Ten Open Graves: A Collection of Supernatural Horror

by David Wood

  The picture in his head had faded out and Tony found himself looking deep into those blood red eyes. And the creature had smiled; its bloodied fangs dripping a flow of red across its chin as it lowered its head once more to Ian’s neck. It was only after Tony found the energy to scream that the vampire stopped its feeding. Tony only looked away for a second...just long enough to register Ian’s body falling to the floor, but when he looked up the vampire had gone. A faint mist drifting in the corner of the room was the only sign that anything had been there and by the time the first footsteps sounded in the corridor behind him even that had dissipated.

  After that, he had ran, ran until it felt that hot razors were sawing in his chest, until his breath tore pain out of him with every stride, ran until he stood, crying still, at the back door of his parent’s house. He had opened the door, slowly, praying that the dog wouldn’t bark, and slipped into the house and up the stairs. His heart had pounded hard as he felt under his mattress, and it gave a sudden lurch when his fingers met only space. But then he pushed his hand in further and met the rough leather of the old book he’s found back in the ruined Hansen House.

  Then he ran again, not stopping until he got to the church.

  Now he felt the book, sitting against his skin under his shirt.

  He pressed his body against the wall and shivered as the first stars twinkled in the sky above him.

  Sandy patted his pocket, just to make sure that the money was still in place. He smiled as he remembered his conversation with the teacher. Maybe he would see Brian again; he was sure that the story about the house had some mileage left in it yet, and the teacher seemed to be taking it all in. But then again, people always only heard what they wanted, and the teacher was an easy mark.

  Good for a few more whiskeys yet anyway, he muttered to himself.

  It was really so easy. Mix a few bits of truth with some wild speculation and Bob’s your uncle. Already he was working on the next phase of the story...the ‘researchers’ in the house during the war finding something unspeakable.

  In reality it had only been an air raid shelter, but old Sandy had never let bald fact get in the way of a good story, and he wasn’t about to start now. Besides, the bit about the building of the house had been true enough, and the story about the poacher trapping the rabbit had been told to Sandy in the same pub only a couple of weeks ago. So Brian couldn’t complain too much if the rest was all in Sandy’s head, now could he?

  Since his return to the town Sandy had taken to walking all of his old paths, ticking them off one by one in a mental notebook as he found out how much, or how little, remained from his childhood.

  Before tonight he had been sorely disappointed. Most of his old haunts had either been demolished or “improved” out of all recognition. Even the house he had been born in had gone, replaced by a supermarket. The actual spot where he had been born was now in the middle of a bare expanse of tarmac...a fitting memorial for an anonymous life.

  Not that Sandy was complaining...that was the way he wanted it. Nobody knew his business, and nobody cared what he did, which lent him a certain freedom in these increasingly regimented times.

  The trip to the supermarket had stirred some memories though, which was why he’d made his way to the cemetery.

  His mother’s grave was neat and well-tended, as were all the graves around him. But there were no flowers; no touches to show that anyone still remembered her, still cared. Hot tears ran from the corner of Sandy’s eyes before he turned away towards the church.

  Being in the cemetery in the dark didn’t bother him. In all his travels, and despite all his stories, he had never yet had any proof of the existence of ghosts. And even if he had, he didn’t think that dead people had the power to hurt the living...not physically anyway.

  He was just about onto the path out of the cemetery when something caught his eye, a gray shape moving amongst the stones. He started to call out, but his breath caught in his throat as a pair of blood red eyes turned their stare on him and held him.

  And all around him the black rain fell.

  Margaret Brodie was lying in the bath wondering whether she wanted to get herself involved with another loner. Especially after the last time.

  The job in Finsburgh had been grabbed quickly after her last one had turned sour. The headmaster had taken a strong interest in her right from the start, making it plain that he wanted her. He was another loner, quiet and studious but she had found out the hard way that there was more to him. He liked to hit women. More to the point he liked to hit strong, self-sufficient women. Of course he’d denied it when she reported him, and it got to the stage where she either stayed and put up with him leering at her every day or resign.

  She resigned.

  What with that and the abrupt end to her most recent relationship she wasn’t sure if getting involved with another teacher was such a good idea. She decided as she got out of the bath that she liked him, she could be friends with him, but that was as far as it would go.

  After a cursory rub down with a small towel, she retired, damp but warm, to her favorite room.

  Margaret was proud of her house. She’d finally got enough money together for the deposit three months ago and, almost magically, the first place she’d gone to see turned out to be exactly what she was looking for.

  The place had once been a miner’s cottage but the previous occupant had given it a complete going over, turning it into a comfortable home but retaining its old fashioned charm.

  She was well aware that if the house had been nearer Glasgow the price could have been double what she paid for it so she thought herself very lucky. It was a little house on the outskirts of town. It sat back away from both the main street and the new bypass, with a small secluded garden and a view over the loch which, this early in the year, was often covered with a fine silvery mist which clung softly to the water like very fine silk.

  She loved to sit at her window and watch the herons fishing as the sun went down over the hills.

  As she sat once again in her large leather recliner staring out of the French windows across to the hills beyond she thought again of the night ahead. She still hadn’t made up her mind about Brian. She found him attractive in a little boy lost kind of way but was that enough to build a relationship on?

  She forced herself to stop thinking about it. Brian hadn’t mentioned anything about a long-term relationship had he? Best just to play it as it came. If Brian tried to get too serious she’d just have to let him down...gently of course.

  Thursday passed slowly for Brian. He awoke early but stayed in bed listening to the local radio station until eleven thirty when the mid-Atlantic accent of “The Country Show” forced him out of the bedroom and into the kitchen for coffee.

  He tried telephoning Tom Duncan to tell him about his talk with the Minister. But the prim and proper Miss White, the school receptionist, coolly informed him that Mr. Duncan had not been in and, if the headmaster had anything to do with it, Mr. Duncan would not be returning.

  She also said a few things about teachers who allow little boys to get hurt in school time and also those who spent their leisure time in pubs instead of healthy pursuits. She didn’t say which healthy pursuits she had in mind, but Brian was sure that, in Miss White’s case, they didn’t include anything remotely resembling sex. Unfortunately she had rung off before Brian could test his theory.

  Tonight’s date with Margaret would be the first time he’d taken a woman out since his split up with Fiona three years ago.

  He’d carried the emotional scars around with him for a long time, shunning female company and spending a lot of time with Tom Duncan in various bars, when Margaret had arrived at the school he had found himself attracted to her. Now he felt as excited as a teenager on his first date and didn’t know what to do with himself in the hours until seven o’clock.

  He thought about calling around for Margaret but knew that it would seem too pushy. He contented himself with fantasies about the
forthcoming evening, deciding where he wanted to eat, checking the paper for films in the area, and trying on most of the clothes in his old wardrobe.

  By four-thirty he got twitchy. By five-thirty he had checked his car out thoroughly, twice, changed his clothes three times and had three showers.

  By six o’clock he was driving in the direction of Margaret’s flat, cruising around her block twice before deciding on a quick pint to calm him down.

  At ten to seven he was knocked on Margaret’s door dressed in his neatest black corduroy trousers, white cotton shirt and black velvet jacket he had not worn since his final honors year dinner some years previously.

  She had dressed for the occasion, a sweatshirt proclaiming “FEED THE WORLD” and a pair of jeans seemingly comprised wholly of patches. Her first words were predictable.

  “For God’s sake, Brian, you are not taking me out in that old hulk are you?”

  The item in question was Brian’s 1970 Citroen 2CV, a relic from his first ever summer job.

  Although Brian had got very attached to it, most of his passengers never had a kind word.

  He pretended to be hurt.

  “You shouldn’t judge a car by its exterior. For all you know there could be a Formula one engine under that rusty body.”

  She laughed…a delicious thing that sent a hot thrill to the pit of Brian’s stomach.

  “A Formula One engine? Don’t make me laugh. I’ll be surprised if there aren’t pedals inside it.”

  This provoked mock shock from Brian.

  “Pedals! Pedals! What do you think I am, made of money? You’ll use the holes in the floor for your feet like everybody else. Anyway, do I get invited in for coffee or do we stand out here admiring my car all night?”

  “Coffee? Oh no, we don’t have time for that if we’re to get to the La Scala for eight.”

  “The La Scala?”

  Realization hit Brian slowly.

  “No Margaret, not James Bond, come on. I was hoping we could go to the Glasgow Film Theatre to see the old Jacques Tati movies.”

  Now it was her turn to be indignant.

  “Black and white? Dubbed or subtitled? I thought you were taking me out for a good time? After yesterday I think a little escapism would do me good, don’t you?”

  Tony had seen the old man come into the graveyard and at the first sight of him had pushed himself tighter against the wall, willing his clothes to turn the same color as the stones around him.

  But the old man seemed distracted, wandering aimlessly among the graves, muttering to himself and tugging at a long wispy beard. Tony almost laughed and felt he might be able to relax...just a little. And that was when the old man stiffened, as if hit by a sudden jolt of electricity.

  Suddenly everything was quiet and still. Even the dark shadows under the trees seemed to have fallen quiet.

  Away in the distance a train announced its arrival, but even the loud horn sounded distant and forlorn, its fading note echoing in his head long after the actual noise had passed.

  A light mist rolled over the gravestones and fell in ever growing pools on the grass, pools of silver in the moonlight. Goosebumps ran the length of Tony’s arms and the air around him got cold, then colder still.

  The old man seemed to be struggling, beads of sweat running down his cheeks, his leg muscles trembling violently, but Tony realized that he couldn’t move, rooted to the spot as a pair of blood red eyes shone out from the mist.

  There was a strangled squeal, and Tony didn’t know whether it had come from himself or the old man, but all thought was driven from his mind as the vampire came out of the silver fog.

  It was no longer frail, no longer a partially formed creature. Its body had filled and grown and its skin shone alabaster white as if lit with an inner glow. Long blonde hair flowed almost half way down its back and spread like a cape behind it. The moon glinted off fingernails that looked like burnished silver...razor sharp burnished silver. Its muscles stood out in sharp relief, pushing out against the skin in great knotted ropes and when it grinned its mouth was a gaping red maw filled with twin, three-inch fangs.

  It moved quickly, swift and fluid like a great cat, covering the ground to the old man in two heartbeats, lifting the small body as if he was no more than a doll and raising his face to its eyes.

  Something passed between them, something Tony couldn’t see, but he felt it all the same. Its head dropped to the old man’s throat and blood flowed darkly around the long fangs. The old man’s body relaxed then loosened even further, seeming to deflate.

  The vampire looked up just once, its eyes now almost black in the dim light, its mouth a steaming pool of gore. It laughed…a great booming thing that shook the branches of the surrounding trees.

  Tony saw the lust in its eyes as it bent once more to feed. He saw the fangs glint again and felt a scream begin to build inside his throat, a scream that he knew he wouldn’t be able to contain.

  From the corner of his eye he caught a movement in the shadows, the glimmer of silver. He didn’t have time to turn. There was a low whistle as a missile moved fast through the air. The vampire screamed as a crossbow bolt sprouted from its neck, sending a new spray of blood onto the already-red flesh.

  Something sailed past Tony...a fleeting glimpse of white that exploded as it hit the ground at the vampire’s feet and sent a cloud of powder into the air.

  The creature screamed again, louder this time and began to rub vigorously at its eyes, its arms and its nostrils, clawing at its flesh with those silver talons, tearing strips of flesh from its body in long bloodless ribbons. A smell wafted through the night, and Tony tasted the unmistakable tang of garlic at the back of his throat.

  Another bolt whistled across the clearing, taking the vampire in the shoulder just above its heart and bringing another scream, more of rage than of pain. The vampire tore the bolt from its flesh, the resultant hole welling immediately black with blood.

  From the bushes to the left of Tony a man appeared, striding into the clearing, his long black overcoat flapping around his ankles. He was tall and thin, his gray hair showing silver in the moon. His eyes were in deep shadow, but his mouth was set in a grimace of determination. In his right hand he held a small hunting crossbow, and in his left a small white package. He raised his left arm and threw the package at the vampire.

  Things happened fast after that. The vampire moved aside away from the missile, letting it explode over the body of the old man, moving almost faster than the eye could follow, but not fast enough to evade another crossbow bolt which embedded itself almost in the center of the creature’s chest.

  “I’m getting closer you bastard,” the stranger shouted. “Next time it’s the heart.”

  The vampire screamed again, so loud that Tony thought that his head might explode. It tore the new bolt from its flesh, hurling the missile back at the man in the overcoat. The man stepped aside almost nonchalantly, letting the bolt pass him by on the left-hand side, reloading the bow as he moved.

  “This one ought to do it,” he said, and a smile spread across his face, a firm, flat smile that held no humor in it at all. It was at that moment that Tony realized he knew this man…he had seen his picture plastered over television and newspapers. At this moment Tony didn’t care if he was a psychopath…he felt like cheering as the man took the fight to the vampire.

  Jim Kerr raised the bow and pulled the trigger, just as the creature fled, melting into the darkness so smoothly that it was as if it had never been there. The man sent another crossbow bolt into the bushes where the vampire had been and grunted in disgust when there was no answering cry of pain.

  He bent over the body of the old man, and Tony saw a small quiver of crossbow bolts slung under his arm like a holster, their razor sharp heads showing silver against the black of his shirt.

  He turned the old man over and probed his fingers into the holes at the old man’s throat. They came away dark and wet and he rubbed them clean against his overcoat, almost abse
ntmindedly as he raised the crossbow and sent a bolt straight into the old man’s body, right over the heart.

  Tony heard the thump as it went in, then a crack as the stranger took hold of the old man’s head and twisted, wrenching so hard that Tony believed that the head might be separated from the body.

  The scream in Tony’s throat demanded attention, but he managed to hold it back as the man did one last thing, bending and placing a bulb of garlic in the old man’s mouth before striding purposefully out of the clearing following the direction in which the vampire had disappeared.

  And now Tony could stand it no longer.

  His throat finally released its hold on the scream and out it came, ringing shrilly through the night, accompanied by hot heavy tears which washed salty into his mouth. As he tasted them he thought of blood, and the vampire’s teeth, and, finally, of the death of his friend Ian.

  When a heavy hand touched him on the shoulder he fell into a dead faint, but he had been more than half way there already.

  At the same time as Margaret and Brian were leaving for the cinema, Tom Duncan had ensconced himself on the high stool in the corner of the bar. He was already on his fourth pint of beer and one of the regulars had just bought him a whiskey. Currently he just looked at it, nursing it, wondering whether to give in to temptation or whether to leave it alone.

  In reality he had already made his mind up when it was put in front of him...a little bit of his mind already knew that...but he liked to fool himself that he still had a chance of sobriety. He muttered to himself, a fact that Dave the barman had noticed, but Tom looked like a man with a problem and Dave had seen many of them in his time.

  Fucking headmaster…I wasn’t drunk, only had one to keep me going…How was I to know that one of the kids would get killed…Am I supposed to watch them 24 hours a day…Might as well get pissed…No better not, Jessie wouldn’t like it…Well, maybe just a wee whiskey or two.

  He paused to take a large gulp of the liquid, feeling its heat coursing into his stomach.