The BIG Horror Pack 2

by Iain Rob Wright

  Blake spread out the contents of the folder and searched through the various documents. Many were photos he’d printed from the net or scanned from other books—the wicked scowls of men like Ted Bundy, Fred West, Richard Ramirez, Albert Fish, and Jeffrey Dahmer—but those killers were all dead. Blake needed someone alive, so he kept searching until he’d gathered a small pile of still-living sociopaths: Dennis Rader, the BTK Killer; Gary Ridgeway, The Green River Killer; Rose West; Karla Homolka; Peter Sutcliffe; Russell Williams; and Ian Brady. All evil, living predators.

  Blake found a certain poetic justice in choosing the two he felt were most violent to women. They would die to save Liz. Blake chose Gary Ridgeway, killer of up to ninety people, mostly prostitutes, and Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper. Few men deserved to die as much as he did.

  Blake placed the sackcloth on top of the files and slid the picture frame free. His eyes immediately fell on the man who’d been stabbed to death last night—David. Stevie had killed Cindi’s lover with only a candid snapshot. The world was a different place than it had been a week ago.

  Blake held the photographs of Rader and Sutcliffe and inspected them. He wanted to double-check there was no one else in the picture who would be harmed, but each was a mug shot taken upon their initial arrests. The classic image of a serial killer.

  “Well, Mr Rader, Mr Sutcliffe, may you burn in Hell and have your crimes haunt you forever, but I thank you for giving your lives for my wife and me.”

  Blake lined the printed photographs up with the frame and started to slide them beneath the glass. The slit was narrow and it was no easy task. Each time he tried to slide the mug shots down, they crumpled at the bottom and refused to go in. Blake got more and more frustrated as he fought with the frame, trying to get the glass to part with the wood. He even switched to photographs of other killers, seeing if they’d work instead, but it was no use. Whatever Stevie had managed to do last night, Blake could not replicate. It made no sense.

  Blake might have broken down weeping then, if not for the doorbell ringing. He flinched and dropped the photographs, leaving them to spill back onto the pile on his desk.

  The doorbell rang again.

  Stevie had got help like he promised, thought Blake. He raced down the hall to the front door and sure enough there was someone standing outside in the rain. The downpour hitting the windowpane made it impossible to identify the stranger, but when Blake opened the door, he was surprised by who it was. He’d expected a paramedic or a police officer, but instead…

  “Thatcher? What are you doing here?”

  “Your brother swung by on his way to the train station. He said you needed help.”

  “I needed help last night, but you didn’t have any.”

  “Well,” said Thatcher, “that was before your brother told me what happened to his wife’s lover. Your son, Ricky. He is safe now, yes? I’m here to get him to safety.”

  24

  Blake took Thatcher into the living room to see Liz. When the old man saw the state of her, he covered his mouth. “Dear Lord. She doesn’t have long left, I fear.”

  “How could this happen?” asked Blake. “How could a stupid picture frame make Liz so sick?”

  Thatcher took a seat on the vacant sofa and leant forward onto his knees. “Most curses cannot be so bold as to act directly on a person. They must instead conspire to create bad luck that will eventually lead to the victim’s ruin or death. It is easier for evil to manipulate than to control. The evil does not wish to make itself known directly, lest it be extinguished. Forgive me for saying, Mr Price, but I can only assume that your wife was in a compromised state of mind when she succumbed to this illness. Was she depressed or mentally ill?”

  Blake didn’t get angry, there was no point. “She was…unhappy, drinking a lot—too much.”

  Thatcher nodded knowingly. “A Bishop I once knew used to say that booze was the devil’s strongest tool. He might’ve been right on that account. Your wife’s diminished mental faculties allowed Boruta’s evil to invade her. She is dying from within, tainted by the evil inside of her.”

  “How do I save her?”

  Thatcher shook his head. “Your brother told me that you passed the curse from your son to a man. That man is now dead?”

  Blake nodded. “It was late last night, right after we changed the picture.”

  Thatcher laced his fingers together. “Interesting. From what I understand about curses, once unleashed they are a force of nature, no different to heat or velocity. They cannot be stopped or extinguished, only transferred or converted. Last night I believe that is exactly what happened. Your brother killed a man to save your son. While murder is inherently wrong, I would’ve been most saddened to see your young boy die. The situation is not ideal, but it is perhaps bordering on ethical. I just hope that this man was as immoral as your brother described him.”

  “I don’t know,” said Blake. “To be honest, I don’t care. I only care that Ricky’s safe. He is safe, right?”

  “I believe so, yes. That is why I am here, to take him away from this place. Your brother told me that accidents are beginning to converge upon you and that wild beasts surround the house.”

  “Foxes.”

  “Yes, foxes. Those bones you said you found with the picture frame, I believe they belonged to a fox. Boruta had some degree of dominion over beasts, it appears. When he buried the frame, he must have bound a fox’s spirit to it. The foxes surrounding this house are the bloodline descendants of that original fox—several generations. They are all bound to protect the frame and see that its work is done.”

  “Will the curse bring Boruta back?”

  “I do not know, but if that is the case, we are powerless to stop it. I will be here, to oppose whatever may come.”

  Blake shook his head in disgust. “You’re not here to help me, are you? You’re not going to help Liz?”

  “The truth is that nobody can help your wife. Her soul is sick and no doctor in the world could help her. I am here because your son is in danger. The curse cannot act on you directly, so it will seek to bring about your peril. There can often be collateral damage in such things. Ricky is no longer cursed. He should be free to leave, as was your brother.”

  “That’s why the foxes attacked me and not him?”

  Thatcher nodded. “The picture frame seeks only those who are within its grasp, or threaten it directly.”

  “You have to help me!” Blake realised he was yelling. “You’re a man of God.”

  “Yes, I most certainly am, but I cannot break a curse that cannot be broken.”

  “But you can help me pass it on. Please, come with me.” Blake led Thatcher to the study and showed him the photos of Rader and the other murderers. “These men are evil. I’ve been trying to get them inside the picture frame, to take the place of Liz and me, but—”

  “But you cannot. I know.” Thatcher picked up the photograph of Rader and examined it. “You cannot transfer the curse because you are the subject of it. Your brother was able to save your son because the picture frame has no power over him, but you cannot uncurse yourself. Believe me, evil does not make things easy for good men.”

  “You can do it,” said Blake. “You can swap the photos for me.”

  Thatcher bore into him with his steely-grey eyes. “I will not.”

  “Why? These men are all evil. They deserve to die.”

  “That is for God to decide.”

  “God isn’t here. How can anything be his decision?”

  Thatcher looked wounded. “I will not commit murder, regardless of the intended victim. Blood tarnishes a man’s soul irreparably and one day we will all be judged.”

  Blake felt like spitting in the man’s face. “Then you condemn me and my wife to death.”

  “A death with a clean conscience is a valuable commodity, Mr Price. The universe is in turmoil, but I believe we still go somewhere after we die and that our final destination will mirror the lives we lead. If I pre
-meditatively help you kill a man, no matter how deserving, I would fear for my soul. You should also consider your final actions, for they may condemn you. The way to save yourself is not by taking the life of another. I will not help you with it.”

  “Then get the hell out of my house. You came all this way to once again give me nothing. You act like you’re this servant of good, but you’re totally benign. You study the lives of others and do nothing yourself. If you were a character in one of my books, I could cut you without changing the plot in the slightest.”

  “Not all of us are meant to be heroes, Mr Price. Some of us are just here to take notes so that future generations don’t forget.”

  Blake shook his head. He had nothing to say to this old man who thought he was a modern day Homer. “You need to go now, Mr Thatcher.”

  “Do you not see that your son is in danger? The cottage could burn down, or Boruta himself might appear. Do you want Ricky here if that happens?”

  Blake wavered. What if something did happen to him while Ricky was watching? Would he ever get the image out of his young mind? Would he be collateral damage, as Thatcher suggested? What if Boruta’s return was real? Would he hurt Ricky?

  “I don’t know you,” said Blake, thrusting a pointing finger at Thatcher, “and I sure as hell don’t trust you.”

  “But I am all you have. Let me take your boy to my museum. Your brother left me his number. I will call him the moment we arrive. My car is parked out on the road.”

  Blake stamped. “There must be something I can do.”

  “Perhaps,” said Thatcher, “but if there isn’t, the only thing you can do is get your son away from here. Your brother killed a man to save him. Don’t let that be in vain. I am an old man, Mr Price. If your son were in any danger with me, he would no doubt be able to escape with the greatest of ease.”

  Blake thought about how athletic his son was and how frail Thatcher looked. “I swear to God, if you hurt him—”

  Thatcher smiled glumly. “There is little point swearing to God, but I understand your threat and I take it seriously. Now, get your son before it is too late. That thunderstorm outside begins and ends at your property.”

  Blake watched the sheets of rain falling down the windows for a second and then turned to Thatcher. “What?”

  “The sun is shining in the town of Redlake only two miles away. The rain is over Poe’s Place and Poe’s Place alone. I believe the evil in this place has corrupted the very air itself.”

  Blake went to get Ricky. Five minutes later they were all standing in the hallway, helping Ricky into his coat. “Now,” said Blake. “Mr Thatcher here is going to take you to his museum. You know it’s not safe here, don’t you?”

  Ricky nodded. “I want to stay and help you and Mum.”

  “You can’t. It’s too dangerous. The best thing you can do right now is go with Mr Thatcher so I know that you’re safe. I know you’re worried, but I need to figure this out on my own, okay? Uncle Stevie will come and get you the first chance he gets.”

  Ricky didn’t look happy about it, but he nodded. Thatcher patted the boy on his back, which made Blake flinch with uncertainty.

  Thatcher seemed to sense his doubt. “He’ll be fine, Mr Price, I promise. If I find anything to help you and your wife, I will come back. That, I also promise.”

  Blake nodded and opened the front door. The rain flew in sideways and hammered his face. The air felt thick in his nostrils and thunder rumbled overhead, warning him to stay inside.

  Ricky stepped out, followed by Thatcher. Despite the danger of doing so, Blake went with them. The foxes peered out from the waterlogged bushes.

  “Please, Mr Price, you must go back inside.”

  “I’m walking you up the drive. If these foxes want to come at me, then let them. I’m not going anywhere until I know Ricky is safely out of here.”

  “Mr Price, please.”

  Ricky pulled away from Thatcher and crept towards the bushes. The foxes snarled at him from the shadows.

  “Ricky, get back here,” shouted Blake.

  Ricky turned back and nodded, but before he did, he pointed at one of the foxes. “You hurt my Mum and Dad and I’ll be back with the men in red coats to hunt you all down.”

  Thatcher gathered Ricky back to his side and the two of them started up the driveway towards an old mini metro parked at the side of the road. “If I can find a way to help you, Mr Price, I will be back. Just try to hold on until—”

  There was a sudden crack, like the snap of a whip. The gloomy day lit up for a split second with blinding white light. Sparks and flames filled the air as lightning struck the oak trees overhanging the driveway.

  “Ricky!” Blake ran towards his son, but was headed off by the foxes springing from their hiding spaces.

  The treetops ignited.

  A large oak branch came loose and fell onto the driveway. Thatcher shoved Ricky aside, where he fell and skidded face-down on the wet gravel. Screaming, Blake managed to leap on top of his son and shield him.

  The tree limb came down on Thatcher. Hearing the old man’s screams was a terror in itself, but Blake was more concerned by the foxes immediately converging on the wounded reverend.

  “Get back,” Blake shouted at the animals while still covering his son. “Get back!”

  Thatcher bellowed in agony. The heavy tree limb lay across his legs, pinning him to the driveway.

  The foxes snapped and snarled. Blake sprung to his feet and kicked out at them, trying to keep them back. Thatcher was losing consciousness, his cries of agony quickly becoming incoherent whimpers. He reached out to Blake but didn’t seem to understand who he was.

  Blake fought foxes off on all sides, kicking and shouting at them, but there were too many. Thatcher could not move and Blake was already growing tired. He kicked out again but rolled his ankle. He yelped in pain and fell to one knee. The foxes surrounded him.

  “Hey, I warned you.” Ricky suddenly clobbered one of the foxes with a flying kick. The stunned animal hit the ground and rolled a full turn, yowling in pain. Another fox tried to circle behind Ricky, but received a hefty boot to the muzzle for its efforts. Several more foxes tried to attack, but none even came close. Eventually they all backed away, snarling.

  “Get up, Dad.” Ricky helped Blake to his feet.

  “We need to get him inside,” said Blake, pointing to Thatcher. He and Ricky grabbed a hold on the tree limb and frantically tried to shift it. They pushed their whole bodies against it. Thatcher regained consciousness and yelled with renewed agony.

  Blake grunted with effort. “Ricky…when I say go, I want you…to pull Thatcher’s legs out.”

  Ricky nodded.

  Blake leant against the limb and took some deep breaths. Then: “One…two…three—naaagh.”

  The tree limb began to move. Thatcher screamed louder. Then his legs came free and he whimpered with relief. Ricky dragged him aside.

  The foxes were coming back, regrouped and refocused.

  “Ricky, help me get him in the house.”

  They grabbed Thatcher beneath the arms and dragged him towards the house. The puddles underfoot sucked at their feet with every step and Blake’s twisted ankle was already swelling. The foxes closed in on them, forming an impenetrable wall.

  However, they did not attack. They wanted Blake back inside the house, and that’s where he was headed.

  The question on his mind was: why hadn’t they let Thatch leave?

  25

  They got Thatcher inside the house and dragged him into the family room, dumping him on one of the recliners. Blake inspected the damage to his legs and winced. The left shinbone was sticking out through Thatcher’s trousers and there was a lot of blood.

  Ricky looked like he was going to faint. Blake patted him on the shoulder and looked at him. “You did good. If you hadn’t fought the foxes off…”

  “They don’t want me,” said Ricky. “They want you and Thatcher.”

  Blake nodded.
The foxes had seemed to want Thatcher, but they’d wanted nothing to do with Ricky. The tree limb had been intended for Thatcher and Thatcher alone.

  The thunder outside boomed and charcoal clouds drifted in front of the sun. The world grew dark.

  “Ricky, get some candles from the hallway and light them. There should be some matches under the bar.”

  Ricky looked relieved to have a reason to get away from Thatcher’s sickening wound and got moving immediately.

  Thatcher started to murmur. He shivered and whimpered every few seconds, as the pain continued to wrack him, but he managed to talk. “You…you have to push down on it.”

  Blake frowned. “Push down on it?”

  “The…the bone. It’ll restrict my blood flow if you don’t set it back in place.”

  Blake looked at the jutting bone and didn’t think he was able to do what he was being asked.

  “Trust me,” said Thatcher. “I was an Army Chaplain for nine years. You need to push down on it. Just do it quick, with both hands.”

  Blake swallowed a lump in his throat. He let both of his palms hover over the jutting shin bone and closed his eyes. His breathing was rushed and shallow; he was beginning to panic.

  “Come on, Price.” Thatcher let out a pained growl. “You write about murder for a living, so this should be child’s play. Just…just think of it as research for all the books you’re going to write after this is all over.”

  Blake pushed down hard with both palms like he was pressing a buzzer in some bizarre quiz show. An anguished moan escaped his lips, like he was the one in pain.

  Thatcher yelled so loudly that his face bulged and went red. Just when it seemed he was going to burst a blood vessel, he fell unconscious.

  Ricky returned with the candles and quickly lit some of them. His face was grazed and bleeding, but he didn’t complain. “Is he okay, Dad?”

  “Yeah, he just passed out.” Blake took one of the candles and held it over Thatcher’s leg. The shin bone was no longer sticking out and the bleeding had stopped. The old man was so out of it that he’d started snoring.