Chillingworth Mews: A supernatural horror novel

by Anton Palmer

  Dan cried out, his left hand shooting up to cover his wounded eye, leaving the steering wheel without a supporting grip for a split second.

  A split second was all it took.

  From the back of the van, Sam screamed as the vehicle clipped the frozen verge, bouncing back across the carriageway before Dan had a chance to bring it under control. Thrusting panic-cursed hands onto the wheel, he twisted into the skid, fighting to control the Transit as it slewed across the tarmac and crunched into the mud of the opposite bank.

  Sam was screaming hysterically now. Her cries bounced off the metal walls, every echo joining with its brethren in a burgeoning cacophony of terror.

  Maria’s face was frozen; eyes and mouth stretched wide in a scream that was as shrill in its silence as her daughter’s in its vociferous glory.

  Dan was silent; teeth clenched to cracking point. A million thoughts a second were racing through his mind, stretching the moment into eternity as he battled to regain control.

  Thoughts of screeching rubber; jarring metal.

  Thoughts of impact; shattered windscreens.

  Thoughts of bloody rivers pouring down Sam’s glass-shredded face…

  He wrenched the steering wheel in the opposite direction.

  No effect.

  The wheel felt light and slack in his hands as the van’s tyres glided, almost frictionless, on a patch of black ice. Dan knew the battle was lost. He relaxed; the action fully subconscious - his mind had given up the fight and his muscles let go. Ahead, the road curved to the right, the van heading straight for the tree-lined bank.

  Dan barely noticed the car rounding the bend, headed straight towards them. A sigh slipped his dry lips, accompanying the almost imperceptible whisper of the warm stream of urine that darkened the crotch of his jeans.

  *

  This D.J’s got bloody awful taste, thought Roger.

  The music was an unwanted companion even at low volume. He tried another station, reaching to press the second of the stereo’s five pre-set buttons. A phone-in show seemed to be sharing a frequency with a dance music station, each programme gaining or fading as he negotiated the curves in the road.

  Roger decided he’d had enough. He was only a few minutes from home, the sound of tyres on tarmac would be music enough for that short time. His left index finger groped blindly for the OFF button and he glanced down momentarily to coordinate the fumbling digit. Momentarily distracted, he only partially registered the white van that was sliding towards him, sideways on, as it exited the bend in front of him. His heart and stomach lurched as his feet slammed the clutch and brake pedals to the floor. Tyres shrieked, hot rubber melting onto the freezing tarmac. The Transit was spinning, the rear twisting round to take the lead, crunching into Roger’s car just behind his seat. The collision punched his vehicle into the side of the road, sending it careering up the grass bank into the solid trunk of an oak tree.

  Roger experienced the impact in slow motion. The tree crawling its way towards him, inch by terrifying inch. He heard no sound and even the silence went unnoticed as his unblinking, petrified eyes filled with the solid wall of wood that loomed in his windscreen.

  Closer and closer, until he could make out every ridge and furrow in the rough bark.

  Closer and closer until the soundless crash of its greeting threw him forward as if launched from a cannon.

  He felt no pain.

  No searing agony.

  Not even a mild discomfort as the steering wheel crushed his ribcage. He thought he vaguely heard the splinter of bone, but it was gone in an instant. He was dimly aware of the ignition key shattering his right knee-cap as his legs slammed into the underside of the steering column, but that too was away before he could pay it much attention. He even felt nothing as his face kissed the windscreen, mashing his nose to a pulp.

  The only thing that registered was a thought: pretty. Just after the hard bone of his forehead slammed into the laminate, causing it to spider-web so that the reflected glare from the dying headlights twinkled like Christmas lights through the dark red of blood and mucus that slicked the broken glass.

  The lights went out.

  Everything was darkness.

  5

  The scene below him looked like a battlefield.

  Twisted and buckled chunks of metal were strewn over the road, interspersed with lumps of plastic and broken glass. All this debris seemed to radiate from a point beneath him. He looked down at the dark vehicle, its body smashed beyond hope, its innards spilling like guts from a ruptured belly. From underneath the vehicle, liquid glugged into pools; a life-force draining from fatal wounds.

  Roger’s attention was suddenly attracted by movement. A tall, strongly built man was picking his way carefully through the litter towards the wrecked car. He wore a black and white checked shirt, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, oblivious to the cold night air that clouded the breath from his lungs. A dozen yards behind him a white van was parked askew, its front end partially embedded in the grass bank. A woman leant against the van’s side, her right arm hugged awkwardly against her chest, the limb obviously causing her some pain. Her left arm was wrapped soothingly around the shoulders of a young girl by her side, the youngster’s head nuzzled against the woman’s flank. A wash of red stained the skin of the girl’s face and polluted the pure white wool of her sweater.

  “Are they…okay?” The woman called to the man who had now reached the car.

  “I’m not sure. I can only see one person in there…a bloke, I think.”

  “Is he moving?”

  “No. No, he’s not. Oh shit! Maria, he’s not moving!”

  The woman took her good arm from around the girl’s shoulders and ran her fingers through her hair before pressing a trembling palm against her forehead, sucking in a long, deep breath of the icy air.

  “Mum?” The girl stared up at her mother, confused innocence in her eyes. The woman stroked the back of the girl’s head, her fingers finding a little comfort in the fine tresses. “It’s alright, sweetheart. It’s alright…”

  The man was peering through the driver’s window now, straining to pierce the gloom. He suddenly jumped back, fighting for breath, lungs drowning in a torrent of panic. “Oh Christ, Maria. He’s not breathing…oh, fuck…fuck!”

  As if suddenly regaining her senses, the woman reached into her pocket, took out a phone and dialled.

  “Maria. I’ve killed him. I’ve fucking killed him!”

  Roger watched and listened. The man was directly below him and appeared to be shouting, but he could only just hear what he was saying. Syllables that just seconds ago were cutting, keen and crisp, through the chilled still air now seemed as though they were being swallowed up by the night. He listened harder, concentrating. He hadn’t really noticed it until now, but his ears were picking up a constant drone that had been growing steadily louder over the last few minutes. He strained to pick out individual sounds from this sonic melee; the whisper of a breeze through the branches of the trees; the scuttling of tiny creature feet through frost starched grass; the hissings and hammerings of far off factory night shifts; the distance-soothed clatter of a train. All these night-time sounds seemed to be suddenly amplified, absorbing the shouts of the man below him, reducing his cries to barely more than a whisper.

  The wail of distant sirens, too far away for their flashing blue lights to be seen, filled Roger’s super-sensitive ears. The strident sound seemed suddenly alien against the background noises of the night, their incongruity stirring a memory.

  The accident.

  Roger looked down at the shattered vehicle, its nose wrapped around a stout tree trunk, clicking and ticking as its dead engine cooled. In the driver’s seat, he could see a body, slumped lifeless over the steering wheel.

  Oh, Christ! That was his car!

  The background noise suddenly fell silent, as if nature was holding its breath, waiting for him to make the connection.

  I’m dead…

  There
was no sense of shock, no sick emptiness. Just a simple statement of fact; almost pleasing, like fitting the final piece of a seemingly impossible jigsaw puzzle.

  Of course! Everything made sense now.

  It was as if Death had been holding Roger in limbo, awaiting his acceptance and, now that he had acknowledged his state, the Reaper was prepared to let him pass into the next world. The air around him began to shimmer; a stirring, windless flux that tugged at his limbs, the shady-greys of night melting away. White light rushed into the colourless vacuum, bright and blinding like burning magnesium as the shifting currents slowed their turbulent motions and settled into a recognisable form.

  It was a tunnel.

  It was the tunnel: a wide circular rent in the darkness from which star-bright shafts of light radiated invitation. Roger felt compelled to walk towards the opening. He shuffled slowly, his lethargic pace dictated not by fear, or even caution, but by an almost paralysing sense of wonder and awe. This was the tunnel of light he’d seen described in newspaper and magazine articles about people who had been brought back from the brink of death. Near Death Experiences. People who had been medically dead for several minutes before being resuscitated had described their passage to the other side through a bright tunnel of light.

  A tunnel of light such as the one Roger was about to enter; a doorway – but to what?

  Although his mother had been a regular churchgoer she had never forced her religious views on her family and Roger had chosen to follow his father’s footsteps along a more secular path. But as he edged closer to the almost blinding brilliance of the tunnel’s embrace, he wondered if he would feel any different right now if he did have religious beliefs. Would someone who had believed fervently all their days that they would ascend to Heaven upon their demise be speculating, as he now was, on what lay before them, or would their faith speed them on their way, without doubt, without question, and with joy in their soul?

  Perhaps, he mused, it would be worse for them. He had no ideologies or dogma that had steered his path through life, safe in the knowledge that righteousness in this life would be rewarded with a place in the next. Unlike the faithful, he had nothing to lose. The fact that he was cognisant after death was a bonus all by itself. Sure, he told his clients that he had contacted their dead loved ones, gave them a message of hope from beyond the grave, but that was just a kind-hearted scam. His gift only allowed him to see glimpses of the departed’s past existence, enough that he could pick something out to include in his message that would lend it credence. Sometimes it was all too easy, such as with Mrs Jessop; the woman looked so old and frail that a strong wind could blow her into dust. The chances of her having numerous medical issues were pretty high, and bowel problems at her age were probably near the top of the list, so a message from her deceased husband saying she should see the doctor was an obvious choice.

  As he drew closer, the tunnel’s entrance, despite its blazing bleached sterility, seemed as warm and inviting as the flesh between a lover’s lips and Roger suddenly felt ashamed, almost bereft, at his lack of belief as several arms of light leapt from the tunnel’s mouth and swept him up in their embrace, pulling him inside.

  1969

  The bell rang for the end of the school-day and most of the class quickly made their way out of the door, eager to be on their way home.

  Andrew Curtis lagged behind, putting his books away slowly, deliberately.

  “Have you no home to go to, Curtis? Or are you in love with me and can’t bear to leave?”

  The boy hurriedly packed his things and made for the exit, casting Mr Wraith a fearful glance as he left. The corridor outside was deserted but Andrew stepped carefully all the same. Chris Hawkins had threatened him earlier in the day and he was keen to avoid a beating. He walked stealthily along the corridor, his footsteps cautious and quiet. Not quiet enough, though. A pair of arms reached out from an open classroom door and dragged him inside.

  “Hello, gay-boy!”

  Chris Hawkins stood in front of him, his two henchmen guarding the door. Andrew quivered as he realised he was alone with the front row of the school rugby team. Hawkins and his pals had four inches in height on him and a good three stone each in weight to their advantage.

  “As I’m sure you are aware, gay-boy, me and my mates here had to do an after-school detention yesterday because some fucker shopped us for going into town at lunch.”

  Curtis’s eyes were already welling up, his bottom lip starting to quiver.

  “Any idea who that fucker was, Curtis?”

  “No, Chris. I’ve no idea. Honest!”

  “You lying fuck! I know it was you because Mr Howells told me. I’m the only reason his rugby team win so he kisses up to me to keep me in his good books.”

  Curtis swallowed hard and prepared himself for a good hiding as Hawkins rolled up his shirt sleeves and walked towards him.

  “Fuck him up, Chris!” One of Hawkins pals shouted out.

  FUCK HIM!

  The voice echoed in Hawkins’ head, banging inside his skull. He thrust his fists to his temples as a headache he’d been suffering for the past couple of days suddenly got worse.

  FUCK HIM HARD!

  The voice spread from his skull to his guts, pulling at his innards and then to his crotch, tugging like an over enthusiastic lover at his cock. Lust suddenly consumed him as a rock-hard erection threatened to split the zip on his black school trousers.

  “Hold him.”

  Hawkins’ two mates grabbed Andrew by the arms, easily the equal to his struggles as their leader stepped behind his victim and unleashed his hard-on.

  His mates were shocked at the sight of his rampant cock. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Shut the fuck up! This queer’s going to get what’s coming to him.”

  Hawkins yanked Curtis’s trousers and underpants down to his ankles and jammed a hand behind the boy’s scrawny neck, forcing his head down, bending him over and exposing his naked buttocks. Grabbing his hard-on with one hand Hawkins lined up his glans with his victim’s tight, puckered anus and thrust himself in, balls deep. Curtis screamed as Hawkins ripped into his rectum, stabbing into him over and again, the smaller boy’s sobbing howls echoing all through the building, drowning out the sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor outside.

  “I’ve got a pounding headache and I’m trying to get some work done. What the hell is going on in here?”

  Hawkins’ erection withered in an instant as he quickly withdrew from his victim’s anus, hurriedly tucking himself back into his trousers. The huge frame of Mr McManus, the headmaster, filled the entire doorway. The rumour was that he used to be an Olympic standard weightlifter but missed out on the games through injury, his disappointment manifesting as a seemingly perpetual rage.

  The boys stood statue-still and silent save for Curtis’ whimpering sobs.

  “Jesus fucking Christ! You boys,” he indicated the three bullies, “get out of here now!”

  The bigger lads didn’t need telling twice and were out of the door in an instant.

  “You!” the master’s purple face bore down on the weeping boy, an unmistakeable smell of whisky on his stale breath, “Come with me.”

  Curtis fumbled with his underpants and trousers, his hands shaking uncontrollably.

  “Now, boy!” McManus hitched up the back of Curtis’s trousers in a shovel-like hand and virtually carried the boy by the waistband into his office, slamming the door shut behind them.

  “What the fuck do you think you are doing, boy? Bringing your filthy ways into my school!”

  “It wasn’t my fault, sir. Hawkins did it…”

  “You expect me to believe that Hawkins – the pride of the school rugby team – is an ass-fucking queer?”

  “But it’s true, sir.”

  “Rubbish – you’re the queer, Curtis. A skinny, limp-wristed little gay-boy! Hawkins is as thick as two short planks, easily led astray – you must have seduced him into it.”

 
“No, sir…that’s not true, sir.”

  “Shut your whining, boy.” The headmaster stepped over to the umbrella stand beside the door and retrieved his cane. “Bend over my desk, I’m going to beat your sodomite ways out of you and you will fucking thank me for it!”

  “No, sir…please…”

  McManus pushed the boy’s face onto the desk and pulled his trousers and underwear down. He noted with disgust a brown trace of fresh excrement in the seat of the underpants. “You filthy little bastard…”

  The cane whacked down hard onto the desk, inches from the boy’s face. Curtis started visibly, sobbing with a renewed vigour.

  “Six of the best should be enough to make you think twice about what you do with that filthy backside of yours…”

  The first strike of the bamboo cane raised an angry red welt across Curtis’s cheeks. The boy thrust his fist into his mouth, biting down on his fingers to try and distract himself from the stinging pain and stifle his cries.

  The headmaster brought the cane down hard again, almost hitting the same spot, exacerbating the existing raw weal and extending it afresh. Curtis bit down harder, his teeth pressing against bone. Surely McManus was hitting him far harder than was legal?

  BLOOD!

  McManus paused mid-stroke, momentarily confused by the words in his head.

  I WANT BLOOD…

  The words were louder this time. Clearer. Commanding. He heard them not just within the confines of his skull but within his entire body. The muscles in his arms – so long ago destined for sporting glory – bulged under the influence of the imperative. A decade of frustration-fuelled anger raged through every sinew, the headmaster’s grip on the bamboo cane now white-hot.

  “You want blood, boy? Then, my God, blood is what you are going to get… you sick little fuck!”

  The cane thrashed down, splitting the already raw skin apart. Again, the rod found its mark, the flesh of the boy’s buttocks gaping wider, blood flowing from the exposed meat. The headmaster whipped the cane against the boy’s backside over and over, the bamboo slicing deeper into the yawning wound, tearing out chunks, dark red blood pouring from the fleshy chasm and running down Curtis’ legs, soaking into the trousers gathered around his ankles. The boy was screaming freely now, the agony too much bear in silence any longer, the teeth marks embedded in the skin of his knuckles bearing testament to his efforts at restraint. Despite the fury that fired him, McManus’s arm was beginning to tire, his aim getting sloppy. He brought the cane down on the base of the boy’s spine, this new agony bringing a fresh wave of torment. Again the bamboo rod smashed into his coccyx, stunning its array of nerves. Curtis lost control of his bowels, a lump of reeking excrement landing on the headmaster’s foot.