Silence.
Carefully, he lowered his head until he was able to see beneath the bed. Flaming red eyes glowered at him from the darkness and a mouth, wet with saliva and lined with a hundred needle-like teeth, let forth an inhuman growl.
Moore let out a cry and began unloading shot after shot into the creature’s face. Its rasping laughter ripped through the apartment in between the crack of the gunshots. The pistol clicked empty, and the monster grinned. With a speed of movement untraceable to the human eye the creature grabbed Detective Moore by the face, its long, slender fingers penetrating his eyeballs and popping them like egg yolks. Blind and bleeding, Moore cried out again but the thing, relishing in his pain merely tightened its grip and dragged him beneath the bed.
Clarence Milton—Vampire Hunter
Clarence Milton didn’t just think he was a vampire hunter, he knew that he was. Where some discover their true calling as doctors, business-people or accountants, Clarence believed that he was born to slay the forces of darkness. Tonight was to be the night of his reckoning. It had been a long, hard battle to get to this point in his life, but finally he was prepared. Tonight he would kill his first vampire.
Of course his parents didn’t understand and nor did his peers, which made friendships hard to make. Relationships with the opposite sex were out of the question. Besides, girlfriends and a social life would take precious time away from his arduous training programme, time he could ill afford to spare.
It all started for Clarence after watching “The Son of Sin” for the umpteenth time: something in his gut stirred and for once it wasn’t down to the pizza he’d consumed. Vampire popularity was on the increase; they had permeated every aspect of modern culture, and he realised it was time to act. He had begun his fitness regime six months previously and had managed to get his weight down to what he considered to be an impressive 13 stone. At 5”7, this was the leanest he had looked since primary school. After spending countless years planning his assault upon the minions of the underworld, now was the time to set his schemes in motion.
***
Clarence surveyed the alley to the left of him and checked his watch.
1:23 am.
It was cold now, and his joints had begun to ache. 1:23 am and still no sign of the demon. He checked his equipment again and reminded himself of his mantra, that ‘to fail to plan was to plan to fail’. The wooden stakes were nestled beneath his belt exactly where he had put them. The heavy mallet sat in his right trouser pocket (he was uneasy with its casual placement and worried that it may fall out easily in a melee, but had little option to store it elsewhere). A large crucifix hung from his neck. He had acquired his entire inventory easily online and for a very reasonable price. It seemed that he wasn’t the only person who had finally decided to stand up to the armies of Lucifer. He silently contemplated whether his failure to procure Holy Water might come back to haunt him, but since the churches around town were locked after dusk he had resigned himself to make do. He checked his watch again.
1:25.
Clarence shook his head. His intel was wildly off, and he realised he’d have to research his targets more carefully in future. He was just about to pack his flask and head for home when the sounds of approaching footsteps caught his attention. Clarence crouched, and the shadows enveloped his pudgy frame, all but concealing him from sight. Walking towards him was a tall and painfully slim young man. He was dressed in tight black jeans and a dark looking leather jacket. Clarence smiled; his intel had been right all along! He waited until the man was almost upon him before springing from the shadows, thrusting his crucifix towards his target. “Back vile thing, back to the pits of Hell from whence you came!”
Startled, the man jumped backwards. After a moment of uneasy silence the man removed his headphones, his face a picture of confusion. “What the fuck mate? Wha’ did you say?”
Clarence swallowed hard; he hadn’t prepared to engage the foul creature in conversation, and much of his plan had relied upon the element of surprise, all of which was now gone. The situation had suddenly become very awkward. “I erm… I said get back evil one, back to the blazing pits of Hades”. Clarence thrust the crucifix towards the man again.
“Fuck off faggot,” replied the man swatting the cross from Clarence’s hand. It fell amidst some wheelie bins and disappeared.
“Y-you shouldn’t have been able to do that!” stammered Clarence. “Why isn’t your hand on fire?”
The man placed his headphones back over his ears. “Fuckin’ weirdos, they all come out at night!” he muttered before pushing past Clarence.
“You will regret that foul deity! For I am to condemn you eternal Hell!” shouted Clarence. He took the mallet from his pocket and with a brief run and jump, smashed it into the back of the man’s skull. The man crumpled to the ground before an energised Clarence. His heart was racing, and his mind was a whirl. “Think Clarence think,” he demanded of himself. “Think before the creature awakens!”
Clarence knelt by the man’s prone body and rolled him onto his back. He pushed the tight t-shirt that the man was wearing up above his nipples (recoiling in horror at the man’s smooth chest) and began to prod and poke between his ribs. Satisfied that he had found a suitable spot, he produced one of the handmade wooden stakes from his belt. He placed it neatly in the gap between two of the man’s upper ribs and raised his mallet into the air. At that moment, the man began to stir. “Owww,” he moaned. His eyes opened and fell upon the mallet that Clarence now held aloft. “What in the actual fu—!” Clarence brought the hammer crashing down on the top of the stake, which pierced the man’s flesh and sank into his torso. The man screamed. “Argh! What the—help me!” The second hit forced the stake further into the man’s chest, puncturing his lung. He began to cough and choke and as a river of blood started to flow from his mouth.
Clarence stood back to admire his handiwork, and the man looked back at him, choking and confused. After a time the coughing stopped, and all was still. Clarence regarded the corpse of the vampire. He wasn’t sure why it hadn’t yet reduced to ash. The alarm on his wristwatch broke the silence, reminding him that he was to return home before his mother returned from her shift at the laundry. “Ah well,” he muttered. “Shame I’ll miss this one dusting, perhaps I’ll be luckier next time!” He wiped the bloodied stake clean using the dead man’s jacket and located his missing crucifix. All in all the night had gone well. There had been a couple of tough lessons learnt, but all this would stand him in good stead for the following night’s hunt.
That Laughing Man
Jess never relished her trip to the Pleasure Beach as much as most others might. While most screamed in delight as they enjoyed themselves on the array of roller coasters, side shows and other such fairground frivolities, Jess’ attention was inevitably focused upon one of the park’s more unsettling attractions. At six foot three and sitting upon a lavish throne, The Laughing Man had been terrifying visitors to the theme park since 1935. Famed for his erratic movements, sinister smile and constant fits of hysterics, The Laughing Man leaves a lasting impression upon all who take the time out to visit him. He had spent the majority of his life sat in front of the old Funhouse, which had burnt down in the late nineties.
Fifteen years later on and the thing still gave Jess the creeps yet she could not keep away. Something about the attraction called to her, and she felt that there was more at work here than met the eye. After repeated (and expensive) trips to the theme park, she began to formulate a plan. The Laughing Man demanded further investigation.
By day, Jess was a nursery manager but by night she was a paranormal investigator who spent countless hours sat in the dark, waiting to catch evidence of supernatural activity. Granted, she had found little of interest yet but her enthusiasm never waned. Jess was convinced that the reason the attraction had such a profound effect on her was largely paranormal. In short, Jess believed that The Laughing Man was either A— a demon, B—a portal
to the other side or C—both of them.
Armed with a K2 meter and a spare set of keys (which she had acquired from one of the park’s technicians) Jess hid herself until the attraction closed for the evening.
Huddled against the cold and awaiting nightfall Jess was struck at how desolate and eerie the park had become now that the visitors of the day had emptied to seek their pleasures elsewhere. The silent skeletons of the many rollercoasters that criss-crossed the park gave the impression of it hiding within the remains of a fallen giant. Gulls circled overhead, and the wind lashed at the motionless carriages. What was once a place of joy and laughter now seemed cold and unwelcoming.
Satisfied that the park was deserted and that any security presence was likely gathered somewhere warm, Jess slipped out of her hiding place. She could see The Laughing Man in the distance, still and cloaked in the night. As she approached the glass, she unzipped her jacket and removed the K2 meter. A quick sweep of the exterior revealed nothing out of the ordinary. With a mounting sense of unease, she fished for the key. It danced between her fingers as she mustered the courage to remove it from her pocket and unlock The Laughing Man’s cabinet. The bitter north wind slapped at her cheeks and in one fluid movement the door was opened, and she was inside his lair.
Space was more limited than she’d anticipated, and the only place that she could make herself comfortable was sitting directly behind The Laughing Man with her back pressed against his throne. Though far from ideal (after all, she had wanted to face the demon eye to eye should he wake), she placed the K2 meter down and pulled her knees to her chest. Even sheltered away from the wind it was bitterly cold inside the cabin of The Laughing Man and to Jess it seemed to be getting colder by the second. She silently cursed her lack of foresight; a thermometer would have to be a useful tool to bring.
The wind rose and fell, creating a melody of discord as it wove its way between rollercoaster supports and empty alleyways. Darkness fell thick and for a long time all was still. Jess was almost asleep when the blinking red LEDs from her K2 meter caught her attention. She woke with a start and grabbed the small plastic device. Every light on the meter was lit. Her heart pounded as she realised she had never seen a reading this strong. Her excitement suddenly melted into a panic. What could be causing such a powerful reading? It was then that she saw it. It was peering around the edge of the throne with eyes that burned like hot coals. Jess screamed and lunged towards the door, but it would not open. The Laughing Man watched her feeble attempts at kicking the door open until she had seen as much as she could stand. He began to laugh.
And laugh.
And laugh.
That terrible laughing track reverberated around that tiny enclosed space. Jess covered her ears in a desperate bid to block out the noise. The motors beneath the throne whirred into life, and Jess was jolted and thrown around as The Laughing Man sprang into life. The Laughing Man laughed, and Jess began to cry.
Excerpt from The Lancashire Post—23/3/15
“Fire crews were called to the world famous ‘Pleasure Beach’ earlier yesterday morning when one of their members of staff reported an unusual find.
Jess Sanderson (33, Tyne and Wear) was found trapped inside the cabinet of the theme park’s notorious ‘Laughing Man.’ and was only freed once the fire brigade took their axes to the glass.
Park Spokesman Bill Highty said, “Well obviously it’s a shame that The Laughing Man was damaged in the incident, but I suppose the number one priority was to get the poor woman out. By all accounts, keys were useless, or so the brigade captain said anyway.”
Miss Sanderson was rushed to the hospital where she was treated for shock and was unavailable for comment.
Park Technician Tom Walley saw the whole episode unfold and had this to add. “Poor lass got dragged outta there whiter than I ever did see! I don’t know why anyone would want to spend a night in that thing. When I got in that morning, all I could hear was her screaming and that damned laughing! It ain't right I tell you; the thing wasn’t even plugged in!”
Six Feet
It is said that no two are ever alike. Differences in depth, width, consistency of the soil, even the lay of the land, all add characteristics that are all but indistinguishable to the naked eye. Patrick knew better; a well-dug grave was a labour of love that required a degree of craft few had the time nor the understanding to grasp. To Patrick, a well-dug grave was a work of art.
Having worked as a gravedigger for almost twenty-five years, Patrick had grown accustomed to the mourning process. He understood that a grieving family require a certain amount of assistance to be given. For instance, Patrick would layer the floor of each grave with a coating of sawdust. He reasoned that no-one wishes to see the cold, damp earth into which their beloved is to lie and that this small action helped to make the experience for the family a little less gruelling.
The work itself was poorly paid and unforgiving on his back, yet the pride that he took in his work ensured that he had remained at Wadworth Cemetery for most of his adult life. Patrick refused to use a backhoe, preferring to dig each grave by hand, much to the annoyance of his supervisor, yet he always managed to hit his quota and never left a mess. He argued that as graves needed to be reopened by hand, it made sense to dig them all the same way. He believed that no gravedigger should ever lose the touch and feel of the soil that you could only experience when using a shovel. Besides which, he had learned the hard way not to use a backhoe when he accidentally unearthed the decayed remains of the grave’s original resident while trying to make room for a second coffin.
As the sun sank behind the distant hills and the sky turned a dull grey, Patrick thought back over his long years spent tending the graveyard. He’d dug close to 1000 graves he reckoned, and he’d seen some sights. There was the time he returned to a grave he had begun to dig the day before only to find a disorientated and severely hungover reveller sleeping at the bottom. The cemetery then enforced the use of a temporary locked wooden shutter to be applied to each unfinished grave, making such incidents unlikely to occur again.
Though he never attended any of the funerals (as his job was to dig the grave and seal it after the crowd of mourners had dispersed) he felt a great sense of satisfaction from his efforts. His was a job few people took the time to understand, yet death is a constant, and the need for graves (and gravediggers) meant he had never suffered a period without work. He was also proud that none of his graves had ever resulted in a sticker. This occurs when the grave is too narrow or the coffin is lowered at the wrong angle and finds itself stuck halfway. He had heard many tales from other gravediggers where relatives of the deceased had climbed into the grave and attempted to dislodge the coffin with a swift kick.
Patrick closed the padlock that secured the door to the toolshed and quickly counted the graves that he had worked on that day. There were nine in total. Three lay open (but covered) ready for the following morning's services, and six had been refilled. Satisfied, he made his way towards the road, closing the twisted iron gates behind him. He heard the faint sound of a mobile phone alert coming from somewhere in the cemetery and allowed himself a brief smile. The latest burial fad was to be buried with a cell phone and it looked like Wadworth Cemetery had its first such burial. Experts argued that being able to send a heartfelt text to the recently deceased aided in the mourning process. Patrick didn’t buy into any such notion and doubted that anyone could call themselves an expert on the grieving process. Dead is dead, you live, you love, and you die—that was Patrick’s philosophy.
He decided to lock the gates—the first time in nearly a decade, as he had heard stories of youths opening fresh graves in search of valuables such as mobile phones. Better to be safe than sorry.
Dusk hung wet, and the clouds were layered in an array of red and orange. With his day done and the grounds secured, Patrick headed for home. It was only a mile or so to his modest cottage, and the country roads that he traversed were always quiet so he o
ften made the journey on foot. It was a mild night, a good night, one that could not possibly foretell the events that were to follow.
***
It was almost half past five by the time Patrick reached the cemetery, and the sun had already begun to peek above the horizon. No one would be up and about this far from town for another hour or so which meant that Patrick was the first person to see the devastation that had befallen the graveyard in his absence.
The graves had gone. All of them. He was stood on the edge of an enormous crater, the earth before him had collapsed in on itself and disappeared into the darkness, taking with it all who rested within its hallowed soil. Patrick had seen this before but only on a much smaller scale. He was often required to open an old grave to add the body of the deceased’s former partner. Rarely, he had dug down to the depth where he had expected to strike the wooden lid of the coffin only to be met with a small pocket of space. The coffin would not be present. Upon reporting this to his supervisor he was told that due to the multitude of mineshafts that littered the area, it was quite common for a coffin to slip into one of the shafts below if it was buried above a weakened section of tunnel. It had seemed a perfectly reasonable explanation at the time, and the unofficial protocol dictated that it was better not to burden the relatives of the deceased with such a trivial (but potentially upsetting matter). What lay before him now was not the result of underlying mining tunnels. It was almost as though the site had been hit by a meteor, yet there was no evidence of any impact or debris. The land before him had fallen in on itself.
Realising that this would quickly become the talk of the town, Patrick edged along the rim of the crater and inched his way around towards his workshed. The front of it had fallen into the hole, but the file that he needed was safely stowed away towards the back that remained above ground. Thumbing his way through pages of Health and Safety regulations he finally found the phone number he had been instructed to use upon the discovery of unusual activity within the graveyard.
Neverlight Page 10
