At The Edge of Night - 28 book horror box set - also contains a link to an additional FREE book

by Bray, Michael

  He charged at me, but this time, I was ready and avoided him, and made for the kitchen. He was right behind me and just as we reached the dividing curtain, I made my move, throwing aside the filthy covering and dropping to my knees.

  He was going too fast to stop and clattered into me, his knees hit me painfully in the ribs, and he pitched forwards, and this time the sound of the trap going off was not both real and loud, echoing in the tiny room with a sharp ker-chuck as it closed on his face. His scream was raw and agonising, and much more convincing than the fake one that first drew me to the house.

  I stood, holding a hand to my injured ribs and looked at him. The mask had come off as he fell and I looked at him. It’s funny, because for all my fear, as I stared at him, face down on the floor with blood pooling out around him and without the mask, I wasn’t scared anymore. I couldn’t decide for sure what it was that I felt at that moment. I wondered if it was fear, triumph, or relief. The truth is, that I felt nothing at all. He twitched, and his leg shook involuntarily but even seeing him in such obvious distress didn’t bother me. I put my foot under him and rolled him over onto his back, ignoring his groans as he took the rusty steel-toothed trap with him. I looked down on him then, and our eyes met. Blood was streaming down his face and I could see that one of his eyes had been pushed partially out of its socket by the force of the trap. He smiled at me then and I could hear him trying to speak. I ignored it, though. Instead, I made good on my promise. I took the huge lump hammer from the table and stood above him. I think I even managed a smile. He weakly beckoned me close, and I obliged, letting him whisper in my ear whatever it was that he was so desperate to tell me.

  Three words.

  Three words can sometimes be all it takes to flick someone’s inner switch from sane to bat shit crazy. And I think I was halfway there anyway before he said it and gave me that stupid, crushed, bloody toothed grin. It wavered when I flashed it right back at him, then I adjusted my grip on the hammer and went to work.

  Why I put the mask on to do it I still don’t know.

  Inside it felt sweaty and itchy, but somehow empowering. The first blow would have been enough I think to finish him, but I continued to rain blows on his face until it was barely recognisable pulp. I cried and screamed all the way, though, and I honestly think that all of my emotions left me that day.

  When it was done, I put the second phase of my original plan into place. I took the large can of gasoline from where I had hidden it in the bushes and poured it all around the cabin, then used the matches that I had taken from the kitchen drawer to ignite it. The place burned fierce and fast, and with it went my father and his legacy of terror. I watched it burn, and was shocked to find that I felt no emotion. All I could think about were those three words that were whispered by a dying murderer, a habitual liar, and a psychopath, but three words that I believed nonetheless. I didn’t realise until I looked down that I still had the latex mask and hammer clutched in my hands. I walked back to the house, thinking over the enormity of what I had done, and for the first time wondering what may become of me. Still those three words reverberated around my head, as infectious and poisonous as the man who uttered them. The house loomed large, and I could see her silhouette in the window of the kitchen.

  Three words.

  I pulled on the mask, and took a firm hold of the lump hammer, ignoring the matted hair and skin that clung to its head.

  Three words.

  Enough to change a life.

  I opened the door and went inside, those three words singing a crescendo in my brain.

  Three words.

  Your mother knows!

  She never saw it coming, and I took no pleasure from it, but like him, she had to be taught a lesson, and wearing the mask made it easier. I wondered every day since then why I believed him without question. Could it have been the last sadistic play of a sick man? Or did he want to make sure that I understood that it wasn’t just him to blame?

  Either way, I reacted, and after it was done, I sat on the floor cross-legged, exhausted and covered with the blood and viscera of my parents. The house seemed very large and quiet, and I knew that it wasn’t something that I could deal with on my own. I picked up the phone and called the police, and told them what I had done. Then I sat on the floor and waited for them to arrive. They were never able to prove my father’s guilt. I had inadvertently destroyed the evidence, and all they had were two murders committed by a twelve-year-old boy. They had circumstantial stuff of course. D.N.A from the transit van and from his clothes were enough to suggest that what I told them was true, but there was never quite enough to prove anything. A detective called Petrov and I talked a lot on those weeks after, but I could never bring myself to tell the story. It’s hard to explain, but I felt like a passenger riding along in my own body, and that somewhere in my head, the real me, was sitting there with his eyes squeezed closed and his fingers in his ears shouting lalalalalalalalala so that he wouldn’t have to face up to what he had done. I was passed from care home to care home, and then when that didn’t work, I was put into a mental health institute to see if they could repair whatever had broken in my mind. I accepted it. I have always been an honest man, and for every day I glance in the mirror and see the genetic mix of my parents in my own reflection, I feel equal amounts of anguish, pain, and vindication. Deep down I know I was right, and that I had to do what I did in order to stop a monster.

  I started to have nightmares.

  In my dreams, I am tied naked to a chair, and my parents are dancing around me wearing latex masks and gibbering and laughing. I don’t always wake up screaming anymore, but it still frightens me each and every time it happens. The institution that I have lived in for the best part of my life has become my home, and I like the routine. I like knowing when to eat when to sleep, when to take my meds and when to shit.

  They are releasing me tomorrow.

  A washed up old man who they think is too ancient and broken to cause any problem for society. They are probably right, but the thought of being out there and responsible for myself scares me. I have never lived without some kind of supervision, and I don’t know quite what to expect. It’s ok, though because I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to go buy a good length of strong rope and use it to hang myself. I don’t fear my death, but I do worry about what comes after. Will I see the forgiving and smiling face of my innocent mother? Or will I join the two mask wearing gibbering monsters in hell? I suppose time will tell and whatever the outcome, I’m just glad it’s over. I stand by what I did and wouldn’t change a thing.

  I have to go now as it’s getting late, and it’s almost time for me to go to sleep for the last time in this room that has become my home.

  This book will remain my legacy, my confession of a boy trying to do the right thing who became a man shunned by society. I bid you farewell and hope that in reading this you might at least understand.

  Your friend,

  James Michael Godswall.

  99.9 AM

  The day Doyle first tuned into the pirate radio station was a Tuesday. He was working at fixing up an old hi-fi system with a twin tape deck and old school turntable with the intention of selling it on to a vintage collector.

  Now that it had received some much needed TLC, the unit seemed to be in pretty good shape. He plugged it in and powered it up, smiling as the red and green graphic equaliser flashed up to advise him that he had selected the tape deck. He pushed the button to cycle through and watched as the display responded to his commands. Tape. Aux. Tuner.

  He cycled through again and came to rest on the tuner. Today’s radios came with a seek function, but this unit had a dial that you had to turn, to physically tune in the station that you wanted to listen to. He wished technology hadn’t taken such a strong grip on the world, and turned the dial to find one of the local stations, so that when he took the unit to the shop to sell, he would be able to show that it worked.

  He tuned in, 78.5FM, the local pop m
usic station. Some god awful rapper was mumbling over a horrible, monotonous beat. It may have been what passed for good music, but it wasn’t something he wanted to listen to, so he moved on. Next up was a religious broadcast, with a doom and gloom preacher begging for donations to keep their church alive. He skimmed along, right to the end of the FM band.

  Shaking his head, he flicked the switch from FM to AM and began to work his way back down. There was a news show that sounded as if it were being broadcast from the deepest, darkest hole they could find, and he quickly moved on.

  The station at 99.9 AM he didn’t recognise. The signal was good, though, crisp and loud, and the DJ had a nice, smooth tone to his voice. He sounded familiar somehow, but Doyle wasn’t sure why. Maybe he had once been a DJ on national radio and had now ended up on an AM station that had a listenership in the low hundreds if that. Doyle paused, listening to the DJ and trying to place his voice.

  This is DJ D on 99.9AM, the underground voice of Oakwell. The time is a little after nine o clock, and now, as promised, here is the brand new track from Kurt Cobain, called, I’m Sorry I Missed the End. Check it out, people.

  Doyle listened to the acoustic tones of the guitar and the unmistakable, scratching vocals of the former Nirvana frontman as he sung inventive lyrics about the anarchy of the 2001 World Trade Centre attacks in New York.

  Even as he listened, he knew it was impossible, because Cobain had committed suicide in 1994. Doyle felt a rush of fear and adrenaline race through him, and he turned up the volume. The more he listened, the more convinced he was that this was the real Cobain, which in turn made him see how impossible it was. And yet, the lyrics referenced events that took place seven years after his death. For two hours he sat perched at his workbench, listening to music from dead artists, past, present and future that had never been recorded. The show went off air at two a.m., and Doyle sat there, staring at the hi-fi system like it were an object from the future rather than a relic from the past. He thought Terry might know more about it, and although he wanted to, it was too late to call him. Instead, he showered, and lay down, and despite the questions racing through his head, was soon asleep.

  ***

  Terry Simms was a genius. Not in the literal sense, but there was a brilliance about him with regards to all things electronic. He had known Doyle for twelve years, and although on paper they were an unlikely pairing, they were great friends. Doyle stood and chewed his nails as Terry inspected the innards of the hi-fi, its wires and circuit boards snaking out onto the desk.

  He had been reluctant to let Terry open it at all, and it was only because of his supreme knowledge and skill that he allowed him to poke around inside the unit. Doyle stood in silence and watched as his friend systematically put the hi-fi’s guts back inside the casing and screwed it closed. Terry lifted his magnifying lens and perched it onto his sandy mop of hair, then turned to his friend.

  “It’s fine. Actually, it’s in good order. There was a little dust on a few of the resistors, but I cleaned that away for you.”

  “So nothing in there that’s out of place?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, custom parts or something?”

  Terry shook his head. “Oh no. This is all original. Late 80's, early 90's at best. It’s a nice unit. Why? What’s wrong? You having issues with it?”

  “Well actually yeah I am.”

  Terry grinned and sipped his coffee. “Well? Which is it? You either are or you aren’t.”

  Doyle hesitated. He trusted Terry but didn’t think that just telling him would be enough. He wanted to show him, and more importantly, have someone else there with him to verify his own sanity.

  “Look, there is something, but I think I ought to show you. Can you come back over later?”

  “Why can’t you show me now?”

  “I can’t, it has to be later.”

  He knew it sounded odd, but he also knew the pirate radio station aired between ten pm and two am, the DJ had said as much, several times during his broadcast.

  “Okay, I suppose I can come by later. What time?”

  “Say, nine thirty?”

  “Yeah, okay, no problem. I’ll be here.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

  Terry left, and Doyle spent the rest of the day trying to keep busy, when in reality, he had nothing to do but wait until Terry came back. He cooked but couldn’t eat, lay down on the sofa but couldn’t sleep, and tried to read but couldn’t focus on the words. In the end, he switched on the TV and stared at it without seeing, watching the time tick ever slowly towards the evening. Terry arrived a little after nine fifteen, and Doyle had to force himself not to race for the door and pull it open. He invited his friend into the house, and the two sat and made small talk in the sitting room. Now that he was there, Doyle was reluctant to tell Terry about the bizarre radio station and its content, but time had seemingly tired of dragging on and was now racing towards ten pm and the start of the show.

  “Okay.” Doyle said, perching on the edge of his seat and wringing his hands. “The reason I asked you to come is because I wanted to get your opinion on something that’s pretty crazy.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “That hi-fi I had you look at for me, I was testing it out and found something.”

  “Okay!” Terry said, flashing an amused smile. Doyle knew that his friend wasn’t taking him seriously, and instead of explaining further, he stood.

  “It’s easier to show you. Come on through to the workshop.”

  Doyle led the way into the workshop, which was, in reality, the spare bedroom that was now so full of electronic gizmos in various states of repair, that it resembled a workshop. Doyle sat on the bench in front of the hi-fi, as Terry perched on the edge of the bed. Doyle checked his watch and was filled with a giddy excitement. It was two minutes to ten.

  He switched on the hi-fi, and watched the display illuminate, then he selected the radio, the room filling with a static hiss.

  “So?” Terry asked. “What’s happening?”

  “Just wait. Okay?”

  They waited. Time had now reverted to its slow crawl as the seconds went by. Doyle waited, and on some level was sure that he had imagined it all, and the station would not come on air. He ignored the amused stare of his friend, and instead concentrated all of his efforts on the hifi.

  Ten o clock.

  Doyle’s mouth was dry, and his heart was beating a little too fast as he waited.

  “What are we waiting for?” Terry asked, half amused and half concerned at his friend's behavior.

  “Give it a second.”

  Terry smiled. “Okay, whatever you say, but I wish you...”

  Hello, hello, hello. It's ten pm on Wednesday evening, and that means it’s time for the DJ D show, here from now until midnight. We have a lot coming up tonight, including some new tracks by some old favorites. But first, some sad news for the community.

  Long-time Oakwell resident, Hal Johnson, died today aged sixty-four as a result of a heart attack. Mr. Johnson owned the store on Main Street, and will be sadly missed by everyone in the community. But now, let’s get back to the music; here is Jim Morrison with his new single, Only the way I go.

  “What the…”

  Terry paused mid-sentence, and Doyle saw him go through the same processes that he had the night before. The two friends sat there in silence and listened to the thirty-seven years dead Jim Morrison sing his brand new song. They listened to the broadcast from beginning to end. They heard new material from a veritable who’s who of musical history. New songs from Lennon, Elvis, Joplin, and even a particularly rousing guitar based duet between Jimi Hendrix and Dimebag Darrell, who had been shot and killed on stage back in 2004. When the show ended, and the airwaves were once again filled with static, the two friends shared a look which said more than words ever could, because they both knew that they had experienced something impossible.

  “So, what do we do now?” Doyle asked.


  Terry licked his lips and cleared his throat. “I think I have an idea.”

  ***

  Terry had promised to come back the following day and had left Doyle to try and see if he could find any reference or listings related to the radio station or the DJ. His searches had drawn a blank, and as his frustration reached boiling point, which his sleepless night hadn’t helped, he heard Terry’s familiar knock on the door.

  He knew as soon as he saw his pale-faced friend that something was wrong. He had a bag with him but also had a vacant expression which Doyle had never seen before.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You got anything to drink?” Terry said, answering the question with one of his own.

  “Beer?”

  “Anything stronger?”

  “Yeah, there’s scotch in the kitchen.”

  Terry nodded and shuffled into the apartment. Doyle was concerned. He knew that Terry didn’t drink, and hadn’t touched a drop of booze since the day his divorce came through. Doyle counted back the years to when it was and was shocked to realise that it was more than four years ago. He followed into the kitchen, where Terry sat at the table. He had found the bottle, and was pouring a glass as Doyle sat opposite.

  “Want one?” Terry asked as he finished pouring a large glassful.

  “No, no thanks.”

  Terry nodded, screwed the lid back on the bottle and took a long drink, draining the glass. He set it down and looked across the table at Doyle.