Horror Thriller Box Set 1

by Amy Cross

  "Keep working on the engine," Efferson said, trying to stay calm. "If either of you see Carlton, tell him to get his ass up to the bridge. I don't care what the hell's dragged him away. He's supposed to be here at all times." Walking through to the rear section of the bridge, he glanced around one final time, just to make sure that there was no sign of anyone else. "I'm not kidding," he added. "Carlton, if you're listening in on this frequency, get your -"

  And that's when he saw it.

  Over on the other side of the bridge, next to one of the aft windows, there was a patch of blood. Not a lot, but enough to instantly send a shiver down Efferson's spine as he slowly walked over to take a closer look. Smeared across the floor and partially up the wall, there was enough blood to make Efferson immediately realize that something serious had happened.

  Setting the radio on a nearby ledge, he knelt next to the patch of blood and then glanced along the corridor. Sure enough, a little further along, there was some more blood, as if something had been dragged away from the bridge. Efferson paused for a moment as the boat tilted slightly, and for a moment it was as if the entire vessel was creaking and groaning. Rain was still driving down and hitting the windows, and lightning was flashing on the horizon. Keeping his eyes fixed on the bloodstain at the far end of the corridor, Efferson tried to work out what, exactly, he should do next. On the one hand, it was clear that Carlton must have hurt himself. On the other hand, it wasn't clear how he could have cut himself so badly.

  Either way, Efferson realized he had no option but to go and take a look. After all, Claremont was busy in the engine room and Saffron was up on the top deck. The Demeter V ran with a tight crew of just four men, which was considered by head office to be the optimal number to maintain operational standards while maximizing efficiency. In reality, they were hopelessly undermanned, and Efferson couldn't afford to have one of his men out of action. The computer would handle any necessary course corrections for a few minutes, and given the amount of blood smeared across the wall and floor, it was clear that Carlton might be seriously hurt.

  "Hey!" Efferson called out, walking cautiously along the corridor. "You down here, man? You okay?"

  When he got to the next blood stain, he stopped and glanced back toward the bridge. For a moment, he considered the possibility that pirates might have managed to get on-board, but he quickly put such a crazy idea to the back of his mind. Pirates didn't operate in these waters, and even if they did, they wouldn't sneak onto the boat like this, especially not in such bad weather. The Demeter V was an old heap of junk, and any self-respecting pirate would turn his nose up at such a dismal haul.

  "Hey, Carlton!" Efferson called out. "Come on, man. You down here or what?"

  The boat lurched to the starboard side for a moment, forcing Efferson to reach out and hold onto a bulkhead.

  "Come on, we don't have time for this!" he shouted. "If you're hurt, we can patch you up. What did you do, anyway? You hit your head or something?"

  Silence. The only sound was a deep groan from somewhere far below, as the boat was pitched against yet another wave.

  "Fuck this," Efferson muttered, losing patience as he hurried along to the door that led through to the mess. Convinced that he'd find Carlton on one of the benches, either nursing a wound or simply passed out, he was surprised to see nothing more than another patch of blood, this time in the recognizable form of a hand-print. Stepping into the room, Efferson took a look around, wondering what the hell Carlton had been doing. Despite having worked in the merchant navy for more than a decade, Efferson had never experienced anything quite so unusual as a bleeding man who seemed to have completely disappeared.

  "Carlton!" he shouted, determined to track the missing man down. "Where -" Before he could finish, however, the boat lurched to the port side, sending Efferson tumbling to the floor and then sliding over to the far wall. As the vessel settled a little, he paused for a moment and waited until he'd got his balance back, and then he stood up and turned to go back out into the corridor.

  Stopping dead in his tracks, he saw that there was someone standing in the doorway, watching him. A man, except he seemed somehow bigger and darker than a man; with pale skin, almost paper-white, this strange figure had dark shadows under two dark eyes that stared at Efferson with menacing intent. As the boat continued to pitch and yaw, the figure seemed to have little trouble staying upright, even as Efferson found himself grabbing hold of the bulkhead in order to keep from falling over.

  "Who are you?" Efferson shouted at the intruder. "Where the hell did you come from?"

  There was no reply. The figure seemed interested only in staring at Efferson with the determined, steely expression of a hunter that had finally cornered its prey.

  "How did you get onto this boat?" Efferson asked, starting to panic a little. Having left his radio through in the main part of the bridge, he knew he had no way of contacting the rest of the crew. After a moment, as he saw that the stranger had a patch of blood smeared across his chin, Efferson found himself looking around the mess, hoping against hope that he might find something he could use as a weapon. Spotting an old water-pan on one of the counters, he considered making a move, although he was certain that the figure would try to stop him.

  The boat shifted again as a heavy wave smashed into the side, causing the lights to flicker.

  "Were you drifting?" Efferson asked. It was a long-shot, but it was the only explanation that many any sense. There was no other way this figure could have come on-board. He certainly hadn't been on the boat when they'd left Southampton; not only had Efferson and his crew completed a full inspection, but customs officials had checked the boat over before giving it permission to set sail. "Did you climb aboard from the storm?" he continued. "If you're hurt, we can give you food and water. Did you see a man somewhere around here? His name's Carlton. He's a member of my crew."

  The figure continued to stare darkly at him.

  "I can't help you if you won't tell me who you are," Efferson explained, trying to remain calm. "I'm not a mind-reader."

  "How much longer?" the figure asked suddenly, his voice sounding dark but also a little fragile.

  "Until what?"

  "We're going to Albania," the figure said.

  "That's right," Efferson replied. "We were supposed to be there first thing in the morning, but the storm has slowed us. We'll probably need another twenty-four to thirty-six hours." He waited for the figure to ask another question. "Is that where you're going?" he asked eventually. "Albania?"

  "Tarnovo," the figure said.

  "Tarnovo? I'm not sure -"

  "On the Yantra."

  Efferson stared at him for a moment. "The Yantra? That's a river, isn't it? In Bulgaria? Is that where you want to go?"

  "She's there."

  "She?"

  "The empire has fallen."

  "I don't -"

  "It's gone," the figure said. "The Ottomans too. It's all gone."

  "I don't know what you mean," Efferson said after a moment. "This ship is the Demeter V. We're a merchant vessel sailing from Southampton to Albania." He waited for some hint of recognition in the figure's eyes. "Southampton? In England?" Again, he waited. "My name is Stefan Efferson. I'm the captain of the vessel. Can you tell me your name?"

  The figure stared at him.

  "If you -"

  "Edgar," the figure said suddenly. "I'm the first and only son of the LeCompte family. My father was a baron, and we owned more than ten thousand peasants. Men like you. Worthless, replaceable runts."

  Efferson paused. "Okay..."

  "You're still on your feet," Edgar said. "Why have you not bowed before me?"

  "Well, I'm not sure..." Efferson said, trying to work out whether he should be amused or terrified. The stranger was clearly out of his mind, but that didn't necessarily mean he was dangerous. Then again, there was still the matter of Carlton's disappearance to resolve.

  "My sister is still alive," Edgar continued. "She's at our home
. I'm going there, to find her. The last time I saw her, she had me sealed in a grave. I feel it's time I returned the favor."

  "So you're going to Bulgaria?" Efferson asked, trying to buy some time while he came up with a plan.

  "I'll need transport from the port. The journey's long, and I'd prefer not to walk. There are vessels that travel fast. I've seen them. You must arrange passage for me. As a peasant, you have a duty to ensure that my journey is completed quickly and without discomfort. This is how the world works." He waited for a reply. "Do you not recognize your duty, peasant?"

  "Peasant?" Efferson glanced over at the water-pan again, figuring that this Edgar LeCompte individual seemed to be a little strange. In fact, he was clearly out of his mind. "Listen, I'm looking for someone. Maybe you've seen him. His name's Carlton. He's a member of my crew and I'm worried about him. There's blood. Is it his?" He waited for an answer. "Is it yours?" He waited again, aware that he needed to tread carefully in case this intruder turned out to be dangerous. "Why don't you tell me what happened?" he asked eventually. "From the start."

  "You must arrange passage for me," Edgar said. "Nothing else is important."

  "I'll see what I can do," Efferson replied, edging across the room. When he reached the door, however, he found that Edgar was showing no willingness to move out of the way. "First," Efferson continued, "I need to find my missing crewman. He might be injured. Do you understand? He's hurt. He was on the bridge when I left, but now I can't find him. He's not supposed to be away from his post, but there's blood on the floor."

  "He's dead," Edgar replied.

  "What?"

  "He's dead."

  Efferson paused. "What do you -"

  "He's dead," Edgar said again. "His remains are in the next room. There's no need for you to see. He's beyond help."

  "What happened?" Efferson asked, frantically trying to think of a way to get back through to the bridge. At least if he could reach the emergency cabinet, he could retrieve a flare-gun, which might prove to be some kind of weapon. It was becoming increasingly clear that this Edgar guy was a threat.

  "He died because I took his blood," Edgar replied, staring blankly at Efferson. "You should have chosen your crew more carefully. He was a weak and easy target, and he showed no bravery whatsoever. He tried to hide, and he screamed as he died. It was a pathetic sight. I told him to honor and respect me, but he refused to do so."

  "You killed him?" Efferson asked, feeling a sense of panic start to rise through his body.

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "He was the first one I found."

  "Okay," Efferson replied, forcing himself to stay calm, despite the fact that his heart was pounding. "We need to go through to the bridge. Do you want to wait here or do you want to come with me?"

  "Tell me about Madeleine," Edgar said.

  "I don't know who -"

  "My sister. Madeleine LeCompte. Tell me about her. Tell me everything you've heard. How far has her legend spread? Is she feared and loved around the world?"

  Efferson stared at him. "I don't know who you're talking about."

  "Has her fame not reached across the world?" Edgar asked with a frown. "Is her name not known by every man who has ever lived? My sister's beauty is world-renowned, and she has never been shy when it comes to using her looks to get what she wants. Surely every man on the planet must lust after her."

  "Is she a movie star?" Efferson asked, squeezing past Edgar and emerging in the corridor. "Wait here. I have to go and get something that might help." Without waiting for a reply, he turned and started walking along the corridor. Every step felt like a mile, and he knew it was insane to turn his back on this maniac, but he was consumed by one thought: he needed to get to the flare-gun so he could defend himself. No-one could survive a flare-gun to the chest.

  "My sister should be the most feared and reviled woman in the history of the planet," Edgar said, following Efferson along the corridor. "Her name should strike terror into the hearts of all men. If this is not the case, it can only mean that she has chosen to go into hiding. Either way, I must return to our ancestral home and learn the truth. It has been many years since she had me placed in a grave, and I am eager to resume our game. You will help me."

  "Huh," Efferson said, hurrying over to the cabinet by the door. Fumbling with the lock, he finally managed to get the cabinet open. Pulling out the flare-gun, he double-checked that it was loaded before turning to find Edgar standing just a few feet away. Efferson had never fire a flare-gun indoors before, but as the boat pitched against another wave, he felt certain that this was his only chance to disable the madman. He could worry about explaining the guy's sudden presence later; right now, he needed to secure the ship.

  "The world has changed," Edgar said calmly. "Would it surprise you to learn that my sister imprisoned me for more than three hundred years?"

  "Sounds kinda mean," Efferson said, poised to fire the flare-gun straight at Edgar if necessary. "Listen, I need to ask you to do something. I need you to go into the room next to the mess, and I need you to stay in there until we reach port. I'm going to close the door on you and keep you locked in there, purely as a precaution. If you didn't hurt Carlton, there's no -"

  "I killed him," Edgar said firmly, as if the matter was of no great importance.

  "Right," Efferson said, holding the flare-gun up and aiming it straight at Edgar's chest. "That's why I need to have you locked up for the rest of the voyage, okay? Can't have you wandering around the place, can we? You can give your side of the story when we get to port, but -"

  "What is that thing?" Edgar asked, staring at the flare-gun.

  "Doesn't matter right now. Just -"

  "Do I have to kill you?" Edgar asked, stepping toward Efferson.

  "Stay back!"

  Edgar smiled as he came closer.

  Realizing he had no choice, Efferson pulled the trigger. A bright white blast erupted from the end of the flare-gun with enough force to step him staggering back against the wall, as the blast hit Edgar square in the chest and exploded in a bright red flash of light and fire. Designed to be shot into the sky in order to attract the attention of passing ships, the flare was a massive force within the confines of the bridge, burning the air and forcing Efferson to shield his eyes as he tried to crawl to safety. After a few seconds, the brightness began to fade and Efferson found himself over by the far bulkhead, his clothes singed and scorched.

  Turning, he expected to see a bloody mess where Edgar had been standing. His intention had been to disable the intruder rather than kill him, but he felt there was no way the flare-gun would have caused anything other than fatal injuries. There would undoubtedly be a lot of blood, and Efferson was already trying to work out how the hell he was going to explain what happened, not only to the rest of the crew but also to the authorities when they reached Albania. The killing had been self-defense, but he was worried that others wouldn't see it that way.

  As the smoke cleared, however, Efferson was shocked to see Edgar stepping toward him, seemingly with no injuries at all. With the flare-gun now empty, all Efferson could do was stare up in horror as Edgar reached down and grabbed him by the collar. Finally, when they were face to face, Edgar opened his mouth to reveal his fangs.

  Chapter Five

  "Is everything okay?" Saffron shouted into the radio, keeping his eyes fixed on the bridge windows far below. He'd just seen a bright red flash, and now he was finding it impossible to get a reply from Efferson. "This is Saffron! What the hell just happened down there?"

  He waited for a reply, but all he could hear was static.

  "Carlton!" he shouted. "Claremont! Can anyone fucking hear me?"

  "What's wrong?" Claremont replied after a moment.

  "I just saw something," Saffron said, trying not to sound too panicked. "Like a flash of light on the bridge. Like a big red flash. It was huge."

  "I'm not on the bridge," Claremont said wearily. "I'm in the engine room."

&nbs
p; "No-one from the bridge is answering," Saffron said. "Do you think I should go down and check?"

  "If you like," Claremont replied. "I'm busy with the engine. I'm not leaving this room 'til I've got it sorted."

  "I'll go and look," Saffron said, setting the radio down as he fumbled in his pockets for the key that would unlock the chains. Just as he was about to free himself, however, the boat lurched to one side, tossing him against a railing and causing him to let go of the key. Reaching out, he succeeded only in knocking the radio, which followed the key over the edge and crashing down to the deck far below.

  "Damn it!" Saffron shouted, tugging at the chains and realizing he was trapped. He wouldn't be able to get free until one of the others came up and helped him.

  Moments later, he spotted a figure emerging from the bridge and climbing down onto the main part of the deck. Instantly, Saffron could tell that this figure wasn't Efferson, nor was it Carlton. It was someone else, moving slowly and defiantly through the darkness. Saffron's heart began to race as he realized there was definitely an intruder on-board, and that there was no way he could warn the others.

  Chapter Six

  "Damn thing!" Claremont shouted as the wrench slipped yet again, almost slicing a hole in the side of his hand. With the boat still pitching and tilting as it crashed through the waves, it was proving impossible for Claremont to get a good grip on the bolts that held the old vent panel in place. Consequently, he was unable to get into the canopy, which meant he couldn't remove the old valves, which meant the whole engine was rapidly eating itself and there was no way to keep it steady.

  "That's it," Claremont muttered, sitting back and staring at the mess of engine pieces. He was hoping for a moment of inspiration, some flash of realization that would help him realize how he could do the impossible, pull another miracle out of his ass, and get the damn thing running. Instead, all he saw was a pile of broken bits that stubbornly refused to work together. Having worked in the engine rooms of cargo ships for more than thirty years, he'd never come across an engine he couldn't fix, not until now. A lifetime of engineering genius, and finally he'd hit a brick wall.