Sam Black Shadow

by Paul Berry

  Contents

  1. Shadow Over Preston

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  2. Jupiter Hill

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  3. New Innsmouth

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  For Mum and Dad

  … the known universe of three dimensions embraces the merest fraction of the whole cosmos of substance and energy.

  H. P. Lovecraft

  The Shunned House

  1

  SHADOW

  OVER

  PRESTON

  Chapter 1

  Stern iron lamps stand like luminous sentries on each side of the park entrance. The wind clatters branches against them, casting skeletal hand shadows that claw the leaves swirling around my feet.

  I hesitate, pull down the hood to the bridge of my nose and slip unnoticed through the gate.

  I pass the hedge maze, tempted to enter its leafy corridors and lose myself in the comforting gloom, but instead I cut across the playing fields until I reach the woods that encircle the north end of Worden park. I follow the path through the trees. It forks and I turn left, taking me to the back of the college.

  Metal railings separate the woods from the college, the tops curving downwards into toothy spikes that would bite your arm or leg. In front of the lightning-split oak tree I use as a marker is a railing brittle with rust and age. Last week I kicked it loose and carefully replaced it to create my secret ingress.

  I look around to check I’m alone and wiggle the railing free, shrug off my backpack and squeeze through the gap, the scabrous bars scraping my cheeks and shoulders. I kneel down and grab the backpack, the paint cans rattling inside, and furtively approach the granite monolith erected on the manicured lawn that borders the college campus. In the moonlight, the monolith looks like a slab of bone gouged with horizontal scratches. As I get closer I can make out the lists of names from the French trip carved into the pale stone.

  Eight years ago, in 1981, the bus had skidded on the motorway, then ploughed through the barriers and tumbled down a steep embankment. When it finally stopped, the teacher who was driving and fifteen students were dead or close to death, steel and flesh mangled together. It caught fire just as the ambulances arrived, dying whimpers briefly turning into screams.

  I run my fingers in a sweeping motion over the names until I reach the one at the bottom. Christine Black.

  The teacher.

  My mother.

  I scratch my fingernail along the curve of the ‘C’ and pull out a can of black paint, shake it and spray a stippled line on the stone. I spray four more lines, the ends touching each other to form a pentagram. In the centre, I spray an eye.

  Every night as I teeter on the edge of sleep the symbol materialises and floats behind my eyelids, invading my dreams, its after-image hovering when I open my eyes in the morning until I blink it away.

  Through the wind I hear my name being whispered.

  ‘Sam.’

  I turn around and look through the railings into the trees, my heart pulsating in my throat.

  There is a figure standing motionless between the trunks.

  I duck down behind the monument, then slowly peer round the edge.

  The figure has disappeared.

  I take my backpack, push myself through the gap in the railings and jam the bar back into place, the graffiti eye staring back at me.

  As I walk down the root-snarled path I hear moaning coming from a clearing a few metres to my left.

  In the moonlight there are two men. They are kissing, their arms wrapped tightly around each other. I want to avert my eyes, feeling ashamed at violating their privacy, but something won’t let me turn away.

  The head of the taller man elongates until it looks like a mantis.

  I scrunch my eyes closed and open them.

  His head looks normal again.

  The taller man caresses the cheek of the other. ‘You want this, don’t you?’ The man nods. The taller man grabs the other’s shoulders. His head darts forward and clamps onto his neck. There are wet sucking sounds and the man against the tree moans more loudly.

  Then he screams.

  The tall man lets go of him and he falls against the trunk and slides lifeless to the ground. The man wipes his mouth and chuckles.

  The dark smear on the back of his hand looks like blood.

  I flatten my back against a tree, the knotted bark nipping my skin, craning my neck to peek around. The man takes a step towards me, sniffing the air and cocking his head from side to side. My body tenses and I fight the impulse to run. He stops and returns to the man splayed on the ground, bends down and gathers him up as though he’s made of twigs.

  He disappears with him into the woods and I crouch beside the tree, taking slow breaths until I stop feeling faint. When I stand up, I feel pain lancing across my palms.

  My fingers are curled into them so tightly the nails have drawn tiny moons of blood.

  Skulking through the streets, my head bowed and hoodied, I get home in about half an hour and climb up the drainpipe at the back of my house. It curves like a spine down from the gutter, almost touching the corner of my bedroom window, the brackets attaching it to the wall acting as footholds. I clamber through the window and hide the backpack in the wardrobe, my dad’s snores reverberating from his bedroom.

  I lie on top of my bed and close my eyes, thinking about the two men in the woods, their bodies pressing together, and wish I could have touched them.

  ✽

  I wake up tangled in my duvet. I must have taken my clothes off in my sleep, as they’re crumpled into a ball next to the bed.

  I remember a dream about going to the college during the night but then see the freckles of black paint on the back of my right hand. Underneath my fingernails is dried blood and slivers of dark green paint from the drainpipe outside my window. I must have been sleepwalking again but don’t remember how I got to the park entrance. Tonight I will tie string around my ankle again and fasten the end to the leg of the bed.

  I suddenly recall the men in the woods. If I was really there, shouldn’t I tell my dad? But how would I explain being there at night?

  I press my head into the pillow and listen to the comforting sounds of him getting ready in the bathroom, the melodic echo of brushing teeth followed by the razor scraping wetly over his skin, and feel myself falling back to sleep. He starts whistling ‘off to work we go’, so I know h
e’s styling his hair with gel, teasing each strand into its assigned place. Every few weeks he makes me pluck out the grey ones and tells me he’s far too young to start looking like my grandad.

  The whistling abruptly stops when he curses in pain after slapping on aftershave. He knocks on my door and it creaks open. ‘Wakey, wakey.’ I pretend not to hear him and bury my head further into the pillow. ‘Sam … Samuel! Do I need to pour water over your head?’

  ‘I’m awake,’ I grunt.

  ‘And you didn’t get up early to make your old man his breakfast?’

  ‘I didn’t have time to puree the toast.’

  ‘You should be a comedian.’

  ‘I would if I could do it in bed.’

  ‘There’s orange juice in the fridge or some delicious raw chicken if you prefer. I’ll be home this evening. Another boring meeting. I’ll pick up fish and chips, so don’t cook anything. Not that you ever do.’ I mumble ‘bye’ and bury my face in the pillow. There is a cough behind the door.

  ‘I’m filling a glass for your head right now.’

  ‘Fine, I’m getting up.’ I can never understand why he’s so cheerful in the morning; humans were designed to sleep until at least midday and then return to bed a few hours later.

  ‘And no trapping supernatural creatures before breakfast.’

  My dad constantly teases me about the time when I was five and tried to capture a tooth fairy. I carefully built a booby trap structure of books, putting the tooth in a nest of toilet paper in the centre. I figured that when the fairy flew in and took the tooth, the books would collapse and trap it inside.

  ‘Won’t it just crush the poor thing?’ my dad asked with amusement.

  I shrugged, indifferent. ‘Tooth fairying is a dangerous job.’ I stayed up as long as I could, cross-legged under the blankets, waiting for the books to topple, shaking the sleep from my head. I woke up early in the morning and clambered excitedly out of bed, disappointed that the books were still standing. Inside, the tooth was gone, the toilet paper shredded as though an apoplectic mouse had flung it around. I ran into my parents’ room, scared and angry.

  ‘It didn’t leave me any money.’ My dad looked at me, bleary-eyed, and my mother shook her head guiltily when he whispered something to her. On their bedside table was a shining ten pence.

  ‘She must have been annoyed with you and left it with us,’ my dad said, rubbing the side of his neck. Just below his ear, under the curve of his jaw, were tiny scratches.

  I wait until my dad rattles the front door shut and crawl out of bed, shower and brush my teeth. I consider using some of his hair gel but decide to just run a brush through it. I am about to wipe the condensation off the mirror but instead draw a pentagram with my finger, the glass squeaking under every stroke. I place my finger in its centre and start drawing an eye, but then stop and rub the glass clear with the palm of my hand. I shiver and run into my bedroom, quickly get dressed and leave the house without having breakfast.

  Before I lock the front door I hear a muffled voice behind it.

  ‘Sam.’

  I run down the driveway, not daring to look back.

  Chapter 2

  When I arrive at college, Rachel is waiting for me at the rear entrance, a cigarette dangling from her mouth as usual. Above the door is an emblem of three circular snakes swallowing their own tails, interlocked so the middle forms a triquetra, ‘Vega College’ in gothic letters above it. There is no definite consensus about the pronunciation of the name, some saying it’s ‘vee-ga’, others ‘vay-ga’. My dad told me the college is named after the star in the constellation of Lyra, so the correct pronunciation would be ‘vee-ga’. Most simply refer to it as ‘Vegas’.

  ‘You’ve missed all the excitement,’ she says. ‘Someone graffitied satanic shit on the Stone of Remembrance.’

  ‘Really?’ I try to sound nonchalant.

  ‘If you ask me, it looks a lot better.’ She slaps her forehead. ‘Shit, shit, shitting shit. I forgot about your mom.’ When she gets stressed, the American twang becomes more pronounced, her accent in constant turmoil since she moved from California to England ten years ago. Today America is winning. Her face flushes with embarrassment.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I usually forget it’s there.’

  ‘They’ve already cleaned most of it off.’

  ‘Do they know who did it?’

  ‘No, but if you ask me, it was either the helmet-wig librarian or glue-sniffing aliens.’

  ‘Nice theory,’ a voice says next to us. We turn to face Mr Hewitt.

  ‘Class is about to start,’ he says, pinching Rachel’s cigarette. He takes a long drag and closes his eyes in pleasure. ‘Filthy habit.’ He gives it back to her. ‘Our little secret, right?’ Rachel’s face goes even redder, but she pretends to act cool.

  ‘Sure thing.’ We watch him walk into the college, his leather briefcase knocking against his thigh.

  ‘We should try and keep our mouths closed when we stare,’ she says.

  ‘I was just admiring his briefcase. Not sure what you were gawping at.’

  A thin figure in black rushes over, grabs me around the neck in the crook of its arm and raps my head with its knuckles.

  ‘Morning, Sammy. Have you missed me?’

  ‘Get off!’ I struggle to pull his arm away.

  ‘Terry, let go,’ Rachel says as though chastising a disobedient dog, clicking her fingers at his face. He releases me and I push him away, rubbing the friction burn on my neck.

  ‘Sorry, I forgot he doesn’t like people touching him.’ He kisses Rachel and scowls at me. ‘Do you wanna stand there and watch?’

  ‘No thanks, I don’t want to vomit down my clean t-shirt.’ He bends his wrist campily.

  ‘Because you might smudge your makeup?’ he lisps. Rachel clamps her hand over his mouth and gently pushes him away.

  ‘Shush! We’ll see you inside, Terry.’ He blows me a kiss and skips into the building.

  ‘When are you going to dump him?’ I ask.

  ‘He’s not that bad.’

  ‘He’s a psycho.’

  ‘Come on, he’s just fooling around. Maybe if you made a bit more effort with him.’

  ‘Really? He can’t stand me.’ Rachel exhales a cloud of smoke and flicks her cigarette end onto the ground, crushing it into brown mush.

  ‘You two are the reason I started smoking. Let’s get to class before the stress vein in Hewitt’s head starts throbbing.’

  The classroom is already full when we arrive. Terry and Rachel don’t sit together, because he prefers being at the back with the goths in their black clothes and permanently sullen expressions.

  ‘They were interrogated by the principal this morning,’ Rachel whispers.

  ‘I wondered why they look angrier than usual.’

  ‘He suspects them of displaying their satanic beliefs through vandalism.’

  Nobody suspected me of doing it – poor damaged Sam whose mother was burned to skeletal ash in the inferno that raged through the bus.

  As Rachel absently flicks through my sketch pad, she briefly pauses on a page with a doodle of a pentagram, a tiny eye glaring from its centre. She pretends not to notice and closes it.

  Mr Hewitt sits on the edge of his desk, his arms folded, waiting for everyone to settle down.

  ‘Ok, people,’ he says, ‘only one more week before you have to submit your end-of-year piece.’

  ‘Does graffiti now count towards the final mark?’ Terry asks.

  ‘Not unless you’re interested in seeing what the inside of a prison looks like.’

  ‘Sam must have vandalised the memorial,’ Terry says. My body stiffens. ‘It’s always been his fantasy to be trapped in a cell with sweaty men.’ Laughter ripples around the classroom and Mr Hewitt stares at him impassively.

  ‘Get on
with your projects before I decide to fail the lot of you.’ Rachel looks at me across the room and mouths ‘sorry’.

  The smells of oil paint and turpentine pervade the air as everyone works on their projects. Rachel is painting the tail of a clay peacock, delicately colouring each feather with thin layers of translucent acrylic, while Terry dabs at a canvas, using a photo pinned to the corner for reference, his face pinched in concentration. In the painting, he’s standing next to his grandma, an arm around her waist, but the proportions and perspective are wrong, so they look like they inhabit a funhouse mirror.

  Something wet hits the back of my neck. I look up and see Terry grinning at me, brandishing his paintbrush.

  ‘It’s raining paint,’ he says. ‘Though you’d prefer if it was raining men.’ I touch the back of my neck and my fingertips are smeared red. I imagine taking my pencil and jamming it into his eye.

  ‘Give it a rest, Terry,’ Mr Hewitt says. He crouches down in front of a girl who is gluing paper scales to a dragon collage.

  Last year I saw him arrive in the carpark. He got out of the car and checked nobody was looking but didn’t see me. He then leaned through the window and kissed the man who was driving. ‘His boyfriend is one lucky guy,’ Rachel had said, sighing. I sometimes fantasise about following him home, as he usually takes the bus, just to see where he lives, but if he caught me I’d have to explain to my dad why I was stalking the art teacher.

  I stare at the curve of his buttocks and the inch of dark crack visible at the top of his jeans. Rachel coughs loudly and I turn to look as she rolls her eyes and smiles. I feel a dart of anger. As usual, she kept silent when Terry threw his insults at me.

  Mr Hewitt makes eye contact and I quickly look back at my painting, feeling my ears tingle with embarrassment. My heart beats faster as he walks towards me and scrutinises my painting.

  ‘Excellent, Sam, as always. You’ve a sharp eye for detail.’ The picture is of the back of my house from the garden, seen though the branches of the apple tree. Faintly visible behind the bedroom window is my silhouette staring out. Black clouds in the shape of a skull hang over the roof.

  ‘Have you ever thought about painting flowers and kittens for a change?’ he asks.