, the occasional ‘good morning’, and soon she surprised herself by making friends and actually enjoying herself for a change. It was nice for her not to see herself as a burden, an old woman, life lived and now waiting for God to take her on her final journey.

  She dozed as she recalled the happier times in her life, travelling up and down the country from one town to the next with her travelling fair. He husband had been a big part of the community, running the waltzer and the dodgems, while she had busied herself with the hook-a-duck stall and the hotdog van. When her husband had died unexpectedly from a stroke ten years earlier, her two sons had taken over his side of the business. As she had got older, her sons had sold the hotdog van as they thought it was too demanding for an old woman to run on her own and left her with the hook-a-duck stall where she made the easiest money of them all. She missed the camaraderie of the fair people and the constant stream of visitors popping in and out of her spotless caravan for a tea and a gossip. Arthritis had beaten her in the end. She had struggled for a season, setting up the stall in all weathers and working away from lunchtime till ten p.m. Her sons had seen her age and convinced her that the time for retirement was now. She liked Newcastle. Her favourite part of the year was the Hoppings, when all the individual fairs came together on the massive Town Moor for two weeks, so when asked where she wanted to see out her days in comfort, she had selected Gosforth, right next to the Town Moor where she could relive her fondest memories.

  Brenda Cole heard Snowy purr and gradually opened her eyes. The cat was sitting up on her lap and looked straight into her eyes before purring again, louder.

  ‘OK, Snowy. I know it’s past your teatime. Give me two minutes.’

  Brenda eased herself up and slowly made her way to her small kitchen, her fragile bones creaking into life. She opened the cupboard door and glanced inside. It was practically empty, with only a single tin of peas and an opened packet of crackers inside. She closed the door and looked down at Snowy, who was sat by her feet, licking her lips in anticipation. She opened her fridge, hoping for some milk to give her in a saucer but one sniff of the milk carton’s contents told her it was well past its use-by date, only fit for the sink.

  She considered asking Mr Pike the caretaker to go to the corner shop down the road for her; he was always asking the residents if they needed groceries or newspapers, anything really. He was a nice man in his mid-fifties. Made redundant from the shipyards, he had taken up his role just a few weeks before Brenda had moved in and was liked by everyone. No, she firmly decided, she couldn’t ask him to go out in this weather just for some cat food and a corned beef and potato pie; that would be taking advantage of the poor soul.

  Sighing, she looked down at Snowy who had by now lost the twinkle in her eyes.

  ‘I know. Don’t look at me like that. I’ll go to the shop and get us both something nice.’

  Brenda opened her purse. She was down to her last twenty-pound note. This was going to have to last until pension day at the end of the week. She put on her raincoat and lifted out her umbrella. She made sure all of her buttons were tightly fastened and that her hood was pulled up over her head before she opened the door and stepped outside, struggling to open her umbrella in the gusty damp air.

  Closing the door behind her, she called out, ‘Don’t you worry, Snowy, I’ll only be ten minutes.’

  #

  ‘Get out of my shop you fucking smack rat!’

  Rob Hill froze, his outstretched arm shaking in mid-air. Starving and in desperate need for a hit, he thought he had got away with his attempt to enter the corner shop unseen. He waivered, unsure of what to do. He hadn’t eaten or drank anything for over twenty-four hours, and he could feel his body slowly shutting down. His so-called friends had turned on him, kicking him out of the squat and back onto the streets the minute he had been caught stealing from them again. Bastards!

  Again. ‘Get out of my fucking shop.’

  Rob stood up from where he was bent down, behind the display of tinned foods, and saw that the Asian shopkeeper was coming out from behind his counter where he had initially been with his back to Rob, restocking the cigarette display.

  In desperation, Rob lunged forwards grabbing at the first thing that came to hand from the chilled drinks counter that he had sneakily been making his way towards. Turning, he raced out of the shop almost slipping on the rainwater that he had brought inside with him.

  Ignoring the rain, already drenched through to the bone in jeans and a thin t-shirt, Rob ran as fast as he could to the end of the block where the shop was located, only stopping when he turned the corner. Poking his head around the corner, he watched as the shopkeeper paused at the door, undecided whether to leave his shop unattended or to give chase in the pouring the rain. The frustrated shopkeeper shook his head dispassionately and returned back indoors, not willing to take the risk.

  Looking down at his haul, Rob grinned to himself. Two cans of Monster Energy drink were all he had achieved. Still, at least the sugar hit would be better than nothing at all. He opened the first can and swigged away greedily, almost emptying the contents in a single gul
p. Rob leant back against the wall and closed his eyes, trying to work out his next move.

  As the rain ran down his face in heavy droplets, he looked up, thoroughly depressed with the situation he was in and the drabness of the day. In the distance, perhaps a hundred metres away, he could make out a lone figure, walking hunched, slowly, towards his direction on a cycle path that would eventually take them under the dimly lit underpass and up out onto the row of shops where he was stood.

  He stepped forwards, alert, and looked around. There was not another soul to be seen which was hardly surprising considering the weather. His hand reached around and gently prodded the back pocket of his jeans where he could feel the outline of his small Swiss Army knife which, along with other handy tools, housed a three-inch blade. After a further check of the area, he made his way cautiously to the underpass entrance, his foul mood replaced now that he had the means to get out of the hole he was currently in.

  The underpass was dimly lit. Rainwater trickled down the tarmac incline, gathering at the bottom in small pools. Rob walked a third of the way in and stopped, hidden in the shadows. The lone figure was getting closer, close enough for Rob to detect that it was an old woman. She was coming towards him on the opposite side of the pathway, her umbrella held in one hand, and her bag for life gripped in the other. With her vision obstructed by the hood of her raincoat she had no idea that he was ahead, waiting.

  Rob pulled out the knife, extending the blade. When she was almost opposite, he paced silently across the underpass and shoved Brenda Cole harshly up against the cold wall. She let out a scream in shock and surprised him by flailing wildly with the umbrella catching him against the shoulder. He grabbed her by the lapels of her raincoat and shook her again until she released her grip and the umbrella slipped to the floor, the clang echoing in the emptiness.

  ‘Give me your bag, you old bitch,’ Rob demanded.

  Brenda Cole pulled her bag close to her chest and remained silent. Her look of shock changed to one of fear when he held the knife out in front of her. In seconds she relented and handed over her bag to Rob, who snatched it greedily from her and looked inside. He grinned like a kid in a sweetshop as his hand pulled out an old blue purse.

  With his knife trained on her torso, he dropped the bag and opened the purse. He took out the twenty-pound note and smiled to himself. Looking again at Brenda Cole, he noticed that her body language had changed. She was no longer feared; instead, she now held herself upright and held his gaze with dark steely eyes.

  ‘I guarantee that that money will never bring you the happiness you seek.’

  Rob said nothing and stepped forwards, plunging the knife deep into Brenda Cole’s stomach. She shuddered as the blade entered, and as her clammy hands cupped his own, he felt the warm trickle of blood against his cold skin. He sunk the knife deeper, tearing into her vital organs and her grip instantly relaxed.

  ‘Oh yes, it fucking well will,’ Rob spat at her.

  As he slowly withdrew the knife, her eyes closed and her lifeless body sank to the wet ground.

  Rob wiped the bloody blade on the prone corpse and returned it to his back pocket. Slipping the note into the front pocket of his jeans, Benda Cole was already forgotten as he hurried away in search of his dealer.

  Chapter 2

  With the twenty-pound note safely tucked away in his jeans pocket, Rob Hill made his way quickly through the semi-deserted streets of Gosforth. Any pangs for food had now been replaced by his hunger for his next hit.

  He tried, but to no avail, to score from his regular dealers. They had all refused to even answer the door to him, convinced that he was telling lies yet again about being good for the money. His reputation had preceded him, and over the past few years, he had well and truly burnt all his bridges.

  Thoroughly soaked to the skin, he found himself nearing the more affluent area of Jesmond which was famed for its trendy bars and restaurants which lined Osborne Road. Like a drowned rat he looked on with bitter jealousy as well-dressed thirty somethings sipped trendy, multi-coloured cocktails from an array of fancy glasses from the comfort of the Billabong Bar, unaware of the misery around them for the people like himself, forced to live in the gutters.

  He was just about to give up when he noticed a familiar face striding confidently towards him. He knew the face but wasn’t sure of the name. The guy approaching him had done well since Rob had last seen him perhaps a year ago. He had moved on from the squat they had shared briefly for a few nights and was now dressed immaculately in a black rain jacket, dark denim jeans and trendy white Adidas trainers.

  The guy was actually called Martin Cole, Matty to his friends, and he had moved on, not as far as Rob assumed, but he was finished with squatting and now had a little flat for himself in Jesmond. He hadn’t strayed too far away from the misery and now busied himself as a drug dealer. The streets of Jesmond were perfect. The trendies could not sniff enough coke. They would take whatever he had to offer, and after drifting in and out of a few bars shifting his gear, he would move on, to the backstreets, the darker side, and pedal his heroin to the needy and desperate. Matty was doing well, the drinkers and diners had still come out in their droves despite the horrendous weather, and he had shifted all his stuff in only a few hours. He was headed into Newcastle after finishing a busy few days dealing.

  They passed each other on the pavement, Matty looked his way. There was recognition of some sort in his eyes, and he stopped.

  ‘Is that you, Rob?’

  His name came back to him in an instant. ‘It is, Matty. How’s you, pal?’

  Matty grinned and looked down at Rob; it was hard to tell from his expression if he was saddened or disgusted.

  ‘Christ, Rob. You look like shit.’

  ‘You know how it is?’

  ‘Yeah, I remember.’ Matty continued looking at Rob for a brief moment.

  ‘You still using, then?’

  Rob, through years of hardship, had very little self-respect; that had dissolved the moment he had first succumbed to a needle. He knew what he was, and he knew how he looked. Without flinching and in the hope that Matty might even tip him a few quid, he replied.

  ‘Aye. I’m desperate for a hit, to be honest.’

  Matty looked round. There was no one else on the street, and the traffic was quiet.

  ‘I might just be able to help you,’ he said in a hushed tone.

  Rob felt his spirits lift. ‘I’ve got twenty quid,’ he said, pulling out the note.

  Matty swiped the note from and him and placed a small tin foil package in the palm of his hand.

  ‘It’s your lucky day. That was my last wrap. Now get out of the rain somewhere and enjoy it.’

  Matty popped the twenty-pound note in the top pocket of his jacket and carried on walking. Not a bad day at all, he told himself. He turned around to see Rob hotfoot it in the direction of the flats. Once a junkie, always a junkie, he thought to himself.

  #

  Rob couldn’t believe his luck and made his way through the deserted backstreets of Jesmond with his head bent low, ignoring the puddles that now took up the majority of the pathways and roads.

  He had lost his needle, and he didn’t have the inclination or energy to beg, steal or borrow another. He made his way to the Metro station and was going to sit around the back but noticed that everywhere was waterlogged. He ventured down the small flight of stairs onto the platform itself and smiled to himself as he read a video display mounted from the ceiling, which informed passengers that all Metro services had been suspended for the day due to the severe weather conditions. This was perfect; he would be dry and best of all, alone.

  Rob walked to the end of the platform and sat down on the cold floor. Taking out the wrap of heroin from his pocket, he gently heated the underside of the tinfoil with his cheap clipper lighter, taking care not to cook the contents. He leant forwards and inhaled the rising smoke. As the wave of euphoria hit, he lay back against the
wall and closed his eyes, happy to enjoy the encapsulating warm glow that had consumed his entire body.

  He must have dropped off as out of nowhere he detected voices in the distance. Rob tried to rise from his sitting position, but he was still under the drug’s hold and struggled to move. His head was heavy; with fogged vision he could vaguely make out three youths walking down the platform towards him. They were teenagers, no older than seventeen, and as they swaggered towards him, they drank from a vodka bottle which they passed between themselves. They stopped abruptly when they spotted Rob.

  They spoke in hushed tones, glancing in his direction and laughing rudely before cautiously walking forwards, circling the prone body of Rob. They stood over him and looked him up and down in disgust.

  In his comatose state, Rob failed to detect the severity of the situation he was in and held his hand out pleadingly.

  ‘Do you have any change, please?’

  The biggest of the trio sneered, ‘Sorry. I only have a fifty. Unless you have change, that is?’ The other two sniggered in the background.

  Rob’s head slumped back, and bile trickled to the edge of his lips. The biggest assailant caught the group’s eye and nodded his head fractionally.

  In unison, they stepped forwards and reigned blow upon blow down onto Rob’s defenseless body. As the kicks and punches landed, he cried out in pain and tried in vain to curl up into a ball. A foot connected with his nose and he felt warm blood on his face. After a few seconds, they stopped and stood back, exhausted. Hyped up and full of adrenalin, they looked capable of murder. One of the quieter youths, now full of courage, stepped forwards, unzipping his jeans. He proceeded to urinate on Rob, much to the pleasure of his friends who hollered in excitement and slapped his back.