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

by Bray, Michael

  This was his life. This was his existence.

  He was tired, his eyes growing heavy. He wanted to sleep, and even though that filthy stinking mattress was far from appealing, it was all he had. But he knew that to get to it he would have to face him. Him and his mocking, him and his laughing.

  He peered over his shoulder, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t be there but of course there he was. Watching waiting. That smile, that twisted smile on his face as it always was. Why did he never sleep? Why did he have to watch all the time?

  “What do you want from me?” Steven asked over his shoulder.

  But as often was the case, he didn’t answer. He just watched and grinned. How he hated that grin. He hated it almost as much as the crazy look in his eyes.

  “I’m not afraid of you.” Steven croaked, ignoring the pain of his cracked lips.

  “Yes, you are.”

  This was rare. He wanted to talk. He usually just stared. And laughed. And waited. But not today. Today he seemed to have something to say.

  They used to talk a lot, in the beginning, back when they still shared the hope of escape, of freedom. But their conversations led them to realise they had little in common apart from a similar stubborn streak, and their relationship quickly deteriorated into one of silence brought on by the utter hopelessness of their situation.

  Part of it was triggered by a sizeable amount of bitterness on Steven’s part. Over the years he had grown weaker, his body and mind drained.

  Yet him…he seemed the same, thinner now, of course, victim of the same undernourishment, but he seemed to be in overall better physical condition. He also seemed to avoid the majority of the beatings, and on those occasions where they were together when it happened, he laughed all the way through.

  How Steven hated that laugh. It was a humourless sound, and to be free of it would be enough to perhaps let him tolerate his life as it was, but he wasn’t so lucky. There was to be no respite.

  Frustrated, Steven turned back to the wall. He had no intention of talking to him. It never ended well and he had neither the will nor the strength to engage in another battle. He wouldn’t rise to it. He would sit here in his space and keep quiet.

  “Hey, birthday boy. Come over here. I want to talk to you.”

  He tried to ignore it, the sneering goading tone in his voice.

  Steven scratched at his matted, lice infested hair. “Go away. I’m not talking to you.”

  “Hey come on, don’t be like that. We used to be friends remember?”

  He did remember, back at the beginning, before things got bad. “That was a long time ago,” He muttered.

  “I want us to be friends again. I have a birthday present for you.”

  Steven’s heart increased in tempo. So it was his birthday. He couldn’t remember the last present he received. Steven shuffled around to face him and saw that for once he wasn’t smiling, wasn’t laughing, and wasn’t staring. He looked…sad.

  “You can come closer, I won’t bite. Come on, Steven. Let’s be friends again.”

  He was curious, he couldn’t deny that. Slowly, cautiously he shuffled forward coming to rest on his knees just out of his reach. Just in case.

  “I’m not coming any closer!” Steven said, ready to lurch away at the first sudden movement.

  That’s okay, I understand. Look, I want to say sorry for how I’ve treated you over the years. Both of us together in this room… well, it makes life hard.”

  Steven shook his head. “You made my life hard. I never did anything to you, but you hurt me. You let them hurt me. And even when I hadn’t done anything you still let them beat me, always watching always with that smile on your face.”

  No reaction.

  Steven suspected that he didn’t like to hear the truth. Well, so what. He had a right to say it. It was his birthday after all.

  “Look, I can’t change the past. I know I was shitty to you, especially when the two of us should have stuck together during this….whatever this is. But that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m giving you the gift you have always wanted.

  “I don’t want anything from you,” Steven said, thinking about those places in his mind where he always escaped to.”

  “You’ll want this one. Believe me.”

  “Oh yeah? What is it?”

  He leaned close, causing Steven to take a compensatory shuffle back. “I’m leaving this place. I’m leaving you alone.”

  Steven gasped, his heart speeding up at the thought. Peace, at last, freedom from the laughing, and the staring. That was the worst. The way he just…observed.

  “Are you really leaving?” Steven asked.

  He smiled then, not his ‘lion about to eat its prey’ smile, but one of sadness. He looked theatrically around the room, then pulled out a seven-inch glass shard from behind his back. It had a handle made from a tightly wound strip of his filthy T. shirt.

  Steven shuffled back, eyes wide and afraid. “What the hell is that for?”

  “You and I both know that we will never get out of here,” He said. Eying Steven cautiously. “I for one can’t take anymore, so I’m getting out. My way.”

  “Suicide??” Steven blurted as he recoiled in horror. “You can’t! Don’t you see? They’ll think I did it! They’ll think I killed you!”

  He seemed to consider this, and then his face lit up with inspiration. “Then why don’t you come with me? This is no life Steven, locked in this room in shit caked rags waiting for them to come back then pray that they don’t decide to beat you.”

  “I can’t take my own life, I won’t let them win!” Steven replied, shaking his head.

  “They won a long time ago and we both know it. Let’s take away their power. We can go together. Here.”

  He held out his hand, offering him the makeshift knife.

  “I won’t do it” And yet, he found himself reaching out and taking the blade anyway. He looked at it in wonder.

  “All you have to do is cut your wrists. It shouldn’t hurt too badly. As for me, I’m making sure. I’m going to cut across the throat. No way am I letting them get me to the hospital in time just so they can kill me later their way. No thanks.” he said with a smile, his mouth full of yellowed leaners.

  Steven went to answer and then froze.

  Of course.

  This was another one of his ploys. The laughing and the staring hadn’t worked. He had tried it from the beginning, and for a time, Steven had been his equal. He lost count of the hours they would spend staring at each other back then, each trying to intimidate the other, neither willing to back down. Eventually, Steven had tired of the games, tired of the grinning, of the staring. He decided not to play anymore, preferring instead to sit in the corner and imagine the open spaces, to imagine freedom. And so, it seemed that his great nemesis had come up with this ‘suicide’ idea instead. He had to admit, it was clever. Very clever, but he was clever too, and could play the game as well as anyone. Let’s see how his grin happy roommate dealt with this little bombshell.

  “Ok, let’s do it. But I don’t know what to do.” Steven said, watching for a reaction.

  “Are you kidding me? Just cut one wrist then the other and pass the knife over to me before you bleed out. Come on, work with me here.”

  Steven put the blade to his wrist and then with a smile held it out in his outstretched hand. “You first.”

  Steven saw a flicker of uncertainty flash in his eyes then, perhaps realising that his plan had backfired, but not enough to revert back to that maddening laugh, that damn stare.

  “Okay,” he said calmly, taking the blade by the handle. “Are you sure you don’t want to go first? I’m cutting my throat remember? There will be a lot of blood. I don’t want it to put you off.”

  “I’ll be fine, besides we might not bleed as much as you might think. I mean look at me, I’m just skin and bone and you’re not much different.”

  Steven was playing the game, playing it well. He waited for the resp
onse.

  “Well it’s your call, but if you want me to go first, I will. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “I won’t” Steven said, holding his gaze.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yep.”

  “Positive?”

  “You sound scared.”

  “Hey, I’m just checking you’re not going to throw up and then wimp out. But whatever, you had fair warning. You might want to turn away, though. This is likely to be messy”

  “No, it’s fine. You spent long enough over the years watching me, now it’s my turn to watch you. Go right ahead.” Steven managed a smile as he said it, careful not to give away that he had discovered the plan.

  With a sigh, he adjusted his grip on the makeshift handle and lifted it with a shaking hand to his throat. Without the smile and stare, he looked just like Steven. A scared boy with no way out.

  He stilled his trembling hand. “Happy birthday Steven.”

  He cut.

  The initial shock that his staring smiling nemesis had gone through with it turned to confusion at the pain which engulfed Steven’s body. The carotid artery severed, he pitched forward, his face slamming into the glass of the large and ornate mirror sending a large splintering crack across its surface right up to the top corner which was already missing a long thin section. Steven slid to the floor and slumped to his side, his vision fading as he looked at his own reflection. Still staring. Still smiling.

  Happy birthday.

  TILLY

  Tom Johnson accelerated, pushing the S-Class Mercedes past sixty. It had been one of those days, the kind that starts badly and just gets worse, and now to top it all off, he had a headache. As he maneuvered the vehicle around a slow moving campervan, he acknowledged that he might well have been fired instead of just given a verbal dressing down, and for that at least he could be grateful.

  The car flashed past a road sign, and he shook his head.

  Four miles to go.

  At least Gloria was asleep. On top of his already shitty day, she had given him hell when he had cancelled their plans. He had promised to take her to dinner, and then to an expensive hotel. To say that she was less than pleased to be driving out here into the middle of nowhere would be an understatement. Somehow, he had managed to convince her to come along with him, with the promise that as soon as he had done what he needed to do, he would make it up to her.

  A rare flush of guilt raced down his spine, and in his mind’s eye, he saw his wife of ten years, Melanie, and his children – Alice and George – swim out of the darkness. He thought of them now, and what they would be doing. It was almost seven, which meant that the kids would be watching television, and Melanie would be washing the dishes from their evening meal. He loved her of course, but as he supposed was natural, the spark had gone from their relationship, and even if it hadn’t, it had been a long time since she had been able to excite him, which was the exact opposite of his dozing travel companion.

  The more he thought about it, the more the guilt took hold. As always, he tried to convince himself that he shouldn’t see it as an affair, but as a way to save his marriage. He got the warm, genuine love from his wife, and his thrill seeking excitement from his lover, and as long as the two remained separate, he was happy to continue with his deceit.

  Johnson turned his attention back to the road, and his mind to the reason for his journey out into the boonies.

  He had been head of quality control for Randell's toys for the last seven years, doing his part to assist in the growth of a company that had started out as a local business run from a shed in the late sixties, to what it was today - A global multi-billion dollar business and undisputed leader in the toy industry. When seventeen-year-old James Randell first had the idea to start a toy business, he was an unemployed farmhand who most said had no future. When he died sixty-three years later, he was worth close to seven hundred million dollars and counted several high profile celebrities and politicians (and two former presidents) amongst his close friends.

  Johnson had joined the company in 99’, and had clawed his way up the corporate ladder until he reached, what he thought, was a secure and, more importantly, a financially stable role. As head of quality control, he would be required to make sure that the products were safe to use before they went to manufacture, and if Johnson was honest with himself, the job was an easy one. Hardly anything ever came across Johnson’s desk that his team couldn’t deal with without him.

  Or at least, that had been the case until Tilly.

  Tilly was a new brand of doll for girls aged four to eight. It was hailed as the latest great revolution from the Randall toy company, and Johnson had to admit, the gimmick was a good one. Each doll was essentially a micro PC, fitted with a small computer processor and hard drive in its innards, and tiny cameras inside its eyes. The idea was that the dolls would recognise gestures made by its owner, and remember certain things, and when appropriate, would respond with one of around five hundred pre-installed words or phrases. The public went Tilly crazy, and the Randell brand added a few more million to its already swollen bank balance.

  Within a week, local stores were sold out, within a month; you couldn’t find a Tilly anywhere in the country. Desperate parents were paying up to six or seven thousand for a doll online in their desperation to deliver their children with the latest craze, and the media frenzy only served to push sales and prices even further.

  The CEO of Randall, James Crockett, congratulated his staff for another big success, and Johnson, along with everyone else, was waiting for the expected fat bonus for another job well done.

  But that all went out the window when he was called up to Crockett’s office earlier that day.

  Crockett was a large man, always dressed in a suit that cost more than most of his employees made in a month. He had cruel eyes, and a thin handlebar mustache perched on top of a thin, pencil line mouth.

  “Get in here Johnson.” He said as he glared from behind his desk.

  Johnson had complied, and for a moment, Crockett stared at him, and because Johnson had no idea why he was even there, he stared back.

  “So Tom.” He started. “You want to tell me what the hell happened with these damn Tilly dolls?”

  “What about them?”

  “Returns, lots of them.”

  “Do we know why?”

  “Take your pick. They aren’t functioning properly, the software is faulty, it’s a god damn mess.”

  Johnson nodded but wasn’t initially concerned. Even with the greatest care, some products would slip through the gaps and be shipped faulty, and a small number of returns would be expected. He relaxed a little, and without waiting for an invite, sat opposite Crockett.

  “It is to be expected sir, especially for a product like Tilly, where the construction is so complex.”

  “Then what the hell do I pay you for?” He said, narrowing his eyes “Aren’t you supposed to be head of quality control?”

  “Yes sir I am, and as I said, we would expect, even with the greatest care and attention to have a small number of returns, and assigned a two percent allowance in the budget to reflect that.”

  Johnson was pleased with himself, and it seemed that he had, for the time being, silenced his overpowering boss. But Crockett's look of indifference became a sneer, and he slid a single sheet of paper across the desk.

  “My math may not be that great,” Crockett said, as his sneer morphed into a smug grin. “But I would say that the number of returns equals more than a two percent margin.”

  Johnson picked up the sheet of paper and let his eyes take in the numbers as his brain crunched and processed them. As he read, he felt his heart rate increase.

  “This can’t be right.” He said as he looked over the paper at Crockett.

  “Oh it's right, I had the figures double checked.”

  “But this is…” He tried to work out the figure and was almost there when Crockett said it for him.

  “Seventy-t
hree percent is the number you are trying to reach.”

  Johnson looked at Crockett, and for a few seconds there was silence.

  “That’s not possible,” Johnson said as he looked again at the paper clutched in his hands. “We were thorough, we always are.”

  “In this case, it seems you missed something big.”

  “Maybe it’s a bad batch of processors, or a faulty part affecting a small number of products.”

  Crockett nodded, and Johnson was sure that this line of enquiry had already been considered.

  “Well, that sheet is just for Ridgefield. We were thinking the same thing, but now reports are coming in from all over the world of these damn dolls being returned in droves. This could cost us millions.”

  “What are the reasons given for their return?”

  “That’s the thing,” Crocket said with a sigh. “Nobody knows. Hell, some stores are getting forty or fifty back a day, some people aren’t even asking for refunds, they are just dumping the damn things.”

  Johnson felt nauseous and suspected that the blame, rightly or wrongly was about to land firmly at his feet.

  “So how do we proceed with this?”

  Crockett opened his desk drawer and tossed a map towards Johnson.

  “That’s one of our warehouses over in Oakwell. We are keeping all of the returns there, but the place is starting to look like some kind of damn doll graveyard.”

  Johnson looked at the map, and then back to Crockett, sure of what was coming but hoping he was wrong.

  “Might be an idea to send Davies over to take a look,” Johnson said, trying to keep casual. “He designed the processor chip in the Tilly range, so if anybody can find out what’s wrong it’s him.”

  Crockett grinned again and licked his thin lips.

  “We sent him up there last week to try and find out what the hell is going on. This morning he calls me and resigns. No explanation, no notice, just tells me he’s done and hangs up the phone.”