New Fears--New horror stories by masters of the genre

by Mark Morris

  But those blur-lines were quickly changing the shape of my face into something else.

  Something that was not me.

  Something that was larger and terrible and a monstrous parody of me.

  In that soul-freezing moment of horror and realisation at what I had done, I could see in that split-second that I was not looking at my reflection at all.

  Just as I had dived from the bridge and was about to shatter the surface of the river, something was quickly rising from below to meet me; something that was mirroring and adopting the same pose as me—and was, face-to-face, about to dive up and out of the river directly beneath me.

  I think I screamed then. But I can’t be sure.

  In the next moment, there was an explosion of dark water that engulfed me, filling my mouth and lungs. Something enfolded me then in a terrible grip that just as suddenly expelled that gushing intake of foul liquid from my lungs in one long and barking cough. I gasped for air as my head seemed to whiplash on my neck. There was a great roaring in my ears, and a sound like massive canvas sails flapping, as my torso remained gripped in that embrace. I was now aware that, far from falling, my trajectory had instantly somehow reversed, and I was flying upwards. My scrabbling hands tried to grip something, but slid on what felt like rapidly moving wet leather as that flapping sound continued, together with a roaring like a great waterfall. My arms and legs floundered helplessly as surely as if I was on the end of a bungee rope. I was being borne upwards into a freezing night sky.

  I had been snatched back up into the air by something that had erupted from the river at the very point where I had sought to enter it.

  Spray flew from my eyes, and my vision was filled with a distorted, twisting kaleidoscope of neon, bridge girders and streetlights. Panting like an animal, I sucked in short gasps of freezing air that agonised my lungs. Suddenly, I was a boy again—strapped into the whirling “cup and saucer” ride on Newcastle’s Town Moor when the Hoppings fair came to town; and just as suddenly, with a juddering smack I was back in real time again, dropped on my hands and knees onto hard concrete, retching and gasping for air, river water pooling around me.

  Stark streetlight threw a pool of shadow around where I knelt, and when I weakly lifted my head I saw that— somehow—I was at the top of the side road called Bottle Bank, running parallel to the bridge on my right and winding down to the quayside while the Tyne Bridge soared on ahead across the river. I was on all fours, in the middle of the steeply winding road, when logic dictated that I should be dead and drowned.

  A greater shadow than the one in which I knelt suddenly moved into my sightline. It was man-shaped but surely much too big to be a man, and with something profoundly wrong about it as it stepped silently up to me. Its horribly long arms were held wide in a cruciform, but those arms looked more like… no, they surely couldn’t be wings? They weren’t like the silhouette-feathered wings of a bird, or the smooth black velvet-leather of a bat’s outstretched wings; but more like the dactyl-claw spread of some jet-black pterosaur, or a black angel from…

  Further thought was snapped from my mind by that sound again, the canvas flapping of a sail, not unfurling this time but furling, and the shadow quickly folded in upon itself until the arms (or wings) had merged with that terrible central shadow. Now it was only the shadow of a too-big man, and when he took another step, our joint shadows became a single pool of darkness. And when I began to raise my head to look more closely, a voice said, “I would advise you NOT to look.”

  I could feel the deep bass of that voice in the concrete beneath me, and I somehow instinctively knew the dreadful truth of the warning in those words. There was something utterly hellish in the tone of that voice—unlike anything I had ever heard in my life, and impossible really to describe. But I knew that if I looked up and saw the face of whatever it was, I would go mad.

  Terrified, I kept my head down.

  And then the voice said: “Follow me…”

  When the huge shadow detached itself and moved, I had no choice but to follow, rising from all fours with dirty river water dripping from my body and splashing in the puddle that I had made. And with every shambling step, I knew— just knew—that I had to keep my head down if I wanted to stay sane, despite the burning desire to look up and take in the details of what seemed to have been my dreadful saviour.

  I said that the figure was big, somehow too big for a man; in my peripheral vision it seemed to me that it was wearing a black gown or cloak that furled and swept at the figure’s base as it moved. But it was like no material I had ever seen. It reflected the bridge lights in its contours and creases, and although it had a glistening wet look, it was not wet. It was neither leather nor plastic, nor any kind of fabric I’d ever seen. But the way that it swirled suggested that it was moving around hidden feet and legs as I followed behind—I couldn’t be sure.What I could be sure of, though, was that I was following dutifully behind this—whatever it was—just as obediently as a servant follows a master, down Bottle Bank towards the river.

  Cars were flashing past on the bridge above us, and the Hilton Hotel was on our left as we moved. Surely someone somewhere could see us? What kind of dream was I having?

  The Shadow kept walking, slowly and leisurely, and I matched its pace behind with no will of my own.

  Suddenly, from behind, there was a shriek and squeal of tyres that made the road vibrate through the soles of my shoes. I froze, shoulders hunched, and waited for the inevitable impact as a choking cloud of burning tyre rubber enveloped me. I whirled back to see that a car had taken the Bottle Bank slip road from Gateshead at high speed, not expecting to find anything in the middle of the road.The car had pulled up only yards from where I stood, and its headlights blinded me. I heard a car door open and then slam shut with anger— but I still couldn’t see the driver.

  “What the hell is the matter with you?” yelled a male voice.“You might be tired of living, but I’m not!” The voice continued, getting louder as the driver came angrily closer. “Fucking idiot!” Out of the headlight glare now, I could see that he was a middle-aged guy in a blue boiler suit and cap. Maybe he’d finished his shift and was driving home to his wife and kids, and the last thing he wanted on the journey home was to run down some idiots on the slip road. I saw him reach the front of his car, and when we made eye contact he kept on coming. By the look of anger on his face, harsh words clearly weren’t going to be enough for what had obviously been a very hard day at work for him.

  “Bloody druggie! Is that what it is? Get stoned out of your bloody head then walk in front of my car, get yourself bloody well mangled, get my car buggered up, cost me an arm and a leg, get my licence taken off me, fuck my job up, get me in the papers…” It was all coming out non-stop.

  And suddenly the man in the boiler suit froze, then stumbled several steps back and put his hand on the hood of the car. His mouth was wide open and his eyes were bulging white under the harsh streetlight. He was staring, not at me, but behind me, to where the Shadow stood, silently waiting.

  “Oh my God,” he said in a small, strangled voice that was filled with fear. “Oh my good God. What… the hell… is that?” He staggered back, groping along the hood to the driver’s door and without taking his gaze from the Shadow. His terror was terrifying me, and I shrank in on myself as I saw my accompanying Shadow swell on the periphery of my vision. I hunched down and tried not to look as the boiler-suited man screamed like I’ve never heard a human being scream before.Then I heard the car door slam as he managed to get back into the vehicle.

  I heard that canvas sail begin flapping again, slow but getting faster as the car engine coughed and died, coughed and died. In his panic, the boiler-suited man was stalling the engine as he tried to reverse away. Now the flapping was so quick that it sounded like the whup-whup-whup of a helicopter rotor blade gathering speed and power as everything around me became a chaotic maelstrom of whirling images. I squeezed my eyes shut and became a child again—crying aloud when
there was an explosive crack like a gigantic bullwhip, a terrible impact of shattering glass and splintering metal exploding all around me. A deep-down part of me really—really—didn’t want to see anything, but when accompanying heat and light blasted out of that explosion, my eyes flew open again, and I saw…

  The car that had almost run me down was on its side, rolling away past me down Bottle Bank—over and over—in a shroud of billowing orange flame and black smoke. Each crashing impact crumpled and rent its bodywork, scattering debris, its doors flapping open and slamming shut on every turn. It was as if it was in the grip of a tornado that had snatched it up and flung it away.

  But there was no wind.

  The car flipped up from its side and spun on its rear wheels, the chassis beneath briefly exposed, and then there was a crump as it hit the stone buttress of the bridge on the other side of the road in a cloud of sparks and black smoke, before falling sideways again and spinning to a stop, upside down, in the middle of the road.

  I could see the glass-cobwebbed side window on the driver’s side.

  Even from here, I could see that the driver—the man in the boiler suit—was still alive. His dazed and blood-smeared face was pressed up against that cracked glass, hammering at the crazed pane with the flats of both bloodied hands and screaming a silent scream. He had lost his cap. His hair was lank and red.

  I winced and averted my head when the Shadow fell over me again. At all times, a part of me wanted to look up at the face of its owner while another part dreaded to know—and all I could do was look back and fix my gaze on the bloodied, terror-stricken driver. His fingers had found cracks in the spiderweb fractures and he was clawing a hole there, pressing his mouth to it and screaming for help. I could hear nothing over the roar, flap and billow of smoke and the purple-orange flare of petrol flame from the fractured tank on the other side of the car.

  “Elton,” said the Shadow, and it was as if a great shadow-arm had been laid paternally over my shoulder, even though I felt no physical touch. I could feel power emanating from its presence; it was like standing next to some dark industrial generator, thrumming with invisible and soul-shuddering energy.

  “How do you know my name?” The sound of my own voice surprised me. I thought I’d lost the ability to speak.

  “I know many things,” the voice continued. “And I know you.”

  “Thank you,” I said—and I knew that it was a ridiculous thing to say. It felt like the voice of a frightened child in the presence of an abusive parent. And then I heard myself say: “What’s your name?” The driver had clawed chunks out of the side window now, and got his face and mouth right up against the jagged aperture. When he screamed this time, I could hear it loud and clear above the other noise.

  “Help me, please! For God’s sake, help meeeeee!” I stared at his contorted face, and knew that the terrifying companion who towered over me in darkness was considering my question carefully before answering.

  Surely to God someone in the hotel complex across the way could hear the noise and come to help—come to get me out of this terrible nightmare?

  Purple-orange flame ignited inside the car behind the driver’s twisted and bloodstained face. His eyes widened so much that I thought they’d pop and burst. He could feel the heat but couldn’t turn to look. His mouth was moving, but no words were coming now.

  “Swan,” said the Shadow at last. “You can call me Swan.” And although I knew that it wasn’t his—its—name, I knew why he—it—had chosen the name.

  The flame in the car suddenly flared completely orange as it swamped the driver’s face and hands. His red hair crisped, frizzled and flared to nothing. His flesh melted and peeled like wax on a department store mannequin, lips curling in an involuntary sneer as they burned and crisped, revealing yellowed skull-teeth that were now much longer in his face than before—and I knew that he would have screamed again had he not swallowed that blossoming flame into his throat and lungs.The shock of it made him look like a man suffering from bad indigestion as he gulped and gasped, rather than a man burning alive—and it was the most horrifying and obscene thing I had ever seen in my life.

  “Be quiet now, Elton,” said Swan. “While I feed.” The driver’s eyes popped and flowed. His jaw kept working soundlessly in flame, as if repeating, Yeah, yeah, yeah…

  The car was filled with fire, black smoke gushing from the shattered windscreen and wheel rims. There was no human movement of any kind in there now.

  The Shadow—Swan—said: “Come…”

  And I knew that he had finished feeding—and oh God, God, God—I was afraid, as the darkness overwhelmed me again. I felt the same constricting embrace around my ribs and torso that had saved me from the river.

  Smoke, sparks, the whirling girders of the Tyne Bridge— another whirling maelstrom of wind and image and neon and the flapping sound of those great canvas sails that I knew must be wings—and we were flying again.

  Into the night.

  I didn’t know how this could be.

  It simply was.

  This time there was no sensation of having been transported and dumped back down on the ground in a different location. As that whirling maelstrom became too much for me to bear and I could feel my gorge rising— that point where fear and nausea become the same terrible thing—I was at the point of vomiting, when suddenly I was in an unknown alley down by the quayside. Flames were reflecting on warehouse rooftops a long way away, and I could hear the lonely wail of an unseen fire engine.

  I froze and looked down again.

  Was I safe?

  Had the thing that called itself Swan gone?

  There was no traffic in this alley and I had no idea what time it was other than it was late at night. I had the strange feeling of being on a stage. Was I in the real world? Or had I been transported to some other parallel, hellish dream existence? Was I some kind of ghost, some kind of player in a staged and dreadful dream world?

  I could feel the ice-cold water of the River Tyne on my body. My clothes were still soaked, and the wind was chill on my skin.

  And then the voice again said: “Come…” I wanted to fall to my knees, weeping and pleading.

  But the Shadow moved past me, down the alley towards the river—and I averted my eyes as before. Sight of the Gorgon would turn a human to stone; the sight of Swan would result in something much, much worse.

  I followed again.

  Head down, glancing at the swirl and movement of the cloak at Swan’s base, I could hear a noise; a strange, whimpering sound like a frightened child.

  Swan said, “Be quiet.” I realised that I had been the one making the noise.

  I was instantly silent.

  “Tell me, Elton,” Swan continued as he led and I followed. Head bowed, I was as eagerly attentive as a condemned prisoner awaiting pardon from an execution. “What is the sweetest meat? The meat of a lamb or the meat of a wolf?” I did not want to consider the connotations of the question, only give a response that would please.

  “The meat of a lamb?”

  “No, Elton.You are wrong.” I whimpered, but Swan seemed not to notice.

  “The meat of the wolf is sweeter. And I will tell you why.” We had taken a turn behind the darker buildings that screened the river from us but I could see neon lights reflecting ahead on the pavement, though I dared not look up ahead with Swan walking in front and leading the way.

  “The lamb suckles from its mother,” continued Swan in that low and soul-shuddering bass voice. “And the mother takes its sup from the earth and the things that grow upon the earth.And that is sweet, Elton.Yes, that can be sweet. But the—oh, the wolf. It preys upon the lamb and it hunts and kills and eats of the lamb’s meat and drinks of its blood. And the lamb’s terror is in its blood and in its meat. So can you not see, Elton, that the blood and the meat of the wolf—that which preys upon the lamb—is so much sweeter?” We had reached the building that had been throwing its neon reflection into the night.There was a refle
ction of a red neon sign in a puddle at my feet. It was upside down, and at first it looked like an alien language. Then I made sense of it: “Juniper Diner”.

  “Stop here,” said Swan, coming to a halt. I stopped.

  His shadow obscured the neon sign in the puddle, ripples flowing across the dirty water. At first I thought that he— it—was moving forward again. I started forward, and then came to an immediate halt.

  Swan hadn’t moved at all.

  But something was happening to his shadow.

  The ripples on the puddle increased, but there was no wind.When they stopped, I saw that something had happened to my captor. Even though I could never look at him properly, I could see in my peripheral vision—and in the water’s reflection—that Swan had changed. He had somehow shrunk and was now no longer much, much bigger than a man— now, my saviour and captor was the size of a normal man.

  “Take my hand,” he said, and I saw a shadow arm reflected in the puddle as it reached for me. At that moment, it was like being back on the Tyne Bridge, just at the moment when I’d found myself climbing up onto the stone escarpment and preparing to make my dive. My instinctive terror of Swan should have robbed me of all strength and will. At the very least, it seemed, I should be shrinking back from that shadow hand, falling to my knees in that neon-lit puddle with my very soul dissolving around me. But just as I’d climbed that stone barrier without will, I saw my arm rising without will towards the shadow hand, and a small whimpering thing inside that was me but also not me, accepted that when we touched, I must surely die.

  But I did not die.

  I was aware that my hand had been taken, was aware that it had been gripped but—how to explain—there was no physical sensation of contact at all. My hand was seized both externally and internally, but in a way that I can’t describe, so that when Swan moved forward, I was tugged along behind him as surely as if I had been on a leash. And like a fearful child, so deathly afraid of Swan’s wrath, I quickly made up the space between us, head down, so that I didn’t have to be tugged again.