X2: Another Collection of Horror

by C. M. Saunders

  “Graffiti?” asked Rhys, eager to make some kind of contribution.

  “Yes, graffiti. Has a habit of scratching things onto surfaces, does Jack. With a bloody screwdriver, it looks like.” Les the chubby landlord chuckled weakly.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Mark.“Who's Jack?”

  The landlord didn't answer for a while. Instead, his eyes switched from Mark to Rhys and back again. Finally, he let his head drop onto his chest.“Look,” he began, a resigned expression creeping over his face.“If you two wanna stick around an hour or so, wait 'til all this lot has left, slip me a few quid in me pocket, like, and I'll show you.”

  Looking smug, Mark agreed for both of them, and they settled down at a corner table to wait it out.

  In time, prompted by the landlord's repeated calls of come on, you lot! Don't you 'ave 'omes to go to? the remaining customers gradually filtered out of the pub.

  By then, Rhys was having second thoughts. Not because of any alleged ghostly activity, but just because he was tired, drunk, and could think of a hundred things he would rather be doing than waiting in a pub for everyone else to leave. The landlord was probably taking the piss, anyway. Graffiti artist ghosts, be fucked.

  But he knew any attempt to leave would be ridiculed by Mark. He could hear him now, speaking in that condescending way he used to manipulate people into doing what he wanted them to do.

  You wanna what? Leave? What are you, chicken? Some kind of faggot? Afraid of some bumps and knocks?

  Like most people, when his bravery was called into question it got Rhys' hackles up, and the mere prospect of it was enough to make him take action. Sometimes it was better to just go with the flow. To that end, it was he who jokingly suggested pooling their remaining resources to see if they had enough money left to bribe Les the chubby landlord into letting them stay the night in the Prince of Wales.

  Mark, who may or may not have perceived the proposal as a challenge, readily agreed.

  After, the last of the late-night drinkers departed Les joined them at their table.“You boys ready, then?” he asked.

  Rhys and Mark both nodded as one, and on his signal followed the landlord out of the lounge and into a dingy, narrow corridor.

  “So, how long has this all been going on?” Mark asked as they walked, doing his best to extract as much pertinent information as he could.

  “That's the funny thing, see,” Les the chubby landlord began.“It only started when I came back from a family wedding in Ireland two months ago. While I was over there I did a bit of travelling and stayed at an old bed & breakfast just outside Dublin. It was run by an old lady. I forget her name, but I remember while I was there she kept talking about this character called Handsome Jack. At first, I thought it was another guest. Then I found out I was the only person staying there and thought she must be going a bit senile.”

  “What kind of things did she say?” Mark asked.

  “She used to say Handsome Jack was acting up,” Les the chubby landlord continued.“Hiding things, drawing on the furniture, making noises and that. In her head, she thought it meant he was trying to get amorous with her. Bless her.”

  “The same things that have been happening here...” Rhys added helpfully.

  “Damn right,” agreed Les.“You know, I think it followed me back, somehow. Maybe I carried it back in my suitcase!” He laughed, but the laugh was devoid of any humour.“Whatever it is, it came with me. Maybe it got bored over in Ireland and fancied a change.”

  The landlord offered another unconvincing nervous chuckle. For the first time, Rhys noted beads of sweat standing out on his forehead.

  “Why did she call him Handsome Jack?” asked Mark, always digging.

  “See for yourself...” the landlord said as he stopped and pointed at pointed at a section of plaster-coated wall.

  Against the nicotine-stained surface of the wall, Rhys was surprised to see an array of deep scratches exposing the pink plaster beneath the paint. It was the colour of smoked salmon. Most of the marks were indecipherable, but a few words stood out.

  FUCK

  WATCH YOU

  PIG

  The most prominent word was repeated several times:

  JACK.

  “Well, it looks like the name is right. But how do we know he's really handsome?” asked Mark, as if that mattered. Or maybe it was his idea of a joke. Sometimes, it was almost like he asked questions all the time as a result of some inner compulsion, some longing to be heard. A psychologist would have a field day digging around inside his head.

  Unperturbed, the landlord simply shrugged.“Dunno. It's just what the old lady in Ireland called him. And I'm not about to start calling him ugly, am I? Don't wanna piss him off, like.”

  “I guess not,” Mark said. He gave Rhys one of his looks, and said.“We were thinking...”

  “Go on,” the landlord said, a knowing expression crossing his face as if he already knew what the boys wanted. And he probably did.

  “Would it be possible to stay here the night?” Mark continued.“Kind of a ghost hunter's vigil? Like one of those shows on telly, only without the camera crew. We wouldn't be any trouble, and we'd pay you for the privilege, of course.”

  At the mention of money, Les the chubby landlord's round face positively lit up.“And how much would you be willing to pay? For the privilege?”

  “Twenty-two pounds, seventy-four pence,” replied Mark without hesitation, the total sum of he and Rhys' pooled resources.

  ***

  “What the fuck was that?” Mark asked again of the scratching sound when his first question remained answer-less.“That noise. Did you hear it?”

  “Hear it, are you crazy? It sounded like it was right here in the room with us,” Rhys replied. He hopped nervously from foot to foot, anxiously looking about the sparse back room the landlord had permitted them to use as he fought to control the tendrils of panic that began to snake down his back like cold fingertips. His breath hung in clouds before his eyes.

  The temperature had dropped, dramatically and quickly. That wasn't all. The very atmosphere seemed to have changed. It was probably down to simple heightened emotions, or it could be the result of something altogether darker and more malicious. The air was now super-charged. Something was going to happen. And soon. Rhys could sense it.

  Without warning, the sound came again, even louder this time.

  Mark jumped out of the chair where he had been trying manfully to remain calm, and both young men's heads whirled around.

  But there was nothing to see, except empty space filled only by a tiny three-legged stool throwing suggestive shadows against the far wall.

  Was that stool there before?

  Rhys couldn't remember. It must have been. But now the stool looked out of place, surreal. Like a mini three-legged fugitive from war of the Worlds. The stool seemed to be quivering slightly.

  He was about to mention this to Mark, when suddenly the piece of furniture lifted itself completely off the floor. It moved slowly at first, then gathered momentum as it was raised higher and higher by unseen hands. Then it was flung across the room with such tremendous force that it shattered against the far wall. Pieces of splintered wood dropped to the ground in a semi-circle.

  In that instant, every shred of bravado and embittered masculinity evaporated, and both young men turned on their heels and made for the door.

  Rhys got there first, and flung the door wide. But before he could get his body through he was wrenched back by Mark who used his superior size to wrestle Rhys out of the way and barge him aside.

  In the struggle, Rhys fell to the floor. But his ‘friend’ didn't even hang around long enough to help him up. The door slammed shut, and to add insult to injury, from his prone position on the hard wood floor Rhys heard the jangle of keys in the lock.

  “Mark, what are you doing?” he shouted.

  Too late.

  The lock clicked into place, and after that it was only the sound of footstep
s retreating at pace down the corridor.

  ***

  Mark was awoken early next morning by the shrill tone of his mobile. Squinting against the invasive daylight and bolts of white-hot pain shooting through his head, he fumbled around until the handset fell into his grasp. Without looking at the display he hit the RECEIVE key.

  “Hello? Who's that?”

  “Rhys. Just ringing to say I'm okay. Not that you care.”

  The voice on the other end of the phone sounded thick, and anger bubbled just beneath the surface. Remembering the events of the previous night, Mark's face flushed with shame. How could he just run off and leave his oldest friend alone like that? Even worse, lock him in that room with whatever it was that threw the stool against the wall.

  “It wasn't like that,” he was trying to justify his actions both to himself and the voice on the other end of the phone.“Not like that at all. Hey, what happened, anyway? After... after I left?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing at all. I just waited in the back room for Les to come and let me out in the morning.”

  “What about the noises? And the flying stool?”

  “It was a cat,” said the voice.

  Mark frowned. There had been no cat. Why was Rhys lying?

  What was more, his friend's tone had changed. All traces of anger had left. Now he sounded self-satisfied, even smug. What did he have to be smug about?

  Something was wrong.

  “... fancy it?”

  Rhys had been talking the whole time, the words washing over Mark's consciousness like a flood.“What did you say?” he asked, his heart beginning to thump in his chest.

  “I said I downloaded the new Funeral For a Friend album, if you wanna come over for a listen.”

  Mark glanced at the clock on his bedside table. It was just after 8am. The new Funeral For a Friend album wasn't due to be released for a few days. Sure, an advance copy may have been leaked to the internet. That wouldn't be unusual. But Rhys would have mentioned it, if that was the case.

  Besides, who invites people over to listen to music at this hour?

  Confused, Mark mumbled an agreement and hung up his handset. He felt woozy and numb. His mouth was dry and a raging thirst made talking, and even swallowing, difficult. He needed fluids.

  He opened his bedroom door and made his way gingerly down the stairs. Bypassing the bathroom for now, he went straight to the kitchen to get a drink.

  It was cold in the kitchen, his flesh instantly peppered with goose bumps. As he stood at the sink filling a glass full of water from the tap, he happened to glance at the worktop to his left. What he saw there made his breath hitch in his throat.

  Etched into the wooden surface with what must have been a knife or some other kind of sharp tool were three words:

  JACK

  IS

  HERE.

  Tiny Little Vampires

  (Flash Version)

  Mosquitoes are one of the vilest creatures on the planet. Tiny little vampires, that's what they are. Sneaky, too. During daylight hours, they hide in dark corners, only surfacing after nightfall to buzz around your head as you dozed, waiting for you to fall asleep so they could attack when your defences are down. Then, when you snapped on the light they disappeared, their black skeletal bodies camouflaged in the shaded areas of the walls and furniture.

  The writer Lafcadio Hearn said that mosquitoes were the reincarnations of the dead, condemned to their hopeless condition by the errors of their former lives. Meanwhile, the Babylonian Chronicles claim that a mosquito was responsible for the death of the Roman Emperor Titus. As punishment for destroying the Temple in Jerusalem, God instructed one of the insects to fly up the tyrant's nose where it picked at his brain until it eventually drove him insane.

  The insanity was something Lewis could sympathise with.

  He hadn’t slept for three days, but at least he had warm orange juice and cigarettes. The smoke drove the mozzies crazy. He wasn’t sure if they got high on the fumes, or if they thought the room was on fire. Or maybe the reaction was a result of that natural fear of fire instilled in all living creatures.

  Smoke meant fire. And fire spelled danger.

  But if they were looking for an escape route, they were shit out of luck. The doors and windows were all sealed with electrical tape.

  Lewis watched one of the insects land on a wall and carefully manoeuvred himself.

  Position was everything. You had to get it just so, or you risked striking out and having to start the game all over again.

  It was best to keep the shadow of your weapon away from the target and aim just a little in front of it. That way, if it sensed danger and took off, its trajectory took it straight into the jaws of death. After hours of trial and error, he now had this down to a fine art.

  At least, he thought he did.

  Thwack!

  Missed.

  Shit!

  In his haste, Lewis had forgotten to apply the secret formula.

  The oversight sent him spiralling into rage, and he raced around the room like a man possessed, grunting and swinging his rolled-up magazine indiscriminately. The world around him degenerated into a kaleidoscopic onslaught of sights and sounds, and only after some time did he realize that he had quite literally been running around in circles.

  Thus far, he had managed to keep the war just the right side of moral, forsaking chemical warfare in favour of more traditional and honourable methods. But his patience was wearing thin.

  Naked except for a pair of white sweat-stained boxer shorts, most of his body was now covered in weeping red lumps.

  The itching had been driving him mad. In some places, he had scratched so hard that he had broken the skin and blood mixed with sweat and that strange, clear liquid that collected under the skin after a bite. When the festering mixture dried, it made a sticky pink film that clung to the skin like tree sap. That was why he couldn't wear clothes any more. The fibres stuck to him.

  It was time to up the ante. The magazine was a convenient, but fallible weapon. It was time to fetch out the big guns...

  Lewis raced into the tiny bathroom and emerged brandishing an aerosol can. His cigarette lighter was on the bedside table. He reached out with one scabbed, weeping hand, and snatched it up. He struck the wheel, and the flame danced into life. Holding it next to the cheap-ass deodorant canister, he pushed the button.

  Whoosh!

  The discharge of propane gas ignited, sending a jet of flame two feet into the air.

  Hey presto! Instant insect napalm!

  This was much better than a magazine.

  Lewis scanned the flaking walls of the hotel room with red and puffy eyes.

  Nothing.

  No problem.

  There was time.

  He would just wait. It wouldn't be long before the bitches got hungry. He sat on the edge of the bed with the lighter in one hand and the cheap-ass deodorant canister in the other, and waited.

  Soon, as expected, there came a familiar drone buzzing around his head. He resisted the urge to flap at it wildly, and focused instead on picking the insect out of the gloom.

  There it was!

  It was getting bolder, the droning growing steadily louder as it flew around his head, circling him as it planned its attack.

  And then it stopped.

  Lewis looked down, being careful not to move too suddenly so as not to alarm his latest adversary.

  There she was. Perched on his bare knee.

  He waited, imagining the creature's proboscis snaking out of its body, piercing his skin, and injecting that vile compound secretion into him.

  Feels good, doesn't it, bitch?

  The excitement was almost overwhelming. He could feel the blood rushing through his veins, the adrenaline beginning to take effect. The mosquito perched on his bare knee must be thinking she had struck the jackpot.

  He flicked the wheel of the lighter with his thumb causing a tiny, flicke
ring flame to spring into life. He held the lighter still, and used the fingers of his other hand to push down the top of the cheap-ass deodorant canister.

  Whoosh!

  The jet of flame leaped out of the aerosol, engulfing his naked thigh in ethereal shades of yellow, orange and red.

  There was no feeling at first. But then, the pain surged through him, radiating outwards from the raw patch of skin on his thigh. His lips pulled back from his teeth, he squeezed his eyes shut and threw his head back in a scream.

  As painful as it was, he let the roaring flames lick his leg for as long as he could stand before letting his shaking finger slide off the top. Without fuel, the gushing flames obediently died.

  Now, a new smell hung in the stuffy air, the acrid stench of burnt hair and singed flesh. His leg shook uncontrollably and bizarrely, his teeth started to chatter.

  Inspecting the seared limb, Lewis saw that the flames had burned away most of the skin to expose the once-pink flesh beneath, which was now scorched black. He didn't think he would be able to stand up for a while.

  No matter. At least he wasn't itching anymore. He would just sit here and wait for the next tiny little vampire to come along.

  Roadkill

  The two men stood in the road over the smoking wreck of a motorcycle, which was now more a twisted hunk of metal than a dream machine. The rider had been thrown off, coming to rest in a roadside drainage ditch about ten metres away. It took a few minutes to locate him, even judging the speed and trajectory of his unscheduled flight. The victim's body had suffered so much trauma it was difficult to look at, and even more difficult to think of it as once being human. Now it more resembled a pile of bloody rags filled with raw sausage meat.