Chillingworth Mews: A supernatural horror novel

by Anton Palmer

  “Fuck me! The cunt was so desperate to fuck your ass that he didn’t even bother to do the fucking job he came here for!”

  He picked up the toolbox and hurled it across the room with a grunt of fury, the heavy box smashing a chunk of plaster out of the far wall.

  23

  Showered, shaved and reeking of cheap deodorant, Roger stepped through the door of the Chillingworth Arms.

  A few locals sitting at the bar briefly paused their conversations to turn and look at the stranger in their midst before continuing with their boozy banter.

  “Evening, sir. What can I get you?”

  Roger stepped up to the bar where the jovial landlord beamed at him in welcome.

  “A pint of lager, please…and do you have a menu?”

  “Certainly.” The landlord placed an empty glass beneath the lager tap then handed him a laminated card before pouring the drink. “Take a seat at a table, sir and my daughter will be over in a few minutes to take your order.”

  Roger thanked the man and took a hearty swig of his drink before ambling over to a small table for two in the corner.

  *

  “Was everything alright for you, sir?”

  The landlord smiled at Roger as he cleared away the empty plate.

  “Lovely, thanks. I can’t remember the last time I had a steak pie as nice as that.”

  The landlord’s smile dropped slightly, unsure if his customer was taking the piss or not. The food was bought in from a supplier and heated up in the oven, and, whilst the pies themselves were not bad, they certainly weren’t up to the home-made standard of some of the other establishments in the area.

  Any further embarrassment was spared as Roger pointed to the large table at the far end of the room. “I was admiring that table – looks like it might have some history…made from old ship’s timbers, perhaps?”

  The landlord turned towards the arch shaped table, its wood thick, dark and clearly much older than the rest of the pub’s veneered chipboard furniture.

  “Not from a ship, no. These are the doors from the original Chillingworth House.”

  The landlord could tell from Roger’s face that the name meant nothing to him and decided to elaborate, eager to share the little local history that he had.

  “The Chillingworth’s were a wealthy family that lived in the area back in the nineteenth century. Industrialists - they made their money from coal mining, iron ore and timber. There were two brothers: James, the eldest and William, who came along quite a few years later (a bit of a family scandal around that, I believe). Anyway, James took over the business from his father, and William, who some say was not ‘quite right’ and a blight on the family name became a member of the clergy. As a family they were very generous benefactors, providing the money for a number of buildings and projects around the town: the park gardens, the old orphanage and such. Chillingworth House was the last building that they paid for. It was designed as a school and indeed served its purpose up until just a couple of years ago when it was bought up by a local developer and turned into apartments.”

  “Ah, Chillingworth Mews!” Roger’s face lit up as he recalled the new apartment block he had passed earlier that afternoon.

  “That’s right. Anyway – the original doors were not deemed suitable for the redevelopment and so…they were turned into a table for the pub that bears the family name.”

  Roger rose from his chair and walked towards the old doors.

  “So, are the Chillingworth’s still around?”

  “Not around these parts anymore. William disappeared not long after Chillingworth House was commissioned. The official story is that he was sent to…India, I think; on missionary work where he caught a fever and died. Although-“, the landlord leaned closer to Roger in a conspiratorial manner, “local rumour at the time suggested that he had met an altogether more sinister end…”

  Roger had tuned out a little from the landlord’s story as he admired the table. The two doors had been joined together, presumably held in place by bolts or something on the underside. In the centre, the holes where the original locks and handles would have been had been enlarged to form receptacles for cruet sets and napkins. On the side nearest him, a dark cross, two feet tall, was clearly visible on the unvarnished wood.

  The landlord beamed once again as he sensed an opportunity to impart more of his story, “You’ve spotted the burnt on cross…”

  “Yes, what’s that all about?”

  “Back in the 50’s some religious crackpot thought the building was possessed and tried to ‘exorcise’ it by placing a red-hot iron crucifix against the door.”

  “Why did they think the place was possessed?”

  “Well, there had been quite a number of gruesome deaths in the building over the years…”

  “Murders, you mean? In a school building?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Did the exorcism work?”

  “No!” The landlord chuckled, “There were still a couple more gruesome deaths over the next few decades. Like I said, a crackpot – still, makes for an interesting story…excuse me.” The landlord returned to the bar where a regular was tapping a coin to attract his attention.

  Roger brushed his fingertips over the surface of the wood, above the scorched-in crucifix, relishing the texture of the grain.

  How many hands had touched this door in the past, he mused, fragments of their skin and sweat bonding with the wood like an organic history…

  His hand was suddenly on fire.

  Agonising heat tortured every nerve as bright orange flames licked at his flesh. Chunks of reddened skin peeled from his fingers, the exposed white bone beneath almost instantly blackening in the heat.

  HELP ME…

  The voice in his head was faint but strong enough to momentarily distract him from removing his hand.

  He saw blood. His vision awash with red.

  He tasted blood. Strong and coppery in his mouth and throat as he swallowed.

  He felt his lungs fill with air, energy flooding his body.

  He felt alive…

  He flexed his muscles and sensed wood; and brick; and plaster – his body stiff and immobile: his life-force trapped within himself.

  Then there was pain.

  A tearing and crushing agony as he was stripped of plaster and boards; his innards ripped apart; electrical arteries and veins torn out…

  He heard a name: ‘Bullock’. He saw the word – emblazoned on the white vans.

  And his mind was suddenly soaring over the town to a big house, on its own.

  Again the name…

  ‘BULLOCK!’

  Roger screamed and dragged his hand from the table, the flames immediately dissipating, the bones re-fleshed. He hugged the limb close to his chest as he turned towards the men at the bar, sensing the force of their eyes upon him.

  “Bloody hell, Ian,” one of the customers grinned as he passed his empty glass to the landlord for a refill, “he’s either a nutter or he’s had a reaction to your pies!”

  The others at the bar burst into laughter – the landlord’s pies clearly a standing joke of some kind.

  “Are you alright, sir?” A genuine concern was evident in the barman’s voice.

  Roger stared at him as he cradled his arm.

  “For your information, gents,” the landlord briefly turned back to his regulars, “he said my pie was one of the best he’s ever had!”

  “Well, that settles it then – he’s a bloody nutter!”

  Roger made for the door amid howls of laughter and exited the pub without looking back.

  24

  Neil Bullock stretched out on the leather sofa and took a sip from the whisky glass in his hand. The fireplace in front of him stood dark and empty and Bullock, though he enjoyed the warm, dry weather of summer, couldn’t wait for winter so he could get a good blaze going.

  Nothing says success like a fine malt in front of a roaring fire, he mused, taking another self satisfied sip of hi
s drink.

  Neil had inherited Bullock Property Developments from his father, although, where Bullock Senior had built the business from scratch with his bare hands, involving himself in all aspects of the work, his son preferred a more hands-off approach. He’d sold off most of their plant, apart from a couple of diggers and a van, preferring to hire what he needed without the overhead of maintenance. He took the same approach with his employee’s, laying off most of them, keeping just a few trusted individuals to ensure the contractors and casual labour he hired did their jobs.

  As he downed the last mouthful of whisky, stepping across the living room to the decanter for a refill, he heard the chimes of the doorbell.

  “Who the hell is that?” he muttered, deciding whether to bother answering or not.

  Oh shit, its probably Johnson…

  James Johnson was foreman at one of his developments and was having a few issues. Bullock had asked him to call at the end of the day to let him know what was going on.

  The idiot’s probably run his phone battery down watching porn on his lunch-break and has had to stop by in person.

  “Hold on!” he shouted, “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  He poured himself another measure of whisky, not wanting to do so in front of Johnson as the man would no doubt ask for one himself, and good malt was wasted on a beer swilling, tabloid reader like him.

  Taking a swallow of the golden liquid from his crystal tumbler, Bullock opened the front door.

  He thought he vaguely recognised the smooth, round rock as the one he used to hold down his note for the milkman, although his familiarity with it did nothing to soften the force of the blow as the stranger at his door powered it into his face. The whiskey tumbler shattered, splinters of razor sharp glass embedding themselves in Bullock's lips and cheeks. The property developer himself was only fleetingly aware of the shards piercing his flesh before the full impact of the stone rendered him unconcious.

  Roger hefted the blood smeared stone in his hands. The rock felt good: its weight; its smooth shape…the way the cracking of Bullock’s skull reverberated through it into his wrist…

  25

  The pain in her head was unbearable, the paracetamol she had been taking at regular intervals throughout the day having had no discernible effect. Margaret buried her face into her pillow and wept. There was no way she could wait until morning to go to the surgery, and, although she disliked having to do it, hated feeling like a burden on an already overstretched health service, she decided she had no choice but to phone the out-of-hours doctor.

  After almost two hours curled foetal on her bed, she heard the intercom buzz, announcing the doctor’s arrival at the main door. Dr Bond, an attractive, single woman in her thirties was new to the district and currently living in rented accommodation. As she waited to be let in, she made a mental note to find out more about the available apartments in Chillingworth Mews, the brand new complex piquing her interest for a possible purchase. As she entered the communal hallway, her heels echoing on the varnished floorboards she quickly scanned around, admiring the pictures on the walls and mentally underlined her decision to visit the sales office on her next day off.

  Margaret leant against the woodwork for support as she waited by her front door to greet the doctor, apologising profusely for having to call her out. Leading the way through to the living room, the widow perched on the edge of her sofa, next to her abandoned knitting, the physician kneeling on the carpeted floor in front of her to begin her examination.

  “So, I understand that you’ve been suffering from a severe headache for over twenty-four hours?”

  “That’s right, doctor. It just seems to be getting worse and worse…”

  “And you’ve been taking painkillers for it?”

  “Yes, doctor, paracetamol.”

  “Have you ever suffered from headaches in the past?”

  “Now and then, but a couple of painkillers always shifted them – never anything like this-” Margaret suddenly clasped her head, fresh tears filling her eyes as the effort of answering the doctor’s questions instilled a renewed vigour into the throbbing at her temples.

  “How’s your vision?” The doctor rummaged in her bag as she spoke, “Any blurring, strange light effects or floaters?”

  “It’s been getting a bit blurry, doctor, but I didn’t sleep very well last night so I assumed it was just tiredness.”

  “Hmmm, I’ll just take a look…” The doctor shone her penlight into the widow’s left eye.

  Margaret screamed, slapping the little torch from the woman’s hand, sending it flying across the living room. The medic stared at her patient, for an instant the old woman looked almost feral – her lips curled back, her eyes blazing with rage before her face returned to normal.

  “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry, doctor…it was just the brightness…”

  Dr Bond retrieved her penlight, the image of Margaret’s wild face still burning in her mind. She had never seen a patient react like that before and was worried there was something very wrong.

  “I’d like you to go to the hospital, Mrs Brown – tonight - for some further tests.”

  “Oh no, no – I’m sure there’s no need for that, doctor. Can’t you just give me some stronger painkillers? I’m sure something with a bit more clout will soon sort me out.”

  “I think the hospital would probably prefer it if I didn’t, so they can see your symptoms without the effects of any medication. I’m sure they’ll give you something stronger once they’ve had a look at you.” She reached into her bag for her mobile, “Are you able to pack a few overnight things while I ring for an ambulance?”

  “No!” The old woman was clearly very agitated, “No ambulance – I’m not going to the hospital. Just give me some more powerful tablets. Please, doctor - that’s all I need.”

  Doctor Bond ignored her patient’s pleas and dialled the number.

  “I said, NO!”

  Margaret’s hand flew towards the doctor once more, slapping the mobile phone against her cheek, splitting the lip at the corner of her mouth. A tiny droplet of blood fell to the carpet and was immediately drawn through pile into the floorboards beneath.

  BLOOD!

  Both women heard the voice but it was only Margaret who felt it. The word resonated deep within her, vibrating in alignment with the pounding in her head. The elderly widow heard it, felt it and understood it – a command that promised retribution against all those who ignored her wishes: those who had told her to sell her old home and move to this blessed apartment; those who treated her like an imbecile because of a few wrinkles and rheumy eyes; and those like the doctor in front of her who wanted to pack her off to hospital despite the force of her opposition…

  As she looked around the room for the source of the voice, wiping her mouth with the back of a hand, Dr Bond barely registered the knitting needle as it flashed through the corner of her vision. The steel point easily punctured the side of her neck, a gush of blood spurting from the wound as Margaret yanked it out and attacked again. This second assault went deeper, the needle piercing the physician’s spinal cord. The doctor tried to stand, to move from her patients reach, but her right leg refused to obey the commands from her brain. She fell to the floor, her entire right side paralysed and useless as the old woman fell upon her, her face a savage mask of fury.

  The medic’s screams were stifled as the steel point pierced her throat, deep red blood gurgling in her larynx. The carpet around the prone body was saturated as the younger woman’s life-force gushed freely from her wounds, the wooden boards beneath greedily soaking up the warm fluid through the thick pile.

  As the doctor stared, wide eyed and helpless, at her attacker, Margaret suddenly recalled the agony of the penlight.

  Let’s see how she likes a light in her eyes…

  The widow grabbed the phallic table-lamp and smashed it against the edge of the coffee table, shattering the delicate shade into myriad rainbow splinters. The bulb smashed
along with the shade, the filament exposed within a crown of jagged glass shards.

  The doctor let out a liquid scream, blood pumping from the holes in her throat as Margaret thrust the lamp into the helpless woman’s right eye. She twisted the polished wooden stem as she pushed, gouging deep into the gelatinous eyeball.

  She flicked on the switch.

  The physician shook and bucked as the current arced across her eye, boiling the vitreous fluids, the bloodied orb suddenly exploding under the pressure at the trip-switch in the fuse box clicked over, cutting the electricity supply.

  The widow held the dead lamp down at her side as she gazed at the equally lifeless woman on her living room floor, her right eye now nothing more than a scorched pulp, oozing blood and thick fluid over her cheek where the skin around the socket was black and swollen. Margaret breathed heavily, her lungs filling with the slaughter-scented air. Her heart hammered behind her ribs and her skin was flushed and slickened with a sheen of perspiration.

  She felt good. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so energised - so alive.

  She also felt something else that she thought had been consigned to the past…

  Wet.

  When her menopause kicked in, almost two decades ago, she had used various lubes and hormone creams to allow herself and Robin to continue enjoying their sex life, but since her husband’s passing, she had allowed her vaginal walls to wither and atrophy as nature intended. But now, she could feel the moist heat between her legs, the swelling of blood-plumped labia, and, as she stroked the smooth stem of the lamp, the motions of her hand becoming firmer and more deliberate, she was overcome with the urge to…