The BIG Horror Pack 2

by Iain Rob Wright

  Blake winced.

  “I was raped and we lost our baby, but it wasn’t your fault. You were a shitty husband then and you’re a shitty husband now, but it’s not your fault that there’s evil in the world. Heinz could have easily been a nice man, an AIDs worker who cared for sick children in Africa nine months a year, but he wasn’t. He was a violent sex offender. That’s not your fault. I think we both let ourselves become afraid after what happened, and who can blame us? We’ve seen first-hand how wicked the world can be, but we have to stop being afraid, Blake. We have to remind ourselves that evil is a narrow fringe. Most people are good, I truly believe that. I miss people, Blake. I miss the world.”

  “I know. I took us all away and—”

  “Let me finish.”

  Blake shut up.

  “I know you’ve been trying to keep us all safe—if I didn’t believe that, I don’t think I’d still be here—and despite everything, I know you’ve always loved me. Behind all the anger and resentment, I still love you too. I want us to give Ricky a happy home, not the one he has now.”

  Blake almost gushed. He felt tears begging to come out, and so he let them. “I’m so glad to hear you say that. I’ve failed you both so much for so long. Sometimes I think getting published was the worst thing to ever happen to us.”

  “Don’t. Don’t you do that. You’re responsible for your actions, Blake, not anything else.”

  “You’re right.”

  “And I’m responsible for my behaviour. Last night I let out kitchen burn down and endangered our son. It was a wake-up call. The decision I have to make is whether to love you or leave you, but for Ricky’s sake I’m going to focus on the love I still have for you. I think maybe, if we both change, we can fall in love again. If not, then I want to leave.”

  Blake nodded. “I’m ready to fall in love with you again every day.”

  “Leave that nonsense for your books,” she said. “Just give me a hug.”

  Blake squeezed her so tightly she moaned. Her reply was far limper, but there was intent behind it—a kind of forced affection. It was the first true connection they’d had in years. It made Blake more determined than ever to protect his family, but not by running away. No, he was going to start facing his problems head-on.

  “I have to go out,” he said. He didn’t mention where and he hoped she wouldn’t ask.

  “Are you dropping Stevie off at the train station?”

  “No, he’s staying for a few days.”

  Liz sighed, but refrained from anger.

  “He’s been clean for a whole year, Liz. It’s the truth.”

  Liz raised both eyebrows. “Really? Wow, then I guess he would be a good person to talk to about my own problems.”

  Blake grinned. “You mean it?”

  “Yes, but if he starts playing up in the slightest…”

  “He won’t, but I know what you’re saying.”

  “Okay, well I’ll see you both when you get back. I’m going to spend some time with Ricky, if he’ll speak to me.”

  “He will. You’re his mother and he loves you.”

  Liz smiled wearily and headed upstairs. Blake raced out and met his brother by the car.

  “Everything good?” asked Stevie.

  Blake nodded. “Better than ever, which is why I need to make absolutely sure my family isn’t in any danger. Come on, let’s go have a chat with this Reverend Thatcher.”

  “You best drive,” said Stevie. “I’ve had a drink.”

  Blake glared.

  “Kidding. I was kidding.”

  They hopped into the car and got going.

  18

  By the time they were on the road it was dark and raining. Stevie was staring out the window and smiling, but it wasn’t a happy smile. It was more like the smile one wore when thinking of a childhood friend—a happy loss.

  “You okay, Stevie?”

  “I always loved the rain,” he said. “I don’t want to say anything as cliché as it washes everything clean, but…maybe that’s it.”

  Blake thought about it. “I know what you mean, although it’s a bugger when the field floods.”

  Stevie chuckled. He had the sackcloth and picture frame on his lap and looked down at it now. “Can you believe we’re doing this?” he said. “We’re heading to see a priest about a curse. Strange way to spend a Monday evening.”

  “It’s pretty messed up, and if we end up feeling stupid about the whole thing afterwards, I’ll consider it a good result.”

  “Is it wrong to admit I’m kind of enjoying this?” Before Blake could respond, Stevie elaborated. “When I was a little kid I was always heading into the woods or some ruined building to have adventures, and every time I wished my big bro would come with me. The last time we spent time together like this was when Mum and Dad were still alive. I guess I changed after they passed.”

  “We both did. We both went down our own dark paths, but we’re okay now. The past is the past. At least it’s going to be, once we get rid of that thing in your lap.”

  Stevie huffed. “Yeah.”

  Blake stole a quick glance at his brother and saw his eyes flickering with sadness. “What is it, man?”

  Stevie coughed into his hand and forced a smile to his lips. “Sorry. It’s just so nice to see you. I get emotional, you know? Especially since I quit the drink.”

  “Join the club. I think being overly emotional is something we both get from Dad. He was either flying like a kite or in a puddle of beer and vomit.”

  “I loved him, though.”

  Blake nodded. “Me too.”

  They entered Redlake and passed the abbey beside the lake. The only light came from the moon and a couple of security lamps fixed to the abbey’s walls. Redlake sure did have its sights and history, but Blake wondered if it also had its secrets.

  A mile past the lake and they reached the town centre. Redlake’s high street was a modest mix of chain stores and local shops. Blake had never spotted the museum before, but the website’s directions listed it as being next to an OXFAM charity shop.

  They parked in front of the town’s Chinese restaurant and Blake switched off the engine. Inside the eatery, idle staff peered through the window expectantly. Blake and Stevie disappointed them by crossing the road and heading in the other direction.

  “I see the charity shops ahead,” said Stevie. “I don’t see any museum, though.”

  Blake didn’t either. The shop interiors were flooded with shadows and the only lights came from their blinking alarm consoles.

  There was a sign on the wall between two of the shops.

  REDLAKE HISTORICAL SOCIETY

  No 9, King Street

  TAKE STAIRS

  On the left side of the OXFAM store was a set of stone steps which Blake had never noticed before. The alleyway was so narrow that it was hardly surprising he’d missed it.

  “Place is pretty hidden, huh?” said Stevie.

  “Adds to the charm, I guess. Come on.”

  They headed up the steps to a doorway at the top. A handwritten sign above it read: MUSEUM ENTRANCE.

  The small atrium inside was lined with black and white photographs of the town throughout various decades. The earliest showed nothing but the abbey and the lake. The town’s charter, along with its motto, was housed inside a glass display case in the centre of the room. ‘Keeping back darkness through light of compassion. Redlake Township, established 1868.’

  Blake took a quick look at the charter and learned that Redlake had originally been made of four smaller villages: Shaw, Woodmere Abbey, Craven Hill, and Bodenham.

  Stevie touched Blake’s arm lightly and got him moving again. They opened a door to the left side of the atrium and disturbed a wind chime hanging above. It didn’t prompt anybody to appear, though, and Blake and Stevie found themselves alone in a dusty room not much bigger than a double garage. It looked and smelt like a museum. There was the dry, ancient smell of history, coupled with creaky floorboards and scratched
furniture.

  Stevie wandered around while Blake stayed put, examining an old Saxon axe—or Francisca according to the placard. It’d apparently belonged to a tribal chief, but so much of the iron had worn away that it looked more like a wooden baton than an axe.

  “Where’s this Thatcher guy?” asked Stevie. “Does he just leave all this stuff unattended?”

  “Who’d want to steal it?”

  “Kids’ll take anything if it’s not bolted down.”

  “Now who’s the cynic?”

  “Hey, look,” said Stevie, his mind already moved on, “a suit of armour. Cool.”

  Blake and Stevie crossed to a set of plate mail at the back of the room beside a door marked ‘STAFF ONLY.’ A closed helm sat atop the armour, featuring a pointed visor that gave it the appearance of a duck’s beak.

  “How did they move in these things?” asked Blake, examining the thick plates of steel.

  The set of armour raised an arm towards Stevie and sent him stumbling backwards, frightened. “It’s not as difficult as you might think,” said a voice from inside the helmet. “The armour has hinges and pivots. While it’s certainly not comfortable by today’s standards, it did the job on the battlefield.” The stranger lifted the visor from the helmet and revealed a pair of grey eyes beneath bushy white eyebrows. The man offered a chainmailed hand. “George Thatcher—no relation. I heard you mention my name. Are you here to see me?”

  Blake was at a loss for words. He stared at the old man and found himself quite confused. “I…what…w-what are you doing inside there?”

  “Inside of where? Oh, you mean the suit? Well, entire days can go by without a soul coming in here. One has to find ways to amuse oneself.”

  Stevie chuckled but was still clutching his chest. “So…you just play around in here all day? Nice gig.”

  George Thatcher turned stiffly to face Stevie. The suit of armour squeaked and clonked. “I would much rather this place be busy, but people don’t seem to have much care for the past, tragically.”

  “Why bother opening, then?” asked Stevie. “If people aren’t interested, why waste the time?”

  Thatcher shook his head slowly, as if deeply disappointed. “I don’t do it for them, I do it for the history. Without someone caring, all these memories just disappear. We owe it to the future to preserve the stories of those who came before, and this town has more history than most.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” said Blake.

  Thatcher lifted his heavy arm and pointed. “Follow me to my office and we’ll have a chat.”

  He clumsily led them through the ‘STAFF ONLY’ door into a small back-office that seemed to be a personal study. There was a blanket over an old rocking chair in the corner and a large crucifix on the rear wall.

  “I live in the flat upstairs,” Thatcher explained. “Some nights I don’t make it up there. I’m afraid I’m a bit of a bookworm and some nights I fall asleep at my desk. You must think me strange.”

  Blake looked at the old man standing in a full set of armour and decided on honesty. “Yes, I find you very strange. Strange is what led us here, though.”

  Thatcher tried to take a seat but found himself unable. “I don’t suppose you gentlemen could help me out of this, could you?”

  Blake looked at his brother and frowned, then they both went and helped the old man out of the plate mail. It took a good fifteen minutes.

  When Thatcher was finally free, he was sweating and flustered. He was also wearing a cassock and dog collar beneath his bony chin.

  “Are you still a priest?” Blake asked him.

  Thatcher finally managed to take a seat at his desk. “Reverend. I was Church of England, not Catholic. Not quite as grand but just as good.”

  “So you work for the church?” asked Stevie.

  “No, not anymore, but I still consider myself a man of God. The cassock reassures people of my intentions. I may not be part of the church anymore, but I am still very much willing to give spiritual guidance and aid to those who need it. I’m still a minister, regardless. It’s not something you give up when you leave the pulpit.”

  “Why did you leave?” asked Blake.

  Thatcher laced his slender fingers together and leant on his pointed elbows. “Don’t get me wrong, I love the church, but I found it a little too focused on the minutiae. There’s more to God than Jesus and the Bible. Organised religions are often guilty of missing the bigger picture. I serve God in my own way. A church makes no more or less of a man; it is his mind and his actions that interest the Lord.”

  Blake always thought of himself as a ‘respectful atheist.’ As much as non-believers liked to mock those with faith, thrusting arguments of science and common-sense at them, the truth was that no one knew for sure. The real truth was that no one would know until they were dead, and by then the time for arguing would be over. By that same token, those with belief had no right to condemn those without.

  “Now,” said Thatcher, “what can I help you gentlemen with?”

  “I live at Poe’s Place.” There was an almost imperceptible wrinkle that crossed Thatcher’s brow, but the man said nothing, even as Blake waited. “I’ve recently discovered that people have died in my home. I’ve also come into possession of a picture frame that was buried in my field. Since my son dug it up, it’s almost as if…I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but—”

  “His family is cursed,” Stevie finished for him. “It sounds crazy, we know, but there has been nothing but bad luck for my brother ever since he dug the ugly thing up.”

  Thatcher nodded toward the sackcloth Stevie was holding. “You have it with you, this picture frame?”

  Stevie nodded. He placed the sackcloth on the desk. For now, Thatcher left it where it was.

  “What’s happened to you?” Thatcher asked Blake.

  “What’s happened to me? Where to start…” Blake took a deep breath and then told Thatcher all about the past few days. He finished with the fire in the kitchen. Thatcher remained quiet the whole time, rubbing his hands together and listening intently.

  Thatcher nodded as if he understood everything. There was nothing about the man that suggested incredulity of any kind. “You are overwrought by all of this,” he said. “I do not blame you. There are things in this world that are not of God, and that is not just the holy man in me speaking. I have devoted the last twenty years of my life to studying the history and secrets of this town, and of the universe itself. What do you think originally led me to undertake such a task?”

  “You’ve encountered something like this before,” guessed Blake.

  “A haunted picture frame? No, nothing quite so remarkable. It was the Redlake killings that first shook my faith in the Lord’s ability to protect us.”

  Blake frowned. “What do you mean? What killings?”

  “This town likes to forget, which is why you’ve probably never heard of it, but in 1993 seven children were found drowned in Woodmere Lake beside the abbey. There were no signs of a struggle and no tracks. The children were all from different families and from different parts of town. Somehow, they each left their beds in the middle of the night and converged upon the lake. There, it appears they went into the water willingly and drowned.”

  Stevie covered his mouth. “That’s horrible.”

  “Indeed it is. My role in the church exposed me to the grief and suffering of those families on an intimate level. I wanted answers as much as they did, but none ever came. It was then that I left the church and devoted myself to finding those answers. In twenty years I have found many, believe me. This town is not like others.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Blake.

  “It would take the rest of my life to explain what I know, but trust me when I say that this town is a battleground for forces far beyond our understanding.”

  Blake was beginning to doubt the Thatcher’s sanity. He needed answers that made sense, not self-indulgent ramblings. “I need to know about my house, Poe’s
Place, and the picture frame I found.”

  Thatcher nodded. “Of course you do. Allow me a minute to find what you need.” The old man got up and went back into the museum area. The door closed behind him.

  Blake and Stevie shot each other awkward glances. Coming here had started to feel like a mistake. Thatcher’s ramblings had left Blake feeling silly, and talk about a curse suddenly seemed childish. Had he really believed he was the victim of anything other than plain bad luck?

  Stevie leant forward and grabbed a book from Thatcher’s desk. There was a modern plastic cover wrapped around the faded, original one. “Huh,” he said. “Look at this. The translation says it’s called, The Demise of the Countless Lands. Sounds like a comedy.”

  Blake rolled his eyes. “Put it back before he returns and attacks you with an antique sword.”

  “He’d need a bastard sword to deal with me.” Stevie laughed and continued leafing through the book. “It’s a picture book,” he explained.

  Blake took a quick look. While the words were foreign, possibly Arabic scripture, each page had intricately drawn pictures. One page depicted a legion of animals ripping a man apart; a giant ape stood in the background roaring. Another page showed a graveyard full of dead man rising to their feet and devouring the living. Another image featured a giant metal gate giving birth to an army of frightening monsters pouring through it. The detail was grossly intricate.

  Stevie ran his fingers over the pages reverently. “Wonder what all the pictures mean.”

  “They’re different ways the world has ended,” said Thatcher, appearing in the doorway behind them. There was another large book in his arms.

  “Sorry, did you say the ways the world has ended?”

  Thatcher sat back at his desk. “Not this world, but others like it, yes. You see, God is not an island. He has many counterparts — siblings, if you will. While he is the greatest power of all, he is not the only one.”

  Stevie frowned. “Did you say you’re Church of England?”

  “My title was given to me by the Church of England, yes, but my beliefs have progressed since then. You see, once there was only a single Earth: The Garden of Eden, but that soon became the Garden of Evil as God’s counterparts began to steer humankind away from his divine plan. The lesser gods corrupted mankind and almost destroyed it with a great flood.”