X2: Another Collection of Horror

by C. M. Saunders

  Even so, scores of local children still often poked fun at Neil. They called him Dracula or Dr Frankenstein, generally regarding him with a mischievous yet wary look of fear and trepidation, thinly wrapped in juvenile bravado. Perhaps some of those nasty rumours had been handed down through the generations, after all. On top of that, he supposed the parents instilled certain notions in their offspring, mainly in the interests of protecting them, with which he couldn't entirely disagree given the amount of crackpots and child molesters there were running around these days.

  If anyone was suspicious of Neil it probably stemmed from the fact that, oddly for a shop-keeper, he was an introvert and a recluse, preferring not to involve himself in the day to day interaction of the community. All that mattered to him was Curiosities. Beyond that, he liked to keep private things private. Very private.

  When approached in the correct manner, however, Neil was quite chatty and always polite, helpful and courteous. Especially to his meagre share of regular clients. You had to be, didn't you? It was business. The plain truth was that nobody ever paid him any social calls. Nobody ever came in to see him unless they wanted to buy something. He had no real friends or family left. From the outside looking in it could be considered a pathetic existence, but he was content enough, if not exactly happy.

  The building that housed Curiosities was very large, and spread over four storeys. The shop front was best described as modest and quaint, while the interior was cramped and over-flowing with dusty, mostly worthless examples of junk, forgotten oddities, and family heirlooms. The second floor was used mainly for storage, while directly above that was the small, functional living quarters comprising of a sitting room and kitchenette, a bathroom and two small bedrooms. The top floor was empty and locked up. Neil hadn't set foot up there in years. Squatters could have moved in for all he knew. He often had notions of doing the top floor up. Maybe converting it into one or two self-contained flats and renting them out. But that's all they were. Notions.

  A door at the rear of the shop opened out into a second storage area, almost warehouse-like in its dimensions. It was so infeasibly large, and the flaking white-washed walls so alluring, that if one stood in the room for too long they became disoriented, and almost overwhelmed by an unnerving sense of futileness. The sensation was made even worse by the fact that the huge room was now completely empty, save for a single doorway cut into one wall.

  Neil could remember a time far back in his childhood when the massive storage space bulged with stock waiting to be shifted into the shop where it could be sold. But those days were long gone. Neil didn't do house clearances any more as his father and grandfather had done. He couldn't if he wanted to. He had sold the Curiosities van years ago for scrap. The year he sold it it was thirty-seven years old.

  The doorway cut into the wall of the storage space housed an ancient set of crumbling stone steps, which descended into the gloomy depths of the underground cellar. When illuminated (by candlelight, as there were no electric lighting fixtures installed) the grimy cellar walls were revealed to be adorned with strange intricate markings and patterns. It was here that Neil's grandfather had once practised his arcane magic rituals and blasphemous satanic rites. The cellar, humming with a tangible form of vibrant suppressed energy, was the nucleus of the building. The throbbing blackened heart.

  It was a cold, wet and miserable Sunday afternoon, and Curiosities had been graced with just three potential customers all day, potential because none of them had actually bought anything. Two were idle browsers, and the other was a deranged pensioner with a vacant look in his eyes looking for an obscure book about fly fishing that probably didn't even exist.

  Time was getting on, and Neil was just thinking about closing up when the bell above the door chimed softly, demanding his attention. His head snapped up from the crumpled, dog-eared DC comic he had been reading. It didn't matter how often he heard that bell chime, he still felt that prickle of excitement and anticipation. When he saw who had walked in, however, Neil groaned inwardly.

  It was him again. The confused pensioner with the vacant look, no doubt hoping for another irrelevant conversation about books that were never written.

  Shit.

  “Hello again”, said the pensioner,“When I popped in earlier, you said you'd have another look for that book I’m after. Any luck?”

  “Er, no. I looked everywhere for it,” Neil lied.“But like I said, I don't think we can help you. In fact, I don't recall ever seeing the book you mentioned.”

  This last comment was really nothing more than a thinly-veiled accusation. Evidently, it wasn't wasted on the old man who instantly replied,“Oh, it exists. I'm sure of it. I saw it once in a second-hand shop in South Wales. I was staying there for a time with a friend of mine, oooh donkey's years ago. And I know what you're thinking and yes, it was a lady friend. One of many I've had in my time, believe it or not. I haven't always been this old, you know!”

  “Oh, I don't doubt it for a minute”, Neil snapped. There was an obvious need to stop the old guy in his tracks before he built up a head of steam. However, the ruse didn't work. The man simply ignored Neil's comment and ploughed on regardless.

  “I remember one pretty young in particular. From Belfast, this one. Was it Belfast? Yes, I'm sure it was Belfast. Well, as sure as anyone can be at my age. I do like the Celtic gals. Something about them, don't you think? Must be all the fiestiness. Us men say we don't like it,but we all do, don't we?”

  “I'm sure.”

  “Anyway. Cream of the crop, she was. That Belfast lass. Cream of the crop. I used to have to catch the train up to see her. I went regularly. End of every month, just after pay day. Trains were so much better in them days, too. It was a proper treat. People used to love going on a good, long train journey. Took most of the day but you just made the most of it. Why, I remember this one time...”

  The old man carried on for what seemed like an age, despite Neil's obvious lack of interest. At one point Neil actually turned his attention back to his comic in an attempt to dissuade the old man, but it made no difference. It gradually became apparent that the old guy was so lonely he was in desperate need of a conversation with someone. Anyone. And at that moment,'anyone' amounted to Neil. Lucky him.

  On one level, you couldn't help but feel sorry for such people.

  But on another, more selfish level, you sometimes find yourself wondering what it has to do with you. If the old gent is lonely, so what? It isn't your problem, and it's unfair of these people to make it so. There are special clubs and social groups for them to join, so why subject complete strangers to their endless torrents of narcissistic, half-soaked drivel?

  While the old man talked, Neil studied his vacant, watery eyes and saw only a deep sadness. It was the look of a defeated man who has only death to look forward to. He probably felt that he had served his time, done his bit, and now wanted nothing but merciful release. Neil really should pity him. He tried. He really did. But as the minutes ticked by, he grew increasingly irritated by the old codger's insistent chatter.

  Gradually however, Neil's perception of the old guy changed. Judging by his demeanour and general appearance, he was either homeless or poverty-stricken. If he fell off the face of the earth, he wouldn't be missed by anybody.

  Neil suddenly stood up and slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand in a comic gesture of revelation.“You know what?” he exclaimed,“I think we do have a copy of that book, after all!”

  The old guy stopped talking and a look of confusion flashed across his face, adding weight to Neil's earlier theory about the book being a figment of his imagination.“You, you do...?” he stammered.

  “Yes! Yes!” Neil said with mock excitement,“It's out the back. I'm sure of it. This way, follow me.”

  Neil led the old man through the cluttered shop and into the vast disused storage area at the rear. There, he gently directed the old man to the door behind which lay the steps leading down to the cellar.

&nbs
p; “This is where we keep all our special items,” he said, motioning to the closed door. Delving into his pocket, he produced a bunch of keys, selected one, and inserted it into the stiff, rusty lock. Beyond the door, something stirred. Neil didn't know if he heard it or sensed it on some primitive level.

  Maybe the old codger sensed something too, because just then he stopped and looked uncertain.“You keep books in there?”

  “Oh, yes,” Neil replied as the door swung open into a gulf of darkness.“Away from prying eyes. For safe keeping, you see. After you...”

  The old man, however, didn't move. Instead, he eyed Neil suspiciously.“But it's dark down there.”

  “Of course it's dark. That's because the lights aren't on. The switches are on the wall to your left; be a good man and flick them over on your way past.”

  The old man shuffled nervously from foot to foot.“It's cold as well. Um... I think I’ll just pop in tomorrow for it. When you have time couldn't you go down and get it for me? My legs aren't as strong as they used to be, you know. Why, I remember once...”

  Neil rolled his eyes to the heavens.“Oh, what the hell,” he said,“You're going to find out sooner or later anyway. The truth is, the cellar is always kept cold and dark because the creature that my bastard of a grandfather conjured up from somewhere or other likes it that way.”

  “What?” the old man said, regarding Neil with a look of disbelief.

  “The damn monster that lives in there. The darkness seems to pacify it somehow.”

  “Oh, right,” said the old man as he started to back away, eyes frantically searching for an escape route.

  Neil was quick to block his exit with one thin, outstretched arm.“I don't know all the details, you understand. I don't know what it is or where it came from. And I have no great desire to, either. The truth is, I've never even seen it. But what little I know is terrifying enough. Apparently, in order to keep Curiosities ticking over, from time to time a certain sacrifice is called for. A blood sacrifice. Call it a family secret, if you want. Or maybe a curse.”

  “A curse?” the old man stammered, his voice weak and hoarse.

  “A curse, yes. Haven't you heard the rumours?” Neil asked, malice creeping into his tone.“You look old enough. What's wrong? Cat got your tongue? Like I said, I've never actually seen whatever's in there, but I’ve heard it plenty of times. Shall I tell you what it sounds like?”

  “I...”

  “Well, first I there's this odd shuffling sound. Kind of a wet shuffling, almost a squelching. I'm not sure why that is. I guess there must be parts of that cellar that are damper than I thought. Whoever is trapped in there with the creature usually has time to bang on the door for a bit, perhaps plead with me to let them out, and sometimes have a scream or two. Then there is a bit of a scuffle, followed by some ripping and tearing noises. And after that, if I stay long enough, which I rarely do, I can hear a crunching noise. I suppose that's the bones...”

  The old man was now deathly white and trembling with fear. His wrinkled mouth opened and closed as if he wanted to say something. But now it was his turn to be silent as Neil talked.

  “The place stinks to high heaven after a few days,” Neil continued.“But you don't really notice it back here with the doors closed. I put some air freshener down and even the smell goes after a while. I've lost count of all the wretched souls I’ve laid to rest in the dark bowels of this cellar, but I’m led to believe that it's all for a good cause. You should consider yourself lucky, really. You'd be helping a small business stay afloat. All you have to do is toddle off down those stairs and Curiosities will strike gold again. That's the way it's always been. Now, off you go...”

  The old man managed only another soft whimper as Neil shoved him through the door and turned the key in the lock. As he turned away, he heard the first wet shuffling sounds and smiled to himself.

  Intruder

  Rosie turned on the lamp and slid into bed, glancing at the clock on the bedside table as she did so. 23:57. Mark would be home soon. He was such a good, reliable son, he was never late. It really was a wonder that no woman had snapped him up yet.

  But he drinks too much!

  Chimed her resentful side.

  Or was it the voice of reason?

  Things had been hard on him since his father died six years ago, and he had taken to spending virtually every spare moment down the pub. She understood. When tragedy strikes, after recovering from the initial flurry of shock and crawling on your belly through that grey wasteland of grief, you learn to cope the best way you can. It's a transition of sorts. You just have to get on with it. Her way of coping was Xanex and early nights, Mark's way was drinking beer and staying out until midnight.

  Each to their own.

  Slowly, the two of them had fallen into a routine. Rosie kept the front door firmly locked, only unlocking it just before she went to bed. Mark had a spare key once, but lost it when in one of his drunken stupors. Since then, Rosie decided he just couldn't be trusted. Not mature enough, not by a long chalk.

  The front door opened and closed softly and a key turned, returning the door to its locked state. The ghost of a smile played on Rosie's lips.

  There he was. Right on time.

  Now she could drift off to sleep.

  The downstairs toilet flushed.

  Oh dear.

  That was a bad sign. Rosie hoped he hadn't drunk too much and made himself sick. She tried not to smother him with a mother's love, but it was hard. Mark was all she had left now. Luckily for him, she had left the porch and living room lights on. That should at least stop him bumping into things.

  She listened intently, body rigid, wrinkled mouth pulled taught. If she listened carefully, she could hear him move through the house. She cringed as heavy footsteps trumped across the hard wood floor of the kitchen.

  Rosie sighed.

  Damn you Neil! How many times do I have to remind you to take your shoes off when you come in the house?

  The refrigerator door opened and something rustled faintly. That would be tin foil.

  Found the left-over turkey, then?

  There was the soft clink of a glass, the cutlery drawer opening, a cupboard, and finally the sound of a kitchen knife being pulled from a scabbard. Then, the sound the footsteps retreating from the kitchen and making their way across the living room.

  She lost track of them for a split second, that damn shag pile carpet, then there was a soft rustle as a coat sleeve brushed against the door frame.

  He must be deciding what to do.

  Watch TV or go straight to bed.

  Rosie pictured her son standing at the foot of the stairs, swaying on his feet and a bemused expression contorting his face. It was a look she had come to know so well. She smiled when the landing light finally snapped on and the footsteps began making their way slowly but purposefully up the stairs.

  One, two, three, four...

  Wouldn't be long now and he'll be in bed. Only thirteen steps in these old houses. Then she could stop her worrying for another night.

  Suddenly, there was a new noise. A metallic clunk coming from outside.

  What was that?

  It sounded like the garden gate opening.

  But who could be paying a visit at this time of night? Mark was already home.

  She wondered if he had heard the gate opening. It didn't sound like, there was no urgency in its steps. Probably too drunk.

  Five, six, seven...

  Her bedroom window overlooked the garden. Rosie scooted over to the edge of the bed as quickly as her tired old legs would allow and opened the curtain a crack. She peered through, into the darkness beyond.

  Somebody was coming down the path. A man.

  Oh my, who's that?

  She was dimly aware of the footsteps still climbing the stairs.

  Eight, nine...

  She wanted to call out, warn Mark that an intruder was, at this very minute, making his way down the garden path!

  Ten
, eleven...

  But she found that she couldn't tear her eyes away from the sight below.

  A little voice inside was telling her that she couldn't turn away. Not now.

  Twelve, thirteen...

  In a way, she was glad she listened to that little voice. It softened the blow somewhat. She was also glad that she was already sitting down, too, albeit on the edge of her bed. Because as she watched through the bedroom window, the intruder in the garden looked up and for the briefest moment their eyes met.

  It was Mark's face gazing up at her.

  She saw him reach for the front door handle and try to turn it, unaware that it was locked from the inside already.

  At that same moment, her bedroom door opened.

  The Night Visitor

  Brian had never hurt anyone. That was the truth. It wasn't his style. He wasn’t a violent person. He just liked sneaking into people’s houses at night and watching them sleep. He was aware of the fact some people might consider that behaviour slightly odd. Even creepy.

  His favourite time to do it was early morning, just as the sun was coming up. The border between day and night was a magical time. A new dawn, so crisp and so full of hope and optimism. A time when anything was possible.

  But experience had taught him that early morning was also the time when he was most likely to be caught. Things had changed. So many people did shift work these days, or didn't work at all, and were awake at all hours.

  No, he had never hurt anyone. Even though he could have hurt people. He had never even taken anything that didn’t belong to him. Except one time an age ago when he found a packet of chocolate chip cookies lying on a kitchen table and helped himself. Chocolate chip cookies had always been a weakness of his.

  He would usually just have a look around the place, pick things up and put them down again. Open drawers and peek inside. He liked to have a glimpse into other people’s lives. But his main motivation had always been just watching people sleep.

  He didn’t know why he liked it so much. It was one of those things he couldn’t explain. Like he couldn't explain why he liked chocolate chip cookies. People looked so serene when they were asleep. Lost in another world. He liked to watch their chests rise and fall, listen to their deep breathing, and try to imagine what they may be dreaming about. It was relaxing. And intimate. Sometimes, Brian just wanted to curl up in bed next to them. Sometimes he actually did, but he was always fearful of waking them up. People might freak out if they woke up with a stranger in their bed. It would be a natural reaction.