Ten Open Graves: A Collection of Supernatural Horror

by David Wood

  Wouldn’t it make a great idea for a story he could use to extort whiskey from gullible schoolteachers?”

  Brian couldn’t take his eyes from the picture. The closer he looked, the more detail he could see...the talons gleaming on the fingernails, the flared nostrils, but most of all, the twin fangs dripping redly. He would have stood there for long minutes if Margaret hadn’t pulled at his arm.

  “Okay. I’m satisfied,” she said. “I’m about ready for that coffee now.”

  And as he turned toward her a cloud passed in front of the moon, throwing the room into deep, silent, darkness.

  Tony was left alone in the bedroom as the Minister went to answer the door.

  He knew that the police would ask him a lot of questions...not just about the old man, but about Ian as well. He had no idea what he would tell them.

  He knew they wouldn’t believe him.

  After Billy had gone away he had tried to tell people about the cellar under the house...about the sword and the skeleton and the book. But nobody believed him...it was just like when he told Granddad’s stories. All he got was derisive laughter or, worse, the pitying look from people who thought he was soft in the head.

  Policemen would be even worse. He’d seen them on the telly. They bullied and shouted at people to tell them things, and they never believed stories that involved ghosts or stuff...not until it was too late anyway. Anybody who watched films could tell you that.

  And his dad always said they were stupid. “Stupid fucking bastards” were his actual words, but then Tony didn’t put too much store by that one...almost everyone in the world was a stupid fucking bastard according to his dad, even Tony himself.

  He heard the Minister open the door downstairs and the noise of muffled voices filtered up the stairwell.

  His first instinct was to run. Run and hide. But after what he had seen that night he thought that a church, or next to a church, might be the safest place for him to be. He’d seen the films, read the comics...those things always hated churches, and crosses always killed them.

  Which was why he still sat on the edge of the bed when the door opened and two men came in followed by the Minister.

  They weren’t in uniform, but Tony knew they must be policemen. There was a stillness about them, a watchfulness as they seemed to soak in information. His suspicions were confirmed when the younger of the two took a notebook from his pocket.

  The other policeman looked at a picture in his hand then over at Tony. Nodding to himself he handed the picture to his colleague and moved forward towards the bed.

  “Hello, Tony. You’ve led us a merry dance. We’ve sent someone over to your house to get your mum...she’ll be here soon.”

  The policeman’s eyes were deep blue, and although he tried to smile, it never reached those eyes.

  He looked a little like ‘Colombo’, only his raincoat wasn’t as crumpled, and he didn’t smoke cigars. He looked big and soft and gentle, like a friendly dog, but there was something about him that made Tony keep quiet...something about those too blue eyes that seemed to pierce him with their stare.

  “We need you to tell us what happened tonight in the cemetery. We think there’s a very bad man out there, and we want to catch him.”

  So Tony told them...about the graveyard, about the old man, and about the vampire. He saw the look that the policeman gave to his colleague, that pitying, incredulous look. Tony got angry.

  He felt sick of running, sick of fear and most of all, sick of not being believed.

  “Maybe it wasn’t a vampire.” Collins said, his voice soft but his eyes hard. “Couldn’t you just think a wee bit harder?”

  Tony shook his head, and saw the look of disgust in the policeman’s face. So he told them about the stranger, about the garlic and the overcoat and the quiver of crossbow bolts, and that made them pay attention.

  He saw the looks that passed between the policemen, and he sensed the sudden quickening of interest.

  “This stranger,” the policeman asked, “You say he had a crossbow?”

  Tony nodded.

  “Can you describe him? Maybe tell us a wee bit more about him?”

  Tony tried, but all he could remember was the overcoat. That, and the black shirt. And even when the policeman produced a photograph, he still couldn’t be sure.

  “It looks like him...I think. But the man in the cemetery had gray hair...and I think he was thinner.”

  It seemed to be enough for the policeman though. They left Tony on the bed and took Bill Reid over to the doorway.

  Suddenly the policemen had become animated, and they spoke fast, with many arm movements and references to their notebooks. They spoke in whispers, and Tony was only able to pick up a few words. The ones that registered were ‘Jim Kerr’, ‘escaped’, ‘psychopath’ and ‘killer’.

  The older policeman turned back towards Tony, just as there was a loud buzz from his pocket. He took out a small radio.

  “Collins here,” he said. “What have you got for me?”

  Tony wasn’t able to hear the message properly, but when the look in the policeman’s changed from concentration to concern, then to pity, he knew that it was news he didn’t want to hear.

  Brian stood still, gripping Margaret’s hand and was grateful when she returned the grip with a firm squeeze.

  “Do you still think it’s romantic?” he asked, managing to keep any quaver out of his voice.

  “Or does the absence of moonlight spoil the moment for you?”

  He felt grateful for the answering giggle...it reminded him that outside of this dark room there was a real world that he was going to get back to...hopefully sooner rather than later.

  “Are you kidding?” she replied. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

  He felt rather than saw her turn towards him in the dark and her lips brushed against his. He pulled her close and kissed her hard. Their lips parted and her tongue slid hotly against his.

  It was a long seconds before they pulled apart. He kept hold of her, tight, and ran a hand through her hair, the other pressing hard against her back.

  “I’ve been wondering all night how I could get you alone in a dark room...I just didn’t think it would be this one.”

  She giggled into his neck and he felt soft lips nuzzle at his neck.

  “Well what are you going to do about it?” she said, nibbling at his right ear,

  “…remember...you promised me coffee first.”

  Brian was about to reply when a shriek rent the air, a high scream the like of which he’d never heard before. He felt Margaret stiffen in his arms and he held his breath, but the noise wasn’t repeated.

  “Just a crow,” he whispered, but he wasn’t convinced...the noise had been too human, too much like someone in pain and fear. He instinctively held Margaret closer. He immediately felt foolish. If it came to a fight she was probably stronger and fitter than he was, and if it came to flight, she was most definitely faster.

  Suddenly the room seemed smaller, the darker shadows creeping ever closer. It was way past time for them to leave.

  “I think I need that coffee too,” he said in a throaty whisper. “Do you remember the way we came in?”

  “No problem,” she said and began to move away from him. He made sure that he kept a firm grip of her hand as she turned away.

  Something in the room beyond them moved, a subtle change in the air, and there was a loud crash, a thud that reverberated around the house.

  “What the hell was that?” Margaret asked, but Brian thought he knew. It had been the front door...the front door that was now closed.

  “Just keep moving. Come on. That coffee will be getting cold,” he said with more bravado than he felt.

  They inched across the floor in the blackness, each straining for the slightest sound. But the house was quiet and dead, and the night remained dark.

  The hackles at the back of Brian’s neck rose and a chill settled in his bones. He could feel the red, star
ing eyes in the picture behind them bore into his back, and he thought that, if he turned, he would see them blazing like twin rubies in the darkness.

  But he refused to look back, concentrating on the hot hand that he held and the shuffle of his feet across the tiles.

  They had reached what must be close to the center of the pattern when the cloud moved across the moon and the room once more became bathed in silver.

  They were no longer alone.

  At first Brian thought he had been turned around and was once more looking at the portrait, but then the figure moved and the shadows firmed and the illusion was broken.

  Soft moonlight filled the room, lighting up the figure that stood between them and the corridor to the hall beyond.

  Whoever had done the painting, it seemed it had been done from life.

  It stood in the dead center of the patterned mosaic, less than six feet from Brian. Its feet were standing in the coils of the mosaic serpent, and the dancing shadows brought the mosaic to life…great bands of muscles rippling and pulsing with each wisp of cloud that passed the moon…the spirals of the serpent coiling inwards and upwards, focusing attention on its center...the great head that lay at the feet of the shining white form that basked in the moonlight.

  The creature was standing side on to them, its rib cage heaving with each, gasping breath, each bone clearly delineated, each muscle straining. A gaping hole pulsed in its chest, just above the heart, and streams of sweat ran across its torso. No, not sweat, Brian realized with a shudder.

  The heavy fluid that ran from the creature’s pores shone black in the moonlight, but the sudden coppery tang in the air told Brian exactly what it was.

  It stretched out its arms and breathed deep, as if soaking up the moonlight. And with each breath it seemed to swell ever larger, ever whiter as the hole in its chest shrank and the ravaged flesh healed itself from within, like a film running backward.

  Bands of muscle stood out proud from the skin, like a pumped up weightlifter after a session in the gym, and Brian had a sudden vision of Margaret’s ex-boyfriend, turning up to beat the shit out of him. But he knew that wasn’t right. Whatever this thing was, he doubted that weight lifting was among its pastimes.

  Its skin shone silver in the moonlight, but it was the eyes that held Brian transfixed, those same blood red, blazing eyes that captured him and drew him in, down and down, deep into a place from where he had no desire to escape.

  Somewhere behind him he felt Margaret tugging at his arm, but that was happening in a dream, somewhere long ago and far away.

  His vision swam and his legs suddenly weakened...so much so that he needed to push himself upright and straighten his back. There was a mist in front of his eyes, a gray veil that only parted when he shook his head, hard.

  He was in a crowded bar, the noise of conversation and fruit machines and clinking glasses so familiar that he almost wept in relief. The jukebox kicked in with Blue Oyster Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper”, but it wasn’t loud enough to disturb the happy ambiance of the busy bar.

  He reached into his pocket and took out a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches. He shuffled one out and lit it hungrily, dragging the smoke deep into his lungs and letting it out slowly through his nostrils.

  He realized that he knew this place. It was the old bowling club, the place where he had, far too infrequently, come for a few drinks with his father. He heard a well-remembered laugh and turned in anticipation.

  His father was standing in front of him, dressed as Brian had last seen him.

  “Saturday best for drinking, Sunday best for repenting.” He had always said as he tied his tie before going out to the pub on a Saturday night, and tonight it was Saturday best...his tweed jacket, flannels and brogues. He had a broad smile on his face and his eyes twinkled in good humor. He held a pint of beer in either hand, the left one being half-empty. He gestured, offering the other one to Brian, and Brian moved forward to accept.

  He felt a harder tug to his left but brushed it away brusquely. Someone, a woman, called his name, twice, but his dad wanted to buy him a beer, and he wasn’t about to turn down the offer...he’d refused the last time and never got another chance.

  He reached forward to accept the drink and as his fingertips touched the cold wetness of the glass he felt tears spring unbidden from his eyes.

  When the cloud cleared from over the moon Margaret was in mid-step, her left foot searching for the ground in front of her. She looked down and realized that she could see the patterned mosaic at her feet.

  Beside her Brian gasped, a single sharp intake of breath, causing her to look up.

  Something was standing in the center of the mosaic, something that seemed to shift and melt in the shadows, one second standing like a man, and the next crouched on all fours like a great dog. The only thing that didn’t change was the eyes, twin points of fire that flared and dimmed, flared and dimmed in time with the wisps of cloud that floated across the moon.

  Brian’s mouth was hanging open; his eyes fixed on the center of the pattern, his grip on her hand limp and flaccid. She pulled at him, just once, but he resisted, moving towards the shifting shadows like a man in a dream.

  The red eyes flared suddenly brighter as Brian took one step, then another, moving slowly and deliberately like a man in a dream.

  Margaret grabbed at his arm and pulled, hard, shouting his name, then again when there was no response, but Brian lashed out with his right arm, the expression on his face never changing, striking her across the chest and sending her sprawling, winded, to the floor.

  Gasping for breath she looked up at Brian as he stretched out a hand towards the swirling shade in front of him. She saw tears glisten like a silver drops of dew in the corners of his eyes as the shadows swelled and darkened and spread over him.

  She had the sudden impression of a pair of long skeletal arms closing behind Brian’s back. A wisp of cloud raced across the moon and she blinked. When she looked again she was alone in the room, just her and the moonlight and a single drop of black liquid falling slowly to the floor to splash on the head of the coiled serpent.

  She screamed, then clamped her hand across her mouth as the echoes wailed around her in a mocking frenzy. Hysteria grew inside her, her limbs trembling, her chest heaving, and when a cloud chased across the moon and the shadows came for her she was up off the floor and heading for the corridor faster than she thought possible.

  She mistimed her angle and hit the corner hard, feeling a sudden flare of pain in her left shoulder. She screamed again, oblivious this time to the answering echoes.

  The burst of adrenaline kept her going long enough to get her into the hallway and up to the door before shock started to hit her and her legs threatened to give way. She grabbed at the massive door handle and screamed again as it refused to give. She almost cried in relief as it began to swing open, three, six inches, then a full foot.

  Unable to wait any longer she squeezed through the gap, wincing as her bruised shoulder brushed hard against the unyielding wood.

  Cold air hit her like a hammer as she emerged into the night, making it suddenly difficult to breathe. Her chest tightened and what felt like someone else’s tongue blocked her throat. She put her hands on her hips and tried for calm…tried to find within herself some way to deal with what had just happened.

  The old door crashed shut behind her. Without a backward glance she was off and away, feet slamming hard against the gravel as she ran down the drive, heading for the distant outline of Brian’s car.

  As she ran she tried to rationalize the situation. Part of her believed that Brian had planned it all along, that it had been a set up from the start, an extended practical joke at her expense. But that didn’t slow her running, and it didn’t stop the tears from flowing.

  She had almost reached the iron gate before she finally began to slow, her breath coming hot and ragged, the pain in her shoulder burning like hot coals under her thin jacket.

  As sh
e got closer she saw that there was someone standing on the far side of the car, and she almost cried with relief before a flash of anger hit her like a thunderbolt.

  “You bastard,” she shouted, clenching her fists and striding forward. “What the hell were you playing at...you frightened the hell out of me back there. You….”

  Her voice trailed away as she realized that the figure was too small, too fat to be the biology teacher. And it was several seconds after that before she recognized the crumpled figure of Tom Duncan.

  Relief washed through her in a wave and she felt the tension of the last ten minutes ebb away...only slightly, but enough to let her think clearly for the first time.

  “God I’m glad to see you,” she said. “You’ve got to help me...Brian’s up at the house and…”

  She realized that she didn’t know what she would say next. She couldn’t tell Tom that a black shadow had got his friend and disappeared with him. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  Tom Duncan moved round from the far side of the car and a shaft of moonlight suddenly lit him up.

  “Christ Tom, what’s happened to you?”

  The man’s eyes were red, as if he had been crying for a long time, and his face held such a deep despair that her heart lurched in sympathy.

  She moved forward, whether to help him or comfort him she was not sure.

  “Jessie?” he said, “Is that you?”

  He came forward, arms outstretched, and Margaret let him come into her embrace. As he got closer she could smell the unmistakable taint of whiskey. Whether it was from his breath or from his clothes she couldn’t tell, but either way she knew that the older teacher had fallen off the wagon again.

  “Oh Tom,” she said, holding him tighter and bringing him closer into her arms. The dry hairs of his mustache tickled at her neck and she almost giggled. He began to squirm in her grasp and she felt his erection pushing at her through his trousers.

  “Shit,” she said and pushed him away.

  His head came up and he gave her a dead smile. Yellow, rotting fangs slid bloodily over his lower lip.