And so it was that I accompanied a number of boys and masters on the following May Day, one year after Massingham’s demise, to pay respects at his graveside; well away from the planned hunt. Even in the this early summer month, the air was chill and cheerless. Silence smothered the churchyard like a shroud. The smell of dead things was in the atmosphere. We stood around his grave, heads bowed, like a bed of dying blooms.
That feeling infiltrated me once more. The unnatural coldness that penetrated my very soul. And still the silence persisted, though it was now being stabbed by the distant sounds of horn, hooves and hounds.
With what seemed alarming swiftness, the impinging sounds grew louder and louder; coming closer and closer. When I raised my head my companions had gone. Could I have lost track of time so greatly? The baying grew closer; hooves thundered on. Yet I saw nothing. The horn sounded once more. Ear-splitting.
And then it appeared. The gasping, sweating fox burst through the gates to the cemetery and skittered towards me. Closer. Closer. Straight at me. Good God, the creature was going to run right into me! But it never made contact. It dived head-first into the ground that was Edward Massingham’s grave. Yes - into the grave. Somehow it disappeared beneath the turf, six feet below which lay Massingham’s coffin.
The hounds bolted around the corner and through the same gate used by the fox only seconds before. A heartbeat later they were jumping, spinning, yelping and squealing with vicious intent around the headstone. Their noise was Hellish and deafening. The huntsmen stood in grim fascination with their steeds, just outside the graveyard, as if not daring to enter.
The hounds snarled and snapped, fangs bared, muzzles spitting saliva, eyes crazed.
Then they started to dig. They frantically worked their front paws at the ground, making frightening headway into the tomb, sending soil spraying up in dirty gouts. Soon all that was visible was their hind legs, as I heard the soul-tearing noise of claws on a coffin lid. The sound of splitting wood. Then the resounding crunch of powerful jaws on long-dead tissue and bone.
The last thing I remember about the gruesome scene was the hounds emerging from the newly-dug pit, dragging the ravaged, partially-decomposed corpse of Edward Massingham out with them, into the deathly cold May air.
# # # # #
Now they keep me here. In this room. With the soft walls.
They don’t believe me.
They say that the policeman who found me was physically sick at the sight of me, half-in and half-out of Edward Massingham’s grave, hands soiled, nails encrusted with earth, gnawing at his mouldering cadaver.
Yet I know what really occurred on that dreadful May Day.
So why do they lie?
I can still hear them when I’m alone. The horn blaring, the hooves hammering, the hounds crying madly. And I see those eyes. The dead, glass eyes of the fox.
Watching me in the dark...
The old man lowered the bundle of papers and let them rest in his lap. The hairs on the back of Danny’s neck were standing up and his arms were covered in goosebumps, not solely due to the chill of the night. The wind still whipped the branches of the aged tree; it seemed frantic in its movement, as if trying to tell Danny to run.
Danny felt cold – and it was more than the nagging wind and the dipping temperatures. He felt suddenly very ill-at-ease in the company of this strange story-spinner. He could feel the cold pressure of his mobile phone, in his jeans, and wished he had bothered to charge the battery earlier. He withdrew it from his pocket and noted with a sigh that it was as dead as the fox in Mr Fraxinus’ story.
‘Whom do you wish to contact?’ the old man said, a black shadow against the far wall.
‘No one,’ Danny lied. ‘Just bored, that’s all. Battery’s flat.’ He instantly wished he hadn’t revealed this information; something deep inside him didn’t trust the man.
‘Ahh… The young seek such instant gratification these days,’ the shadow-man purred. ‘You will not have long to wait now. Your friend will return in due course…’
As Danny scrutinised his wristwatch once more, he noted that the time had run to 11.35. His pulse quickened as he realised he had been trapped for over half an hour. Time had crawled, then flown. Things weren’t right.
‘What is in the bag, Danny?’ Mr Fraxinus asked, gesturing at the plastic carrier by the boy’s side. ‘Nothing breakable, I hope?’
‘No.’ He decided to show the man the contents – anything to pass the time safely until Jake returned with help. He reached inside and, with a rustle, withdrew the white rubber skull mask he’d worn earlier, sweets and chocolate emerging with it. ‘Just a Trick or Treat mask. Me and my mate always go out on Halloween. Want some chocolate?’ he said, unconvincingly, in an attempt to distract the stranger.
‘Mmm… Trick or Treat. That most glorious of American imports,’ the elderly figure spoke, disregarding Danny’s question. ‘Such fun, terrorising people into handing over candy…’
‘No, it’s not like that-’ Danny began, feeling worried that he had offended the man, and unsure of how he would react.
‘I’m only teasing, Daniel,’ (Danny wished he would not keep calling him by his Sunday name!) ‘The young need their fun – and their distractions. Instant gratification…’ Mr Fraxinus rummaged once again through his papers, as if seeking something specific. Eventually, he withdrew several sheets and held them up. ‘Here we are,’ he said in a satisfied tone, ‘I knew I had one.’
‘One what?’ queried Danny, his head beginning to spin a little again.
‘A Halloween tale. A story about a “Trick or Treater”. Perhaps even more scary than the last story. Perhaps too frightening for you?’
Danny couldn’t think straight. ‘No. I told you I’m not scared. But we won’t have time…’
Again, Mr Fraxinus seemed not to have heard, or simply ignored the boy’s words. ‘A story, of a boy, perhaps not dissimilar to yourself. Shall we hear it?’
Danny exhaled slowly and closed his eyes – he couldn’t think what to say to this strange old man. He just wished with all his heart that Jake would hurry back. But what if he didn’t come back? He remained still and silent. And Mr Fraxinus appeared to take this as affirmation that the boy wanted to hear more.
‘Very well,’ the man spoke to the darkness. ‘A Halloween tale for a Halloween night.’ A soft, sinister rumple of paper, and the man cleared his throat. ‘Yes… The story concerns a boy not dissimilar to you…
Chapter 4 - Trickster
Josh revelled in the delicious spooky atmosphere of Halloween night. And in all his eleven years, he’d never known one quite as good as this.
His mother had made him a fantastic Dracula cape, and face-painted him deathly-white, with drips of pure ruby red travelling from the corners of his blood red lips to his dimpled chin. His hair was gel-slicked back and he felt totally cool. Plus, he was with his best-buddy-in-the-whole-world-ever, Davy. Davy didn’t look quite as cool as him, but still passed off as a reasonable Egyptian mummy, swathed in bandages – except for his glasses, that is. And, double-plus, the wind was howling round the timber frame street, like a ghostly hound dog. But – triple plus – he and Davy had got bags full of candy, chocolate cakes, and all manner of differently shaped and sized sweets.
They’d got pear-drops from Mrs Avocado who lived at number 3, mallows from Mr Marsh at number 46, apple bootlaces from Granny Smith in Flat 2, at number 63. They’d been treated to milk chocolate from Mrs. Heiffer at number 98, cinder toffee from Mr Ash at 102, and strawberry bon-bons from Mrs Goode at number 105. But the one that intrigued Josh most of all was the bright green one, about the size of a golf ball, that Mr Castain from Flat 6, at number 66, had handed to him. It had a monster face on it, etched in black, with wicked eyes, a twisted mouth and pointy, uneven teeth, like a piranha.
Josh loved it! And what was even better, Davy hadn’t got one! Josh had shouted �
�Trick or Treat?!’ first, and Mr Castain had looked at him in an odd, sideways manner. He had then grinned from ear-to-ear and yelled ‘Treat!’, placing a toffee in Davy’s hand; then ‘Trick!’, he boomed, and laughed like a drain, plonking the glorious green goody in Josh’s outstretched palm.
Davy had grumbled a bit, but not for long. The boys were simply swept away in the phantasmagorical atmosphere of this night of witches and spirits, goblins and wizards, demons and ghouls.
# # # # #
Beneath the bedclothes, Josh examined his spherical green treasure with fascination. It felt kind of squashy to the touch and it smelt of lime. Even though the black-etched ‘face’ seemed to leer at him, and even though his belly was stretched to bursting point with all manner of confectionery, Josh’s mouth WATERED in anticipation.
He flicked off the flashlight and tossed the duvet back. The wind billowed his bedroom curtains, admitting stark moonlight. Thunder grizzled away in the sky. Josh popped the globular sweet in his mouth – whole! – having to open very wide to fit it in. But before he could even bite down, the strange candy had disappeared down his throat – to sit, unscathed, in his tummy.
Josh sat stunned. Stunned by the fact that a golf-ball-sized sweet could slip so easily down his throat – and stunned by the almost-certainty that he had heard it giggle crazily on its way down.
# # # # #
“Go straight up, Davy,” Josh’s mum trilled from the kitchen, as Davy appeared at the open French-window. Davy came in and thanked Josh’s mum, as he trudged happily up the stairs. “Good luck, dear. I’ve already called him half a dozen times. Honestly, you two and Halloween; he was late to sleep last night, and seems dead to the world this morning.” She chuckled to herself.
Davy tapped lightly on Josh’s bedroom door.
No reply. But he did hear shuffling from inside.
“Josh. It’s Saturday. Come on, mate. You coming down town?”
Giggling from inside the bedroom.
Josh playing tricks again!
“Right,” Davy whispered under his breath, “I’ll get you…”
He thrust down the handle and burst through the door, shouting ‘BOO!’ at the top of his lungs.
And he froze.
Horror-struck.
Josh lay on his bed - still, and cold. His pyjama jacket was open and a ragged hole gaped where ragged holes shouldn’t gape, in his belly.
Josh’s eyes stared widely, blankly – lifelessly – at the corner of the room.
Davy followed his dead friend’s gaze. On the table in the corner sat the green sweet, the size of a golf ball, with its evil eyes, twisted mouth, and jagged razor teeth.
As the room began to spin and Davy spiralled from consciousness, he could have sworn on a stack of bibles that he heard it giggle.
Time had become twisted in the sepulchral prison where Danny shivered, spine pressed hard against the Ash tree. The stranger in the shadows seemed almost to be merging with the crumbling stone of the mausoleums at his back; he was now no more than a darkly-blurred silhouette. Danny’s pulse raced and his eyes were wide, trying to focus on Mr Fraxinus. He wanted to check his wristwatch but was unpleasantly surprised to discover that he couldn’t raise his arm. His entire body felt leaden. The wind wailed now, as it caught the hollows of the morbid buildings and the flailing branches of the bare-limbed tree. The temperature had dropped, though that only partly accounted for the gooseflesh on Danny’s arms.
The boy strained his ears, hoping for some sound of his friend returning with help, to get him out of this forsaken place and away from the sinister, hypnotic stranger.
‘Are you feeling quite well, Daniel?’ the silken voice emerged from the shadows.
‘I – I don’t… I can’t…’
‘Can’t move? Your leg may be more than bruised. Are you certain you do not wish me to attend to it for you? Perhaps I can revive your movement.’
Daniel was disorientated, felt dizzy, yet something deep inside him warned him not to invite the touch of Mr Fraxinus. If he could only hold his nerve until Jake returned… ‘No. No, I’m fine…’ was all he could mutter.
The shadow man chuckled and this did nothing to ease Danny’s nerves. ‘So be it,’ he said to the boy, then he tilted the blur of his head to one side. ‘A quarter to midnight.’
‘Wh-what?’ Danny stammered.
‘The church bells tell of the hour. Fifteen minutes to the witching hour on Halloween night.’
Danny suddenly took a sharp inhalation; audible, terror-filled. His frightened eyes flickered down to his own lap, where a dark shape scuttled. His most primal fears walked across his skin just as surely as the eight-legged creature strolled across his thigh. A large, thick-limbed and hairy spider travelled towards his waist. Sweat beaded on his forehead, despite the graveyard chill of Halloween. He visibly trembled.
‘There is nothing to fear, Daniel. It is but a creature of the grass and the earth.’ The voice that spoke these words emitted from little more than a darkish stain that mimicked the outline of a man, on the flaking grey wall opposite. But Danny didn’t see. His eyes were fixed on the arachnid that stalked, so slowly, over his own body; now it ascended his abdomen.
Danny thought he heard a low chuckle coming from the general direction of Mr Fraxinus, but he could not be certain – so horror-struck was he at the sight of the horrible spider, and the touch of its eight creeping legs. His heart now raced and his breath came in short, sharp gasps. Then, suddenly, the creature turned back upon itself and scuttled swiftly off Danny’s body and away into the darkness.
It took what seemed an eternity to Danny, for his pulse to slow and his breathing to settle, but he remained unable to move, as if paralysed. He tried to focus his eyes on the place where Mr Fraxinus had been – but could not. His vision was blurred and shimmering.
On the cold wind, the man’s voice blew in, hypnotic and invasive, but at the same time assuming a mock-reassuring tone.
‘Such intriguing creatures, aren’t they, Daniel? Spiders. They live in the shadows and weave their sticky prisons, awaiting their unsuspecting prey. Once snared, the victim is completely helpless, immobilised.’
Danny tried to summon all his strength, in order to get to his feet and seek an escape route. Yet his limbs were leaden, lifeless. He couldn’t help but think of the hapless creature caught in the spider’s web, that Mr Fraxinus was so eager to discuss.
The voice of the strange old man now came from nowhere in particular – it came from anywhere and everywhere. Including behind Danny. ‘And, of course, the spider then injects its poison into the prey, with its venomous fangs, and the prey is rendered paralysed.’ Mr Fraxinus laughed drily. ‘Yes, paralysed and being digested whilst totally aware of its hopelessness.’
Danny’s blood ran cold. He visualised the old man sprouting horrid spider hairs and, in his mind’s eye, he saw eight thick legs erupting from his shadowy torso, whilst fangs spurted bloodily from his mouth.
‘As a matter of fact, that brings to mind one more story, Daniel. We have around ten minutes before the church will chime midnight. Then Halloween will be over for one more year. And I’m sure that by then, your friend will have returned with assistance. Surely we cannot let the occasion go by, without passing the last minutes with a suitable tale?’
Danny’s throat was dry. His tongue felt like a bloated blob. His mouth hung open, but words would not come. Only his frightened eyes darted around, seeking the elusive Mr Fraxinus.
‘I shall take your silence as confirmation that you, indeed, would like to hear my last story for the night. Now are you sitting comfortably? My story concerns a boy; a boy not dissimilar to you – afraid of spiders …’
The sound of rustling papers whisked around invisibly in the wind, and the old man began to read.
Chapter 5 - Gruesome Gossamer
It was a nightmare! A real-life, cross-your-heart-hope-to-die-stick-a-nee
dle-in-your-eye, nightmare! A waking one!
# # # # #
“Oliver, you’re going to love it. A complete, get-away-from-it-all holiday,” Mum and Dad had said. Even took him out of school two days before the summer break-up. The other kids at school were delighted at this news, as it meant that Oliver would be unable to spoil the end of term party for them all, by being his usual naughty self. And he wouldn’t be able to push them over in the corridor, steal their chocolate bars, throw their bags around, and all the other stuff that he found fun, in his own unpleasant way.
So, Mum and Dad, had set the holiday up to be the best thing since sliced bread, and told him he’d love it; so, Oliver had fallen for it hook, line and sinker (‘or should that be stinker?’ Oliver wondered). After seven and a half hours of driving, on the hottest, stickiest day of the year, from Yorkshire (‘steady and away’ was Dad’s motto when he was driving. If he’d gone much steadier, they wouldn’t have even got off their own driveway!), they’d arrived in Carmarthen, South Wales.
The caravan was on a farm, surrounded by rolling green hills and woods, and there was a little stream gurgling away across the fields. In fact, Oliver was quite taken with the place, as he stretched long and hard after peeling himself out of the car. There were even a dozen or so black sheep in the field right behind the caravan. Oliver could relate to that; he always thought of himself as the black sheep of the family.
“This is alright,” Oliver had grinned at Mum and Dad.
But that was before…
# # # # #
They were everywhere!
Two of them dangled lazily from their webs in his room. One scuttled across the window ledge, as he tried to pull down the kitchen blind. Another perched on the dining table. There was even one reclining sinisterly on the toilet roll in the bathroom – and what made it worse was that Oliver didn’t spot it until he was ready to use the toilet roll.
Nightmares from the Graveyard Page 2
