The Dark Corners Box Set

by Robert Scott-Norton

  Malc sat in his armchair and that sense of not being alone struck him again. Thinking it was something outside that had spooked him, an open window perhaps, he turned to check, but when he twisted back again, Joe was standing in the doorway.

  “He’s falling,” Joe said half-asleep.

  Malc rushed to his son’s side. “Joe, what’s the matter? You’re dreaming.”

  “He’s coming.”

  A flash of emerald light lit the room then faded until the doorway that had been outlined for the last year in the vicarage living room, suddenly became real. Malc grabbed his son and scooped him up, ready to get him out of there should anything happen.

  And the door opened.

  Green light spilled out. The pressure in the room shifted and Malc felt pain in his ears.

  A body broke out of the open doorway and crashed into the armchair where Malc had been resting a moment before. With the body expunged, the door slammed shut, and the light vanished.

  Malc put his son down gently and hissed against his ear, “get into bed with your mum. Go now.”

  Obediently, Joe did as his dad suggested.

  Malc was alone with the intruder.

  It spoke. “Kelly,” it said with a voice that was painfully familiar.

  Malc hurried to his friend’s side and turned him around. “Seth?” The body was freezing.

  A grunt came back that could have been a reply. He rushed from the room, grabbed a blanket from the airing cupboard and came back to find his friend already standing, looking out at the window and the stormy night developing.

  Without glancing back, he spoke to Malc, and it was a tired voice.

  “It’s unravelling, Malc. Everything is unravelling. I think we’ve run out of time.”

  All the Darkness is Alive

  Robert Scott-Norton

  1

  The curator stood at the threshold to the basement and reached for the door handle. He never knew quite what to expect. Every day the experience could be different. Today, the door handle was cool, and he gripped it tightly waiting for any backlash from the things downstairs.

  Lamont Loomis was an elderly but sprightly man for his age. The immaculately trimmed silver goatee suggested a last shot of youthfulness, but in the mornings his back would usually ache from remaining in the same spot too long, and the skin didn’t spring back quite as quickly when he pinched the back of his hand.

  He was ready for his bed now. At just gone eight o’clock, he had no reason to stay up any longer. The massive Victorian villa he had called home for the last thirty years rattled around him.

  Reflective surfaces had become a bit of a thing for Lamont. He’d got rid of his television set ten years ago when he realised that he no longer watched the thing and it had become just one more dark reflective surface to be wary of. He tried never to look in mirrors, which would explain his slightly shabby appearance, and when he ventured outside, he kept his eyes low, avoiding the possibility of catching his reflection in car windows or shop displays. Some people would think his behaviour odd, and they might look at him and consider him a borderline vagrant, but Lamont had his reasons for avoiding those reflections.

  And they were all downstairs in the basement, waiting for him.

  From the kitchen drawer closest to the basement door, he retrieved a new candle and a box of matches. He removed the stub from the silver candle holder—deliberately tarnished—and set his new candle in place. Then he lifted a match and struck a light. It went out, as he expected. The first was never acceptable, but the second match held steady enough for him to light his candle.

  Picking it up, he watched the flame dance around the wick like an ethereal nymph drawing innocents to watch and burn.

  Lamont unhooked the ring of keys from his belt loop and slotted a simple brass key into the basement door’s lock. It slipped inside effortlessly, and it took only the slightest turn to unlock. Gently, he pushed down on the handle and nudged the door with his foot. From there, the door swung open of its own accord, stopping only when it hit the wall with a dull thud. He was being invited inside.

  With the candle holder held aloft, he placed a foot onto the topmost step and felt for the handrail on his left. His fingers brushed over the light switch, but he had learnt not to bother turning the lights on. Light bulbs had a tendency to last for a few minutes at most in the basement. An electrician might claim it was because of some faulty wiring and encourage Lamont to get the whole building rewired—and to be fair it probably was a death trap waiting to happen—but Lamont knew different. The things in the basement preferred candlelight. Or at least, they tolerated it more than the glare of an electric bulb. The light hurt the shadows too much, and they were likely to lash out if provoked.

  From the outside, the house blended in perfectly with the other buildings. In one of Southport’s back streets, it had privately run hotels on either side, really nothing more than glorified bed-and-breakfasts. He’d frequently toyed with the idea of putting up bed-and-breakfast signs to annoy the neighbours, had even wondered whether it might help stay their curiosity. But then, a bed-and-breakfast which had no guests would draw even more attention.

  Attention was bad.

  A floorboard squeaked. He ignored it. In houses this old, floorboards made noises. It was just the house trying to unsettle him. The candlelight didn’t reach far, and as he stepped off the last step and turned to the shelf on his right, he held the candle up to check the first object. A small mummified pig’s head regarded him with coal-black eyes. A thin piece of cord had been tied around the snout of the pig and braided with two more pieces that came from the ears. Threaded on these cords appeared to be a line of teeth. Larger than a human male’s. Beside the pig’s head was a large shrouded mirror. He’d secured a black cover over the mirror the moment it had come into his possession. Sold by a cockney on eBay and shipped by the regular postal service, the man claimed it to be a conjuring mirror. It was one in a million, he’d claimed on the eBay listing, and yet, looking through the man’s other items, he managed to acquire a suspiciously large amount of ‘one in a millions’.

  The mirror was deadly. Lamont had traced it back to a practising witch from Shropshire who was murdered in the early twentieth century. The mirror was home to a soul stealer, an entity trapped in the glass that was always hungry. Lamont checked the cloth was secure then jumped back as the covering flowed like a hand had pressed against it from the inside.

  He moved on, continuing in this fashion, checking over the artefacts that lined the half-dozen shelves he’d had installed along the wall, trinkets and pieces of bone and broken clocks that still struck the hour when the moon was in the correct position. It took him an hour every evening to give even the most cursory inspection of the collection’s pieces and all the while he pretended not to hear the sounds coming from the far corner of the basement. That corner would wait until last. It always would and it was always the area that demanded the most attention. Sometimes in the middle of the night, he’d wake from dreams and those dreams would have him standing before the final artefact. He could lose himself if he wasn’t careful.

  Finally, when he could put off the inevitable no longer, Lamont stepped up to the brick-walled enclosure he’d built himself five years ago when he’d taken possession of the final artefact. It had taken him a full week of mainly trial and error until he’d ended up with an enclosure that satisfied him. Within the double thick walls, he’d placed several blessed relics at random intervals. He’d even stolen a bottle of holy water from the font at St Ann’s and used that to make up his brick mortar. The room was as sealed as was within his capacity to seal.

  And yet he could barely bare to stand in front of the door and contemplate stepping inside. What few fine hairs remained on the back of his neck, flickered in anticipation. His hand fought the urge to shake as he once again pulled out his keychain to select the key for the heavy-set padlock on the door.

  It slipped inside the padlock which snapped apart like
fingers had been waiting to pull it open.

  Our father

  Who art in heaven

  He continued mumbling the prayer to himself as he unhooked the padlock from the bracket and slid the bolt aside.

  And then came the sound of breaking glass from upstairs.

  His heart skipped a couple of beats and he held his breath, thinking his ears were playing tricks on him and that whatever he was experiencing was all down to the basement of artefacts and whatever hold they were having over his senses.

  The footsteps came next.

  He tried to track the steps and even held up his candle as if the flickering flame would help. A floorboard creaked over on his left, and he turned and followed the sound. The intruder was inside the house walking along the main hallway.

  Lamont didn’t know what to do. He was alone. He was not a young man.

  He could hide down here in the near dark, watching his ever-decreasing candle, hoping that the intruder would just take what they wanted and leave. Surely no burglar would check the basement when there were three floors in the rest of the building to rummage through.

  He waited until he couldn’t hear the footsteps anymore. He fancied that he’d heard them make their way upstairs but he couldn’t be certain. What he could be certain of was that he couldn’t stay down here forever. In the basement, the darkness had a way of becoming thicker like bad smoke from an ancient factory. It engulfed and persisted and enveloped.

  He needed to get out of here.

  Holding the candle holder as steadily as he could, he walked past the shelves of artefacts and rested at the bottom of the stairs. Had he locked the room to the brick vault? He cursed his own forgetful memory and futilely tried to extend the candlelight to the back of the room.

  A sharp breeze blew it out. The things in the basement had had enough of his company and Lamont didn’t want to argue with them. Quickly, but as lightly as he could, he made his way back up the stairs and paused by the basement door. He listened. If only he could quiet his beating heart. It was so loud that he felt sure the intruder must hear it and come and seek him out. Then what a fool he’d look, armed with a candlestick and a sweaty brow.

  The kitchen was empty but dark. He had left the light on when he’d descended into the basement so it made no sense. He stepped into the kitchen, eyeing up the back door, noticing the broken glass on the floor.

  There were weapons in the kitchen, or at least knives he could use. Lamont knew how to wield a knife. In his various exchanges on the hunt for artefacts, he’d learnt to take a knife with him in case negotiations got heated. And they often did when the seller realised that the buyer was a serious collector and not some sap who fancied a macabre Halloween gift.

  Where was the intruder?

  Lamont hurried to the drawer beside the sink and had grasped the handle when he heard a noise behind him.

  “I wouldn’t bother. I’ve already removed the sharp ones.”

  Lamont spun around and watched as the burnt man stepped out from the shadows. He belonged there, wearing the darkness like a Victorian gentleman might wear a cape. Lamont didn’t recognise the stranger but he couldn’t take his eyes away from the disfigured creature in front of him. The victim of a fire? An acid attack? In the dim light, he couldn’t tell, but he could make out the rough bumps and crevices that suggested serious tissue damage. The intruder was not a well man.

  “Who are you? Get out of my house,” Lamont demanded, although his words didn’t sound like a demand, but more of a plea, and he realised that he was on the verge of wetting himself like a child. Ridiculous that he should be so bothered by this creature when he’d surrounded himself with such dangerous exhibits for most of his adult life.

  The intruder snorted. “You are Lamont Loomis?” he asked in a way that conveyed that he already knew exactly whom he was standing in front of.

  There seemed little point in denying it. “Yes. And if you wanted to speak to me, you didn’t have to break into my house. You could have just rung the doorbell.”

  “I’m not sure you’d have answered if you saw me in a clear light.”

  Lamont paused. “What happened to you? Are you in pain? Should I get an ambulance?”

  “I’m well past their ability to save.”

  What did he mean by that?

  “If it’s money you’re after, I have very little.”

  “It’s not your money I’m interested in.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Adam Cowl.”

  Lamont raised an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe.”

  The burnt man continued regardless. “It would mean a lot to me to look at your collection.”

  “What collection?”

  “What Collection, he says.” Adam took another step closer. The light from the street lamp outside, caught the man’s features fully, and it was all Lamont could do to not run from the room in terror. What could have been burnt tissue surrounded his angular face, his left eye was missing, leaving a gaping hole.

  “What happened to you?” Lamont flustered.

  “I had a problem with some old friends. You might be able to help, but first I need you to take me down into your basement. There’s something I want to see.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “If you like.”

  “I can’t take you down there.”

  The figure moved quickly, and it was only when Lamont felt the cool press of steel against his neck that he realised how lost he was. “I can do this without you, but I’d prefer not to have to. Who knows what kind of damage I could cause being left alone with your collection.”

  Lamont was still.

  The knife edge pressed harder, and there was a sharp sting as it bit into the flesh. “Enough, I’ll help you.” Lamont shuddered as Adam lifted the blade.

  Adam opened the basement door and gestured for Lamont to lead the way. “After you,” he said graciously like he was the host.

  Lamont reached for the candle drawer.

  “What are you doing?” Adam asked.

  “We need light. You’ll want your own.”

  Lamont continued setting up a second candle holder for the intruder. “Guard it well,” he said, as he passed it to him. “You don’t want to be alone in the dark down there.”

  There was a hint of amusement in Adam’s remaining eye and the edge of his lips curled. He didn’t question the advice though and followed Lamont down the steps into the basement.

  “What do you want to see?” Lamont held his own light up to the pig head and moved it slowly around him so he could just make out the fringes of the other loaded shelves.

  “You collected all of this? Impressive.”

  “Much of it is relatively harmless, but some of it has great potential. Touch nothing.”

  “Potential for what?”

  “To bring about your end.”

  Adam laughed at that. “I’m well past worrying about that now. Come on, keep moving.”

  Lamont obliged. His pulse was racing. He had a terrible feeling that he knew where they were going and it was the worst scenario. He needed to get away from the intruder. His eyes scoured the surrounding shelves. There were many things in here that could cause serious damage to a man, knives and traditional weapons, and then there were those that would only require the gentlest of nudges to set about a terrifying end to someone. But the things down here were difficult and unpredictable. They were just as likely to harm Lamont as they were this man claiming to be Adam Cowl.

  Adam’s knife gestured they should continue into the gloom. Lamont shivered. The shadows danced around the edges of the room, making the objects on the shelves sway and ebb with the tide of darkness.

  With a rising dread that tugged at his stomach, Lamont reached the brick vault. As he feared, he’d neglected to reattach the padlock and the door now lay open. Of course it was.

  “Is it in here?” Adam asked.

  “That’s where I keep the boiler.”

  A chu
ckle. “Now, inside please.”

  “I’m telling you, there’s nothing in there that you want.”

  “We have different ideas about what makes an object valuable.” The knife reappeared at Lamont’s throat and he felt a breath of foetid air by his ear. “You will lead the way.”

  If Adam cut his throat, would it be so bad? To end this miserable existence guarding the shadows? His wife was dead. His brother hadn’t spoken to him in years.

  But if he died who would guard the collection?

  Inside the room, Lamont shivered. His eyes pierced the gloom. He could see the painting fine. The black rectangle ahead of him. The hard shape of the plain frame around it. It was resting on a simple wooden table.

  Adam’s body language changed upon seeing the painting, and he approached the table, the candle ahead of him.

  “Magnificent,” he said, his voice heavy with awe. But almost immediately, that voice turned to anger. “You’ve damaged it. There’s a piece missing. Where is it?”

  Adam was back in front of Lamont’s face and it was all he could do to stand his ground. Something oozed out of Adam’s damaged eye socket, and a bit of sick rose in Lamont’s throat.

  “It was like this when I bought it.”

  The intruder held his gaze for a long moment. Then with a snort of frustration, he turned back to the painting and stood before it.

  The composition of the painting was simple. Two figures, edging out from a dark woodland. A mist surrounded them, curled around their feet and tightened around their frames. But the figures themselves were what drew the eye and made the heart beat rapidly. Shadowy creatures, limbs lacking flesh, they looked like burnt cadavers. Their misshapen heads were merged into the body through a thick grey neck that made it appear as if the artist had deliberately smudged the paint to make them bolder, more terrifying and stronger. The eyes were the feature that unsettled Lamont the most and even now he couldn’t bear to look at the faces for more than a few seconds. Deep black sockets surrounded burning red fires that bored right into the heart of you. You couldn’t describe these things as ever being human. They were creatures of the night. The stuff of nightmares. The demons of old.