After Darkness Falls 2 - 10 Tales of Terror - Volume Two

by Matt Drabble

  Doris kicked back towards the car and reached out for Taylor’s flapping hand. Their fingers brushed and Doris reached frantically for her but her own lungs were already starting to burn. Taylor’s hair swooned slowly from side to side in the water and her eyes were wide and wild with terror. Her mouth opened in a silent scream as she was pulled back into the car by undeniable strength and vengeance.

  Doris’ last glimpse of Taylor was as the woman clawed hysterically at her throat as the water poured in and filled her lungs.

  Doris kicked for the surface as her vision started to blur at the effort of holding her breath. She swam, kicking hard and waiting for the moment when the small hand would reach out from the darkness and grab her ankle, dragging her back to the bottom of the river, but it never came.

  Eventually, she burst through the water’s surface and greedily sucked in great gulps of air, coughing and spluttering as she did so. The night sky was clear and there was a full moon to guide her to shore where there was already a gathered army of onlookers. Soon, a swathe of flashing blue and red lights lit up the riverside as the emergency services were finally called by someone who’d remembered to use their phone for something other than to video the accident.

  ----------

  Doris finally made it home two days later after a brief observational spell in hospital. She had planned on keeping the details of what she knew to herself as she thought that no one would believe that she had not been a part of Taylor’s plan to have Dave kidnap Ivory before Taylor brought in Doris to solve the case. But Mrs. Dahlberg had visited her, dressed to disguise her identity, and had begged her for answers as to her daughter’s death had occurred. Doris had told her that there was no way that she could prove what had happened and that she would in all probability be implicating herself, but Mrs. Dahlberg had been relentless. Eventually, after the mother had promised her that no investigation would befall her and even if it did then the Dahlbergs would use all of their influence and money to defend her, Doris had relented. She had got Mrs. Dahlberg to swear on her daughter’s name that what she was about to tell her must not be investigated under the source of the information. The grieving mother had agreed that no mention of what Doris said would ever be used outside of the hospital room. Doris had told her what she knew to have happened, and was met with an ocean of tears and gratitude.

  Doris’ mind was in turmoil as the taxi drove her home. She was still reeling with not only what Taylor had done, but the fact that Doris Cassidy was not such a fake after all. All of the years working in the old folk’s homes now seemed like such a waste when she had indeed possessed the gift. It was an equally frightening and exciting thought that her gift was real and she wasn’t sure just how to go about using it. She obviously had no agent now and she was not about to start trawling residential homes for peanuts.

  She was starting to wonder about her new found connection when the taxi pulled up outside her modest home. The Dahlbergs were international figures with Marcus having a global media empire. Doris thought that it would be child’s play for him to set her up with a whole new identity and career, especially now that she was the real deal.

  She unlocked the front door and entered the small house. Suddenly, her life seemed so grey and empty. Would it really be so bad if she used her gift for a little profit? Gone would be the hokey outfits and performances she thought as she stared at her reflection in the hall mirror. She would be a whole new type of medium; a sleek and sassy one with a big house and a swollen bank account to show for her trouble. She could still help people, just now she would get paid for it. The only thing that she had to remember was to treat the dead with respect and not to piss them off. Little Ivory had shown her that the dead certainly hold grudges and were more than capable of doing something about it. She suspected that they were only able to act on their grudges if a real medium such as her was in attendance. Perhaps Ivory wouldn’t have been able to do anything to Taylor and Dave if she hadn’t also been in the car. She would have to be careful in the future as to her conduct.

  She turned off the hallway light and headed upstairs for a lie down, her mind whirling excitedly with the new life in front of her.

  What she didn’t see in her haste was the translucent swarm of elderly folks that followed her up the stairs, their eyes burning with furious bloodthirsty hatred. Every pensioner that she had ever lied to in the seaside residential homes had been waiting for her and they shuffled up the stairs behind her, wanting their pound of flesh. The screams that soon echoed in the still night spoke volumes as to their success.

  TALE 5.

  “AIRWAVES”

  “That’s him, oh dear God, that’s him!” Stacey suddenly roared in the car, with a voice that bordered on full blown hysteria.

  Jack had to keep his concentration on the road as she grabbed his arm in raw panic. “Whose voice, for Christ’s sake?”

  “His,” was all she said, suddenly slumping back into her seat and trembling with a glassy eyed expression.

  Jack looked for a motorway exit and pulled the car over as soon as he saw one. They pulled into a small picnic area by the side of the road shielded by foliage. The evening was drawing fast now and normally Stacey would be in a hurry to get back beyond the safety of their securely locked front door. But now, as he looked over at her, he could see that she was lost again in whatever dark corners of her mind still prevailed.

  ----------

  It had been almost a year now since Stacey had been taken. The country was full of talk of a real life serial killer on the loose. What seemed like harmless entertainment from the desensitized masses soon became all too real. Young women were abducted in broad daylight without any witnesses and only seen again when their bodies were found lifeless and scrubbed clean of all evidence. Jack and Stacey had followed the news avidly and with some concern on his part as they lived too close for comfort to the last victim and Stacey bore an undeniable resemblance to the woman as well.

  Stacey had been typically light-hearted about his concerns, teasing him as to his worries and assuring him that these things never happened to them. Jack knew that he had a tendency to look on the dark side of life and fear the worst, but he had also been right.

  Stacey worked at a fashion magazine as an editor. Her great love was for health and fitness and she was never out of training for one event or another. She was tall with wide shoulders and a runner’s build. Her hair was a light chestnut, normally swept into a simple ponytail. She had high cheekbones that were razor sharp and the subject of much envy in the office. She was fun and lively with enough energy for the both of them and was the constant momentum within their relationship.

  Jack was a photographer working freelance as he’d hated to get tied down to any one employer. He was a tall man at a little over six feet three and his build was starting to soften as he grew older and less inclined to spend his days punishing his body in a gym or on a running track. He was a quiet and studious man often more at home with his own company focusing on solo work projects rather than the noise and hustle of a fashion shoot. He had been filling in for a friend when he’d met Stacey and despite their obvious differences they had just clicked. It wasn’t thunderbolts and lightning, just a comfortable feeling and reassurance that they had been waiting for each other all this time.

  They had moved in together within weeks in spite of all of their friends’ misgivings and dire warnings and been married within a few months in a low key ceremony. It had been a happy marriage, full of love and laughter and precious few arguments.

  Stacey’s car had been in the garage on that fateful day. She had got a lift into work early that morning with a friend and Jack had agreed to pick her up afterwards when he had finished a wildlife shoot. Stacey had said that it would be easier if she just booked a taxi home or arranged another lift, but Jack had told her that it was no problem. She had been skeptical as he did have a tendency to get lost in his work and lose track of time. But he’d insisted and even promised that he’d boo
k a table at a nearby restaurant to make the trip worthwhile.

  It had been gone 6:30pm when he’d checked his watch and only then he had checked by accident. He’d been horrified to discover the time and quickly phoned her. Stacey had sounded less sure than she usually did when she’d told him that it was all right and just to hurry up. He’d broken the speed limit twice on the way to pick her up, getting away both times with it, but the third time he’d seen the flashing blue lights in his rear view mirror. He’d tried telling the cop that he was in a hurry to collect his wife who was waiting out in the open with a maniac on the loose. But his pleas had only fallen on deaf ears as the cop seemed to delight in taking his time licking his small pencil with every scrawl on the pad.

  His phone rang again just as he was pulling off from the kerb and he’d snatched it up when he saw Stacey’s number on the backlit display, not caring if the cop pulled him back over again. This time there was no doubting the scared tone in Stacey’s voice and it was the first time that he had ever heard her less than anything in total control and it shook him badly. She had always been the “fighter” in the family and he relied on her for their outward strength. Whilst he was the strong silent type; she was the John Wayne to his Gary Cooper. He’d tried to laugh off her concerns for her benefit when she’d told him that the last member of staff had left the office block and the building was now locked and dark. The industrial estate was some way out of town and not within walking distance. He’d pushed the pedal to the metal as he flew along the road overtaking dangerously, all the while trying to sound casual on the phone. He’d been only a few minutes away and promised that she would be fine as he was almost there. He rarely made promises but he never broke them and she had sounded reassured at the words, just as her phone went dead.

  He’d screeched into the office car park only to find it deserted and his stomach had clenched into a swirl of rattling cobras.

  The next few days had been a blur of fuzzy images and rough hands shaking his shoulders to try and get through to him, but every voice had sounded like the teacher from the old Charlie Brown cartoons. In his heart he couldn’t accept that she was dead. The police had told him that she was unmistakably taken by the same man that had been terrorizing the area. He hadn’t asked them why they were so sure, because he was equally so.

  He’d had to endure the accusing glances and stares of their friends and family as to why he had been late picking her up. He’d run a gauntlet that ranged from dirty looks to outright accusations and face slapping. He’d never protested his innocence, because he had none; he was as guilty as if he’d killed her himself.

  He knew from the media reports that the other four victims had been on a timetable of three days from abduction to the body’s discovery. The time stretched out before him and he felt the giant hands of the clock above his head ticking down the hours until his beautiful wife was found violated and lifeless.

  He’d been in a prescription induced shallow slumber when strong hands had dragged him back from his dreams where Stacey was wrapped safely in his arms. A detective had been yelling in his face with stale coffee breath and for a moment Jack had been sure that he was still dreaming.

  “We’ve found her, she’s alive, she’s alive!” the excitable detective had shouted whilst shaking him back to life.

  Jack had stumbled back into the world, staggered clumsily off the sofa and wobbled out behind the young cop trying desperately to process what the guy had just told him. Still half wondering if it was all just a cruel dream.

  He had been rushed to the hospital in the back of a screaming police car through the night not daring to think about what he was going to find. only rejoicing in the words that she was alive.

  When the police had smuggled him past the waiting flash bulb explosion of the press, he had found himself led to a small private room. He had been unable to listen when the doctor had tried to explain to him the extent of Stacey’s injuries and had only barged past the short slender man, throwing back the curtain around her bed. He had to look twice before he could be sure that it was his Stacey lying in the bed. For a moment he was sure that they’d made a mistake, that this bloody beaten mess could not have been his girl. But she smiled at him through the drug infused haze and swollen lips and he’d broken down and cried until the police had to drag him away when the doctor insisted that he was upsetting the patient.

  The next few days had been a constant bedside vigil for him, refusing to leave her side as his guilt overwhelmed him, but he had swallowed his self-pity hard for her sake. From that point forward nothing mattered except her. He held her hand gently as she spoke of her ordeal, of how she had been taken with a strange smelling rag clamped down over her mouth from behind. The doctors had a battery of medical evidence so there was no point in her lying or trying to hide her assault. Jack had listened with more hate than he had ever felt in his heart as she told the detectives that her head had been covered in a fabric hood the whole time, even when the man had repeatedly raped her. Jack had felt the cops’ annoyance when it had turned out that Stacey had little to offer them in terms of a witness statement. She had never seen the guy’s face and there was still no physical evidence. She had heard his voice and assured them that she would be able to identify it if she ever heard it again.

  She said that they had been mobile the whole time and she had been kept in the back of some kind of lorry or van, bound with her hands behind her back and the hood over her head.

  It had taken a miracle for her to get free on the second day when, after the guy had finished with her, she had managed to slip a sock off and kick it towards the door when her hood had risen up slightly. God was truly looking down on her at that minute as the sock had wedged in the door, stopping it from latching shut completely.

  She had waited for the vehicle to slow down and park for the night before inching her way like a caterpillar with her hands behind her back across the floor for what must have taken hours, sliding forwards always terrified that she would wake him. Eventually, she had managed to reach the door and eased herself up slowly with what must have taken incredible strength of mind and determination. Jack could see her poor ruined fingers as she lay in the hospital bed which gave testimony to her struggle to pry the heavy doors open. He could only imagine what iron will it must have taken not to scream out or leap from the van the second she felt the cold breeze on her arms. Instead, she had lowered herself down slowly onto the floor and crept away as quietly as she could manage - shoeless across the hard ground that cut her feet to shreds. Eventually, she had stumbled blindly into the road and heard the screaming of brakes and tires as cars swerved to avoid her until one good Samaritan stopped to help.

  The detectives’ excitement at finally catching the guy had faded fast at the lack of anything useless offered by the victim, eventually leaving Jack and Stacey alone with their thoughts and fears. Jack had seen the looks shared by the cops, as though they found her story difficult to believe but they didn’t know her; they didn’t know that she was a fighter.

  Stacey’s physical injuries had healed quickly but the mental scars ran deep. Her therapy seemed to have little impact and no matter what he did he could never put a smile on her face again. Gone was the outgoing centre of the party and he feared that whatever warrior had been in her had been all used up in her escape, leaving an empty shell behind.

  His anger only grew exponentially over time as he watched her struggle and slip away a little more each day. Now their life was about constant tiptoeing around each other, her ordeal and his guilt building a chasm between them that he feared would never be crossed again.

  ----------

  “It can’t be him,” Jack said, turning the radio up.

  “Shut up,” she snapped, straining to listen but the station was now on a commercial break.

  “How can you be sure?” he whispered.

  She withered him with a look and he looked away suitably chastised. The jingles and adverts seemed to go on for hours and Jac
k sat waiting impatiently wondering if she could be right, if it really could be the guy.

  The last jingle faded away and the presenter came back on live. “If you’re just joining us, we’re talking to local artist Arthur Taylor. Arthur, you were telling us about your inspiration,” the female presenter continued warmly.

  “That’s right, Jane,” the man began.

  Jack flinched as Stacey yelped like a scalded dog and one look at her face told him that she was sure.

  They spent the next 30 minutes or so listening to the radio illuminated by the eerie green glow. Jack felt helpless again as Stacey endured the man’s voice and no doubt every flashback memory of her ordeal.

  The guy was prattling on about his art and inspiration but Jack couldn’t listen to his words, only picture the man’s face falling beneath his pounding fists. He had never been a violent man by nature but now his thoughts were consumed by dark venom and spiteful hate. He had promised Stacey that she would be fine and this man had stolen his promise and rendered him impotent.

  After a while he became dimly aware that Stacey was speaking again and he had to shake the poison from his mind.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  “Huh?”

  “I said let’s go,” Stacey said, looking up from her phone screen that he could see was littered with directions. “He’s going to be there for another hour or so.”

  “Where?” he asked, puzzled.

  “The radio station.”

  “Hang on a minute,” he began cottoning on, “you can’t be serious? We have to call the police; we have to tell them what we’ve heard. They can find the guy now, surely?”

  “And do what? You heard the detectives at the hospital: there’s no evidence. Sure, they could poke around the guy’s life but all that’s gonna do is drive him underground or make him disappear completely. You really think that he’s been getting away with it all this time by accident? He doesn’t leave clues and they’re never going to catch him.”