Ten Open Graves: A Collection of Supernatural Horror

by David Wood

  There was only one shop open...the butchers. Margaret was about to go in, eager to speak to someone...anyone, but Tony held her back and pointed through the window.

  The butcher stood at the counter holding a slice of raw red dripping meat in his hands. He fondled it as if it was a small cat, cradling it to his chest and making cooing noises, comforting it like you would a baby.

  Then he raised it to his mouth and bit off a large chunk, chewing it hungrily, a scrap of meat hanging from the side of his mouth. He swallowed, and the pleasure in his eyes was so intense that Margaret thought she knew what he would look like when having an orgasm.

  Then he started to suck the meat, his tongue running over the soft flesh. Saliva dripped from the corners of his lips, a thin drool that was tinged with red, and Margaret couldn’t watch any more. She let Tony lead her away.

  None of the other people on the street showed the slightest interest in them. They walked like sleepwalkers, eyes staring sightlessly straight ahead, and feet shuffling on the pavements with a rasping like fine sandpaper over wood. They looked as if they had dressed hurriedly...trouser flies unzipped and socks forgotten. When she got close enough Margaret could see the twin wounds on each of their necks.

  “The whole town?” she whispered. “My God. The whole town in just one night?”

  Her mind refused to take it all in. Already it was rationalizing…a sudden highly contagious flu maybe, or something happening so earth shattering, so gripping, that the town’s population was glued to their televisions and radios.

  She had almost got herself believing it when she recognized one of the people standing outside the supermarket.

  “Miss White?” she asked. “Carol?”

  She touched the other woman on the shoulder, exerting pressure and turning her round, but when she looked in the school secretary’s face she began to back away, almost falling over Tony who was half-hiding behind her.

  The woman looked nearly dead already. Her skin was white, almost translucent, the paleness only broken by the red smear of clumsily applied lipstick and the twin circles of rouge on her cheeks which made her look like a china doll…but one that had been made in very bad taste.

  It was obvious that her hair hadn’t been combed. It hung in bedraggled tails from her scalp, like dead earthworms, and the buttons of her blouse had been done up wrong so that it was three inches higher on one side than the other. Not high enough to hide the telltale wounds though.

  The marks on her neck looked like they had been gouged with a blunt instrument, furrows of pink flesh that oozed a thin white fluid. The woman’s blouse was stained pink on that side, almost down as far as her breast.

  Vacant eyes stared at Margaret, eyes that held no recognition at all. Her mouth hung open, revealing an unflattering brace on the front teeth that she was always so particular about hiding.

  “Good grief, Carol,” Margaret said, “What has happened to you?”

  The secretary scratched at the wounds on her neck, bringing a fresh spurt of watery blood and Margaret gasped in horror as the shirt took on a deeper red tinge.

  The woman walked forward, and Margaret stepped aside, fearing an attack, but the secretary kept on walking along the street, swaying unsteadily from side to side.

  Her gait made Margaret look down, only to see that the woman was wearing different shoes on each foot...on the left a high-heeled stiletto, on the right a flat house slipper with an absurd pom-pom that looked doubly out of place in the main street.

  “Got to get something for the headmaster’s supper,” Margaret heard her murmur. “He’s coming round again tonight. He’s such a nice man really when you get to know him.”

  Margaret put out a hand as if to stop the woman, but was stopped by Tony.

  “We don’t have time,” the boy said. “Look.”

  He pointed up at the sky, and at first Margaret didn’t know what he meant, but then she saw it...the sun was already almost directly overhead.

  Jim Kerr stood in the kitchen of the Hansen House and looked down at the trapdoor at his feet.

  He had found nothing in the rest of the house...nothing but old dust and faded memories of grandeur. The place was surprisingly free of vandalism and he wondered if maybe other people had the same talent as he did, the one that told him when the bloodsuckers were around.

  The mosaic had given him a fright though. He had come across it in his research, had even seen drawings that purported to be made from life, but he had never seen anything that looked so evil, so alive. If he had a hammer he would have pounded at the mosaic until the pattern no longer worked its way into his mind, but he resolved to return...once the job was done.

  Part of him had known all along that he wouldn’t find anything in the house itself...it wasn’t their style, but he had looked anyway, through the hallways and bedrooms.

  He’d given up on the top floor, where he’d discovered nothing more than the remains of long dead pigeons. There was nothing living left in the house...not a pigeon, not a mouse, not even a rat.

  That in itself was enough to confirm he was in the right place...the animal kingdom knew something that man had forgotten...that it was best to stay away from the pale creatures of the night.

  They were down there...under his feet. He could smell them, taste them, feel their voices in his head.

  They whispered to him, they had always whispered to him, ever since Jura, tiny voices in his head that he could never dispel.

  He remembered when they had started.

  He had come out of a long sleep, from a dream in which he chased Sandra and their son down a long dark corridor, sometimes getting close enough to touch them but never quite close enough to stop them. He shouted after them, and the boy turned. He was a beautiful child, four, then seven, then ten years old; a mop of golden curls fringing an angelic face.

  “Daddy,” the boy shouted, and Jim put on one final spurt to catch them. He stretched out an arm.

  And woke up.

  Even when he finally realized that he was awake he found that his hands were stretched out in front of him, reaching for something he could never catch.

  The doctor was standing over him, his eyes red and moist. The cigarette in his hand was shaking wildly, sending flecks of ash scattering unheeded on the carpet.

  Somehow Jim had got back downstairs, back into the huge armchair in front of the fire. Had it all been a dream? Were they still alive?

  For a second his heart leaped in hope, then he saw the sadness in the doctor’s eyes. He didn’t want to hear what the doctor had to say.

  “Mr. Kerr?” the doctor said, and that was all he had to say.

  “They’re dead...aren’t they?” Jim asked, and when the doctor nodded, he dropped his head to his chest.

  And that was when he heard the first of the voices...a high mocking laugh, far away, but still inside his head.

  “The strain of the birth was too much for her,” the doctor said, and the laugh got just that bit shriller, just that bit louder.

  “What do you mean...strain? She was bitten by a bloody vampire,” Jim said, shouting, rising from his chair only to be pushed back down.

  “You’re distraught Mr. Kerr. Maybe I should give you something to calm you down.”

  “I don’t need calm,” Jim said, still shouting. “It was a vampire.”

  The doctor knelt beside him.

  “Listen, Mr. Kerr. You won’t get anywhere with this talk. I’ve already made out the certificates...and they both say natural causes. And if anyone asks, that’s what I’m going to say, that’s all I’m ever going to say. And I suggest you start believing that it happened that way...otherwise people will begin to question your sanity.”

  The laughter in Jim’s head got louder, and was joined by more voices; a chorus of mocking that threatened to engulf him.

  “I want to see the bodies,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. “I need to see them.”

  The doctor suddenly looked embarrassed.

&n
bsp; “I’m afraid that won’t be possible Mr. Kerr. They’ve been cremated already.”

  Jim’s mind was refusing to take in what was being said and it took several seconds for it to sink in.

  “Cremated? Come on...you don’t have a crematorium on the island.” He was close to anger now. “How the hell did you manage that one?”

  “Nevertheless...they have been burnt. The people around here have their ways of dealing with such things.”

  “You can’t do that,” Jim shouted. Tears ran down his cheeks and his fists were clenched like rocks. He wanted to strike out, to fight against something, anything that would ease the pain.

  The doctor stepped back and raised his arms in front of his face as if to defend himself.

  “I think you’ll find that I can Mr. Kerr. And the authorities around here will back me up. We can’t have the people on the mainland knowing our business, now can we?”

  And Jim had found out the hard way. He’d tried the police, then the courts, and finally the media. But none of them believed him.

  There was no evidence, he was clearly distraught over the loss of his family, and there was nothing at all disreputable in the doctor’s background. He’d turned to drink for a while, but that only made the voices laugh longer and harder…until the time he’d read reports of a mysterious death in a small village in Ireland that set him on his current path.

  That one had been easy...it was weak and barely alive, just a bundle of skin and bone. He found it trying to take a newborn baby and he put it down with one bolt in the heart. It was dust soon afterward. And he’d discovered that he felt good...better than he had since the deaths. So he’d started looking for clues, and he started learning.

  Each time he put one down the voices were still for a while. But they always came back, and they were here now as he stood over the trapdoor.

  Tears fell down into the blackness below and after a while he followed them.

  The sun beat down on Margaret and Tony as they climbed the hill towards the grounds of the

  Hansen House, raising fine beads of sweat on Tony’s brow.

  He remembered the last time he had been up here…how Billy had been laughing and joking, how full of life his friend had been. Unconsciously he slowed, so much so that Margaret managed to get several yards in front of him.

  A heavy weight seemed to have settled on him; pressing down and making his legs feel like blocks of lead.

  Above the trees at the top of the hill he could see the uppermost turrets of their destination.

  Although the sun continued to beat down, it seemed as if the house was bathed in deep shadow, the land in which it sat stuck in a time when it was always winter.

  Tony shivered over his whole body and Margaret stopped, a look of concern on her face as she walked back to him.

  “You don’t have to come you know,” she said taking him by the hand. “I’m a big girl now...I can handle it.”

  But he did have to go. It was as if they were all behind him, pushing him onwards...first Billy, then Ian, and then the old man. Although it was broad daylight he was still haunted by them. Especially the first two...if he hadn’t been so persistent, so driven by the need to be noticed, then neither of his friends would have died. And if he hadn’t been in the graveyard then the vampire might not have been there, and the old man wouldn’t have died. He didn’t want to see anyone else killed...not anyone that was still alive anyway.

  It was just that he didn’t know if he could do it. It had been hard enough the last time, even with Billy spurring him on. But now he’d have to go down into those cellars knowing what was waiting at the bottom.

  He shook his head from side to side, trying to dispel the thoughts.

  All the way from the teacher’s house he had been trying to deny what he saw, but the sight of the zombies in the streets had shaken him hard, almost as hard as seeing the old man killed. That had happened in the churchyard, a place he didn’t know very well, but these walking dead were in the middle of a street he walked along every day of his life. And it was broad daylight.

  Somehow that made it worse.

  They had passed within a hundred yards of his parent’s house, but he hadn’t mentioned it...indeed he had purposefully looked the other way. If his mother had been turned into one of the walking zombies then he didn’t want to know...not yet. There would be plenty of time for rebuilding his life afterward...once they had done their job at the house.

  The teacher stopped on the road just a couple of yards ahead of him, and when he caught her up she was bent almost double and breathing heavily.

  “Not as fit as I used to be,” she said, gasping for breath. “It’s at times like this that I really wish I’d learned to drive.”

  She gasped for breath again, and Tony thought she would have some kind of asthma attack, but then she stood up straight, groaning as she pressed her hands at the flat of her back. Her face was red and her eyes were watering, but she no longer looked like she would keel over.

  “Just give me a minute,” she said, “I’ll be fine.”

  She didn’t look fine. She looked strained and gaunt; her eyes deep set in their sockets and her mouth only a thin line where it was set in determination. She dropped the sports bag from her shoulder and sighed loudly. Tony noticed the damp sweat stains on her shirt, like saucers under each arm. It was hot, but it wasn’t that hot.

  “I’ll carry it for a bit,” Tony said, already feeling guilty at not having offered earlier.

  “Thanks,” the teacher said, “but it’s not the weight that’s the problem...it’s just the bruises.”

  Tony suddenly realized that he didn’t know what had happened to the teacher the night before, nothing beyond the fact that something had happened in the house to make her believe her story.

  But now wasn’t the time to talk about it...not here so close to the Hansen House.

  That didn’t stop him wondering though, and it preyed on his mind as he picked up the sports bag. It was bulky and awkward to carry but it wasn’t heavy. Margaret had already started up the hill and he had to hurry to catch her.

  “Miss Brodie?” he said, and she replied before he had a chance to finish.

  “Call me Margaret...at least while we’re out of school.”

  “Margaret,” Tony said, as if trying the syllables for size. “What happened to you last night?”

  “Nothing I want to talk about just yet,” she said, “But I’ll tell you what...ask me after we’ve put a stake in the bastard.”

  With that they started up the hill once more, her pace faster than Tony could manage so that he was almost running to keep up.

  As they got closer to the entrance to the grounds Tony could see something that gave him a clue as to the night’s activities...he recognized the car which was parked across the front of the iron gates.

  “Is that Mr. Baillies’ car?” he asked.

  Margaret nodded. She walked over to the car and ran a hand over the roof, There were silver, glistening tears in her eyes.

  “He’s still here,” she said almost to herself. “He didn’t get out.”

  She suddenly looked as if she had lost hope, but then a hardness came to her eyes, a cold stare that Tony had never seen in her before. Her back straightened, and this time she didn’t even wince. She stepped around the side of the car and Tony saw that she was now wary and watchful, expecting attack.

  She studied the gravel around the car, then stared fixedly into the rhododendron bushes on either side of the drive.

  “If you see Tom Duncan, don’t talk to him,” she said.

  “You mean Mr. Duncan...the math teacher? He’s one of them?”

  “Yes...and he nearly got me last night,” Margaret said, and showed Tony the bandaged hand.

  “But they don’t come out in daylight,” Tony said, and Margaret turned on him, suddenly angry.

  “Don’t think that...don’t take anything for granted. Was that butcher dangerous? Was he?”

  Her fac
e was only inches from his and she was shouting.

  Tony couldn’t help it...tears sprung from the corners of his eyes.

  “Don’t go soft on me now kid,” she said, then seemed to relent and held him gently. “I’m sorry. But we have to be careful from now on.”

  Tony nodded and wiped the wetness away from his eyes. He turned away from the teacher and gazed along the driveway to the house at the end.

  “He’s in there, isn’t he?” he said. “The one who killed the old man.”

  “Yes. I think he’s in there. And we’re going to get him,” Margaret said. And without another word she began to walk up the drive.

  Tony took one last look at the car then turned and followed her.

  In the dark bathroom Brian slept.

  He didn’t see Donald Allan stand over the bath and stare down at him, and he didn’t see the black eyes turn deep blazing red, just for a second before the vampire turned away and buried his head in his hands.

  The darkness descended with Jim as he climbed down the ladder, and a deathly quiet went with him. Only the rasping of his overcoat against the ladder broke the silence.

  He could just see that there was more than one level...the ladder still going down through the floor below. He stepped off at the first level and took a large flashlight from his overcoat, using its light to cock and load the crossbow.

  He stood, listening, as the dust he’d thrown up started to settle, and he made sure there was no movement before he himself moved...left foot first, an inch at a time.

  The torchlight moved ahead of him across the floor...an extended oval that fattened as it reached the skirting board and thickened into a circle as it hit the wall.

  The room was fifty feet by thirty feet and nearly twelve feet up to the rough timbers of the ceiling. It was also empty except for a few old wine bottles and the black scar from a small fire that ran up one wall. He sifted the ashes of the fire with the toe of his boot, but there was nothing there, just burnt wood and paper.

  Jim swept the room twice, just to make sure, and tapped at the walls, searching for hollow areas, but he met only old brickwork.