Ten Open Graves: A Collection of Supernatural Horror

by David Wood

  But not tonight. Tonight his body needed rest.

  He dragged the old man off the drive and managed to get him hidden under a rhododendron.

  Not a great job, but enough to keep the body out of the way for a couple of days, and that would be long enough, one way or another.

  Before he covered the body up he searched the pockets for car keys, but there were none there. He checked the car itself but again the keys were missing.

  There was a mystery here, but it was one that his tired brain refused to consider. He slid like a shadow into the trees, heading deep into the foliage until he found a small clearing, just big enough for him to lie down in.

  From his pocket he took out a large bag of white powder which he released in a rough circle on the dry ground. He stepped into the circle, pulled his coat around him and lay down, clutching the crossbow tight to his chest.

  In less than two minutes he was fast asleep.

  Chapter 5

  Margaret had been walking for a long time with little idea as to where she was going.

  All she knew was that she got ever further from that house, further from the nightmare.

  She had shut off the part of her mind that dealt with the events of the past few hours… thinking only of putting one foot in front of the other...anything else was dangerous.

  Several times already memories had threatened to bubble to the front of her mind, bringing with them a strong trembling verging on hysteria. Each time she had managed to push them back, to clear her mind, but she knew that she would have to face it some time.

  Just not yet, she thought, Dear Lord, just not yet.

  Her left hand was wrapped tight inside the folds of her T-shirt that was rapidly turning a dark red, almost black in the moonlight. She had only looked at it once, then put it away...out of sight and out of mind deep in the place she wasn’t going to think about till later.

  Overhead something passed in front of the moon, and she flinched, expecting attack, but there was only the forlorn caw of a night crow, then everything was quiet again.

  The road stretched out before her and she knew she should be thankful for the moonlight that showed her the way. But she knew that it merely served to light her up, her white skin shining like a beacon in the night, advertising her presence. She hunched herself into a crouch, trying to make herself smaller, less conspicuous.

  Her whole body felt like one massive bruise, as if she’d gone fifteen rounds with a heavyweight boxer, and she felt more tired than she had ever felt in her life...the same tiredness that came from a heavy bout of exercising but without the accompanying feel good factor.

  In fact, there was a considerable ‘feel-bad’ factor. She giggled to herself at the thought, then stifled it with her good hand.

  Going mad old girl, she told herself.

  “Got to hold it together,” she muttered, under her breath this time. “Knew it was a bad idea to go for a curry.”

  She told her left leg to move and, by some small miracle it obeyed her. Suddenly she thought of school, of the first cup of coffee of the day, and of the pleasure in seeing a group of kids be successful at something you had taught them. She could see all those young, keen faces before her and she held on to it, let it lead her onwards.

  She knew that she wouldn’t be on the road forever...the towns in the area just weren’t that far apart. It was just a matter of walking. Walking and watching.

  She was going up a hill...had been ascending for several minutes before she noticed the extra pressure on her calves. And when she crested the rise, it was several seconds before her brain processed the information that her eyes were sending.

  The town lay spread out beneath her, streetlights twinkling like fireflies in the night. In her confused state she couldn’t even tell which town it was, but a town meant people, it meant doors that could be locked and beds that would be safe.

  She almost broke into a run as she started down the hill, but her legs wouldn’t let her move any faster than a sedate walk.

  When she arrived at the first streetlight it felt like she had crossed a barrier back into the real world, and when she passed the first house she began to feel a small fragment of security and safety.

  She realized that she knew where she was, that she was back in her hometown, on the road that came down off the moor.

  Somewhere in her wanderings she had managed to get back onto the main road, but she had no memory of taking a turning...it was somewhere back in the spot that she tried very hard not to remember.

  What she did know was that her home was still over two miles away, almost exactly at the farthest point in town from here. She didn’t think she would be able to make it, and, as if to confirm the fact, her legs buckled, threatening to send her tumbling once more. It was only force of will that kept her standing upright.

  She called out for help, but the sound that emitted from her mouth was little more than a moan, and even a second attempt would scarcely be heard more than ten yards away. The houses on either side of her stayed dark, no lights showing.

  Her body was crying out for sleep, and her brain was nearly ready to give in to the urge. She needed help, and she needed it quick...she wasn’t tired enough not to realize that.

  Off to her left she caught a flicker of movement. Turning, she could see a light still burning in a room and she recognized the bulky shadow of the church and the smaller shape of the Manse beside it.

  She dredged up a mental picture of Bill Reid. She had known the man for some time, and he had seemed pleasant enough in a scruffy, religious kind of way. She also knew of his fondness for staying up till all hours, unable to let go of a good book until he had seen the characters through to their fate. Tonight must be just such a night.

  Besides, a churchman might be just what she needed; he might be the only person who might believe her story.

  She willed her tired limbs into action and headed towards the beckoning light like a boat towards the harbor lights of home.

  Tony sat in the too large chair and watched the Minister read the book.

  He could remember it all, as if it had been permanently etched in his mind, even though he had only read it once, one night not long after Billy had gone away.

  He’d taken it out from under his bed, gingerly, almost reverentially, and once he’d read the first page he hadn’t stopped until he’d reached the last. A lot of the words were too big or too strange for him, but the pictures they produced in his mind told the story true enough.

  He could have told the Minister about ‘The Redeemer’. How she came from the dried blood of the Eriah the first made. How she had rebuilt the great temple, and how she had reunited the disparate bloodlines, bringing together the Eldren, and the Unforgiven, and the blood children into one tribe who lived together as one in the frozen wastelands of the north. He could have told the Minister about how she gave her soul to Shoa in return for the release of her people, but he let the Minister read. He would let the Minister see for himself the obvious truth in the stories told.

  And after the Minister had finished reading, then maybe they could talk, and maybe then

  Tony would be believed.

  “Mr. Reid?” he said. “Can I have some more soup?”

  The man didn’t look up from the book, merely waved with a hand. “Yes. It’s over there in the cupboard.”

  Tony climbed down from the chair and crossed to the cupboard. The Minister didn’t move from his position as Tony passed. Tony noticed that he was a third of the way through the book...still back in the time before the Romans.

  The real shocks for the Minister still lay ahead, and Tony wanted to make sure that he had more food before then...the Minister was likely to go ballistic somewhere just after the halfway mark.

  He managed to cope with the tin opener but the cooker proved a test of his ingenuity...there were just too many buttons and dials. He turned back to ask the Minister, but the man was deeply engrossed, his shoulders hunched and tight as he leaned even
closer to the pages.

  Tony could only get the cooker working by switching on each ring in turn, checking whether it was warming up by holding his hand above it.

  The soup came out of the can slowly, oozing thickly like ketchup from a new bottle...or blood from a new wound. He almost gagged but managed to fight down the reflex. Not that the Minister would have noticed...he was lost in the book, deep in a world where God was defined by his relationship, not with man, but with creatures of the night, pale vampires who looked on men the same way that men looked at cattle.

  The big clock above the fireplace chimed, once, then again, almost causing Tony to spill the soup. He waited, but there was no more.

  Two o’clock in the morning! Tony thought with some wonderment. Such a time barely existed in his young mind. It should be a time for comforting sleep in a warm bed, not standing, unwashed and afraid, in a strange kitchen. He wondered just how long it would be before he felt safe again.

  The soup was warming up slowly and Tony poured it into his bowl before it was properly heated through. That didn’t bother him though...it went down almost as quickly as the last bowl.

  He didn’t look at the Minister until all the soup was finished, but when he did he saw that the man’s face was nearly as red as the inside of the soup bowl.

  “Sacrilege,” he whispered. “I don’t believe a word of it.”

  Tony wasn’t sure about that...he could see the doubt in the man’s eyes. Maybe that was what made the Minister so angry, but whatever it was, it caused him to throw the book across the room.

  There was a loud snap as the spine cracked and the old pages spilled out in a fan. And there among them, just protruding from a new rip in the cover, several folded pieces of aged, yellow paper.

  Tony reached them first, and when he unfolded the top sheet he found it was covered in strange diagrams...circles and stars encasing thick, black hieroglyphs. And on the reverse, in a flowing, stylish script, a verse, but most of it in a language he couldn’t understand.

  He read it out loud, but struggled so much over some of the words that the Minister took the paper from him and continued reading.

  Powers of the Kingdom, be ye under my left foot and in my right hand,

  Glory and Eternity, take me by the two shoulders and direct me in the paths of victory.

  Mercy and Justice be ye the equilibrium and splendor of my life.

  Intelligence and wisdom crown me.

  Spirits of Malcuth lead me betwixt the two pillars upon which rests the edifice of the temple.

  Angels of Nestah and Hod strengthen me upon the cubic stone of Jesod.

  Oh Gedulael, Oh Gedulael, Oh Tiphereth, Binael, be thou my love.

  Ruach Hochmael be thou my light. Be that which thou art and thou shalt be. Oh Jethriel Tschim assist me in the name of Amro, be my strength in the name of Yoriah.

  Oh Beni-Elohim, be my brethren in the name of the Redeemer and by the power of Zebaoth.

  Elohim do battle for me in the name of Rokar.

  Malachim protect me in the name of Jod He Vau He.

  Seraphim cleanse me in the name of Elvoih.

  Give me the strength to cast down this the servant of thine enemy.

  “What does it mean?” Tony asked, but the Minister shook his head.

  “I don’t know. It seems to be some sort of exorcism...and some of the words are definitely Hebrew, but it’s been mixed up with the abominations mentioned in that book of yours. Here,” he said, thrusting the papers at Tony. “Take them back. I want nothing to do with it.”

  Tony took the papers and managed to return them to their original place in the cover of the book. On his hands and knees he collected all the spilled pages together and slid them back inside the spine, but their order was anybody’s guess.

  “The vampire wants it,” Tony said, slipping the book between his trousers and his body. “It must mean something.”

  Bill Reid was angry, but Tony had noticed it too late.

  “Would you shut up about the vampire? There’s no such thing. It’s all just the ravings of a demented soul,” the Minister said, almost to himself, “That’s all it can be.”

  The man looked at the clock and winced visibly.

  “It looks like we’re not going to get much sleep tonight. Are you tired?”

  Tony shook his head. In truth he felt dog weary, but he wouldn’t allow himself to sleep...not here in a strange house.

  “I don’t suppose you can play chess?” Bill asked, and was surprised when the boy nodded in response.

  Five minutes later they were seated in Bill’s study hunched over the black and white pieces and Bill was fast discovering that Tony did more than just play chess. The boy was a natural. He didn’t know the standard openings, but he could counter in imaginative ways and soon the Minister was fighting, not for a win, but for survival.

  They were both so engrossed in the game that they almost didn’t respond to the ringing of the front door bell. It was only when the ringing turned to a loud, insistent knocking that the Minister rose out of his chair.

  Margaret wasn’t going to make it as far as the church. Her legs were as dead as old wood, and it felt like her shoes had been filled with lead. Her eyesight was blurred and hazy, unable to distinguish between lampposts and trees.

  Her injured hand throbbed in time with her heartbeat, a beat that was getting faster and louder in her ears.

  She made it as far as the gate to the churchyard and just managed to push it open before it swung away from her, yanking her balance with it and sending her tumbling to the ground.

  Lying down seemed like such a natural thing to do and a welcome grayness seeped into her brain...the promise of sleep.

  She felt a hand tug at her shoulder and she got turned round to look up into the concerned face of a young policeman. The face was only there for a second, and for a time she felt unsure whether she dreamt it. The grayness took another step forward and her head sank once more to the ground, but she got disturbed by two pairs of hands roughly lifting her to her feet. She tried to fight them off, but could only produce small, ineffectual flutters with her hands. She was led, almost frog-marched, along the driveway and into the Manse.

  The sudden brightness of the light lanced into her eyes, forcing her to clamp them tightly shut. In the far distance someone was speaking to her, and she knew that she should recognize the voice, but the effort was just too much. She let herself be led to a chair and sank deeply into its cushions. Just as sleep finally took her she heard someone mention a doctor, but by then her body had shut itself down and there were only the dreams to remind her that she was still alive.

  Tony stood around feeling lost and useless as the Minister and the policeman brought the woman into the study.

  She looked disheveled, her jacket ripped and torn; her jeans caked in mud and a red splash of blood on her T-shirt. Her eyes were wild, seeming too large for her head, and her hair was tangled and wild. It took him several seconds to recognize her and when he did he let out a small gasp.

  “Miss Brodie?” he said, and the Minister beside him jumped with a start as if jolted by electricity.

  The man leaned forward over the woman and parted her hair from her face.

  “Margaret?” he asked, as if in wonderment. “What in heaven has happened to you?”

  The teacher didn’t reply, her eyes closing and her head dropping to her chest.

  “I’d better phone for a doctor,” the young policeman said.

  The Minister waved him away and leaned closer to the teacher.

  “Margaret,” he said, more insistent this time, but Tony could see that the teacher was already asleep.

  He suddenly felt more frightened than ever. Teachers were part of the rational, sane world that he still yearned to get back to. Teachers did not turn up at three in the morning covered in mud and blood looking half dead.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off her, even when the policeman came back into the room.

  “I’ve
called for the doctor,” he said. “His wife wasn’t best pleased. He’s not been home all night, but she said that she would tell him to call in… if he gets in touch.”

  The policeman looked uncomfortable.

  “I’d better be getting back outside sir...Mr. Collins was most insistent that I shouldn’t leave my post.”

  “Yes,” the Minister said. “I’ll look after her until the doctor gets here. It looks like we’ve become collectors of lost souls tonight.”

  Tony watched as the Minister gently prized Margaret’s hand away from her bloody T-shirt, and gasped when he saw the extent of the wounds that had been inflicted.

  “It looks like she’s been attacked by a dog.” But Tony wasn’t so sure...he’d seen grooves like that before...in Ian’s neck...just after the vampire had got him.

  “We can’t wait for the doctor. Stay and watch her,” the Minister said to Tony. “I’ll get something to clean up that hand.”

  Tony was left in the room with the sleeping teacher.

  He backed himself away from her, slowly. She could wake up any minute...and she might not wake up human. She looked pale, and he thought that she might have lost a lot of blood...like something might have been feeding on her.

  He looked around, looking for something that he might use as a weapon, and his eyes lit on a fireside poker. It wasn’t quite a stake, but he thought he would be able to use it as one if it came down to it.

  He had just lifted the poker into his hand when the Minister returned carrying a bowl of water.

  “Quite the little protector eh?” the Minister said gesturing towards the poker. “Don’t worry...nothing will harm her here.”

  “She might be a vampire,” Tony suddenly said, almost shouting.

  “Now listen. I’ve had enough of this talk of vampires. We’ve got a sick woman here, and we need to help her. Now come over here and hold this bowl.”

  Tony shook his head, but the Minister looked at him with such sadness in his eyes that he put the poker down and moved forward, gingerly at first, then with more confidence when the woman showed no sign of waking up.