Strangers at the Door: Twelve unsettling tales of horror

by Christopher Henderson

  The girl stopped giggling. Her hand left her mouth and took the other end of her recorder. Her eyes widened in gleeful expectation.

  The traffic noise shifted in tone. Air-brakes hissed. The scream of a horn ended in a hollow, booming thud and the crumple of metal. Tyres screeched a protest. Paul was no longer an active participant in what was happening, merely observing in unthinking blankness as a silvery hatchback skidded sideways past him. Its driver stared calmly out through the shattered windscreen, smiling as she gazed directly at Paul with the flat emotionless eyes of a shark.

  ‘Claire?’

  She gave no sign of recognition.

  Further back in the traffic flow, more vehicles were crashing into one another.

  Then an enormous shadow fell over Paul. It finally granted shade from that hellish sun. He looked around and saw a red, double-decker bus. It was already locked into the inevitability of a slow clockwise slide.

  Its cab heaved around as if it had remembered some vital message it had been supposed to give Paul and was turning back to bring it to him. The vehicle’s slab-like wall swung closer and closer until the bus’s momentum finally overbalanced its centre of gravity, and the massive bulk began to descend.

  With infinite patience, the bus toppled. Its vast weight filled the sky.

  The last sight Paul saw was the poster plastered along the bus’s flank, where a fearsome sun blazed gold against azure in an advert for HPL Travel.

  The advert promised to make customers ‘Experience the Great Outdoors – As Never Before!’

  Roadkiller

  ‘Dave – Jesus! What’s happened?’

  I pushed my brother out of the way, ignoring the concern twisting his usually oh-so-placid features, and hurried into his house. The moment I was in, I closed the door and rattled home the security chain. For all the good that might do.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he repeated.

  I moved quickly down his hallway, sweeping him along in my wake. My old trainers squeaked on the polished wooden floor as I passed the living room. I headed straight to the huge dining room at the rear of the building, and when I got there I collapsed onto one of his poncey designer chairs. Only then did I look him in the eye.

  He looked dazed, and from his tousled hair and elegantly striped towelling robe, I guessed he had been in bed – he always had liked a good night’s sleep, my little brother – but it was clear that adrenalin was flooding his system now, waking him up.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ I said.

  ‘Ben?’ The voice came from upstairs. Sophie was sticking her nose in already. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s only Dave. It’s okay, you stay up there.’

  But she was already scurrying into the room, gripping her matching striped robe tight around her. Defensive. As if I’d ever want to see her scrawny body. Bare of make-up, her pinched face was horribly pale below her angry red hair. She pulled up a chair and sat, peering at me.

  ‘Are you cold?’ asked Ben, frowning.

  It was a fair question. Although much of the day’s summer heat had bled off into the clear night sky it was by no means chilly outside, and he was looking with curiosity at my fleece jacket. I had zipped it closed right up to my throat.

  ‘Let me take that,’ said Sophie, reaching out to relieve me of the jacket.

  ‘No!’

  They both stared at me.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s fine. Really.’

  ‘I think he’s in shock,’ said Ben. He knelt in front of me, projecting professional sympathy. ‘Why don’t you tell us what happened?’

  Any moment now he would wheel in his couch and ask me to lie down and share my feelings.

  ‘There was an accident,’ I said.

  He nodded sympathetically. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I really need a drink.’

  He gave me That Look. Sophie fixed her eyes on the ceiling, lips pursed tight.

  ‘I’m not sure –’ said Ben.

  I stared him out, forcing him to relent, and he poured a surprisingly generous measure of twelve-year-old single malt into a tumbler. For once he had the good grace not to wince when I gulped it down.

  ‘Look, if there’s been an accident you need to report it to the police,’ said Ben.

  ‘Can’t,’ I replied, displaying the empty tumbler. ‘You know my record. They’ll never believe I only had that drink here.’

  Sophie glared at Ben.

  ‘I hadn’t been drinking,’ I insisted. That wasn’t entirely true but I certainly hadn’t been drunk. ‘Look, if I report it to the police I’ll lose my license and then what would I do? Eh?’

  As they tried and failed to come up with an answer to that, I was listening hard but everything was still silent outside. For the moment.

  ‘It’s getting late,’ I said. ‘Can I crash here for the night?’

  Sophie sighed.

  Ben hesitated. The terror I was fighting to keep under control threatened to break out.

  ‘Sure,’ he said at last.

  I released a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

  ‘You can take the spare room,’ he continued. ‘You know where it is. It’s a little untidy but, well…’

  Meaning I was such a slob I wouldn’t care. Too damned right I wouldn’t. I had more important things to worry about. I reached over to the bottle and refilled my tumbler.

  ‘Well?’ said Sophie. ‘You could at least tell us what’s happened.’

  ‘It was just a bump, okay?’ That came out more forcibly than I had intended. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit shaken. Look, I really don’t want to talk about it right now. I’ll tell you everything in the morning, yeah?’

  One way or another, that was never going to happen.

  * * * *

  Just over an hour earlier, nearly eleven p.m. The traffic was light, as usual for a Tuesday night, and I’d been lucky to pick up the fare outside the Coach and Horses. Touting for business in a minicab might be illegal but the way I see it I’m doing these people a favour by driving them home. It just isn’t safe to walk through the empty south London streets at that hour in that condition, and travelling by night bus isn’t much better.

  ‘I just need to swing in here for petrol, love. All right?’

  I glanced into the mirror. She was almost asleep, head lolling as we bounced over the speed bumps, but she murmured what sounded like assent. I had already started to turn into the forecourt before I saw the barriers and the sign saying the garage was closed.

  I swore. The needle was showing almost empty and I knew from experience I’d be lucky to get another hour’s driving from the tank before the gunk got into the engine. Enough to get Blondie in the back home but probably not enough to get me home afterwards, not all the way from Crystal Palace. I twisted the wheel the other way, and accelerated hard back into the main road. I started to hunt around for another garage. I’d need a piss soon as well. I should have had a short earlier, instead of a half: I might still be under the limit then too.

  ‘What was that, love?’ She was giving me directions but the words were so slurred I couldn’t make them out. I looked in the mirror again – and saw her eyes grow wide.

  Maybe I glimpsed it in my peripheral vision, but however I did it I sensed movement on the road ahead of us. My reflexes kicked in and I slammed on the brakes, my seatbelt pulling tight as I was thrown forward in my seat.

  Something crouched out there, caught in the headlights. Too close. We hit whatever it was with a solid, dull thud.

  * * * *

  The distant screech pierced the slumbering Avenue’s self-satisfied calm. The sound raked my spine. A part of me hadn’t quite given up hope, I realized, but there could no longer be any doubt.

  ‘Bloody foxes,’ said Ben. ‘They get worse every year.’ Then the Liberal guilt hit him and he qualified his remark: ‘Can’t blame them, mind you. It’s our fault really, for taking over their territory.’

  It wasn’t a bloody fox. I should know. I hadn’t wanted to get o
ut of the cab but my fare had been an animal lover, and she was out before I could stop her. My would-have-been fare, that is: no chance of getting any money from her now.

  ‘I need a shower,’ I said, emptying my tumbler and standing before they could object.

  ‘Sure, yeah,’ said Ben. ‘There’s, um – there’s a clean towel on the top rack. You can use that.’

  ‘Don’t make too much noise,’ said Sophie. ‘You’ll wake the neighbours.’

  They were probably already awake, I thought. Most likely lying in Egyptian cotton and cursing the ‘foxes’ that had disturbed their rest.

  ‘Well, we’ll leave you to it then,’ said Ben. ‘We’ll get back to bed and, um, see you in the morning.’

  Poor bastard. He’d always been too trusting.

  The screech came again, louder now, a dagger of ice stabbing the summer night. I knew this was my last chance to turn back, but, really, what choice did I have?

  I ran over to Sophie and grabbed her in a tight embrace, almost crushing her. I felt her fragile body tense in my arms.

  ‘Thank you,’ I told her, nestling my head into the hollow of her neck and rubbing as I were a cat, ignoring her appalled discomfort as she strained to pull away. When I eventually released her, she fled to my brother’s side. He looked at me in bemusement, and before he could say anything I hurried over and gripped his hands, shook them, then enfolded him in an embrace too, pressing myself against him and patting him firmly on the back.

  I leaned in as close as I could. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, and I meant it.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he replied, awkwardly hugging me back.

  At last I had to let him go. He paused at the door, as if he wanted to say something but Sophie was already heading to the stairs and tugging at his hand.

  I waited until I heard their bedroom door click shut upstairs, then ripped open the zipper on my jacket. The shirt I wore underneath was soaked and sticky with sweat and blood. The sour, metallic scent of it rose with the heat that had been trapped around my body. It didn’t seem to me to be a terribly strong smell but then I’m not an animal, am I?

  And I’m definitely not an animal like that one.

  * * * *

  ‘Is it dead?’ asked the girl.

  It wasn’t moving. The streetlamps here were bright enough but because of the cab’s headlights behind us our own shadows fell across the creature and so I could make out little more than a heap of dark fur. It was glossy with what must be blood.

  Most likely it was a dog, I thought – something large like a Great Dane – but I could see one of its back feet and I didn’t think dogs had claws like that. As a cabbie, you hear a lot of strange tales and I couldn’t help thinking of those rumours that had resurfaced recently, of the ‘panther’ supposed to roam the suburban jungle round here.

  Behind us the cab growled, burning fuel.

  I leaned over, more for appearance’s sake than to make an actual check of its condition. I intended to pronounce it dead and then get the hell out of here. Then it twitched and its head lurched towards me.

  It wasn’t a panther either. Half its face was gone where I had driven into it, the skull caved in on one side just above where its eyes should have been. But the thing had never had eyes, just unbroken velvet fur stretching from its muscular neck down to the end of its snout, where nostrils pulsated and a mass of fleshy, black feelers writhed like maggots. As I stared, those tentacle-like appendages parted and the thing’s snout cracked open. Streetlight glistened from pointed teeth.

  The creature’s flank heaved. It coughed, and filthy blood sprayed across my front. I stumbled back, and fell against the girl.

  She screamed. But not because of me.

  She was looking at a second creature that stood on the kerb, its black feelers squirming as it swung its blind head away from its dying companion and towards us, its attackers. I saw its powerful haunch muscles tense as it prepared to pounce.

  I reacted on instinct. I can’t be blamed for that. As I scrambled to my feet I gave the girl a hard shove. Her foot twisted and she fell. It leapt onto her, its vicious claws reaching her at the same moment I threw myself back into my cab.

  The engine roar and squeal of tyres as I reversed was almost loud enough to drown the girl’s shrieks as the thing tore her stomach open. I didn’t have enough room to turn around – cars were parked tight along both sides of the road. I slammed the cab back into gear and floored the accelerator, speeding forwards now, racing directly towards the creature. It lifted its blind head, then leaped lithely aside. I thumped over the girl’s body and sped away.

  That was when I heard its screech for the first time, that soul-wrenching cry so full of rage and loss.

  In the rear-view mirror, it sprang from the shadows and gave chase. I kept on going. The creature was shockingly fast as it ran but ultimately it was no match for a car.

  I drove until the fuel ran out. I can’t recall the exact moment I realized I was nearing my brother’s neighbourhood but I do know that by the time the sputtering engine forced me to pull over I had already made up my mind what I had to do.

  Yes, I had put plenty of distance between me and the creature, but every few minutes I heard its far-off screech and I had no doubt it was still coming for me.

  The girl had left half a bottle of mineral water on the back seat, and I did what I could to wash the blood from my hands and face before pouring what was left of the water over my head. An old fleece jacket I had kept in the boot concealed the mess on my shirt, and I zipped it up to the top as I jogged the rest of the way to Ben’s house.

  * * * *

  A car alarm erupted. It was close.

  I had to do this.

  Fighting down my panic, I forced myself to take time to unbutton the shirt rather than try to rip it off. I couldn’t risk getting tangled in it.

  Quickly, quietly, I walked from my brother’s dining room to his front door.

  The car alarm stopped. Outside, something hard as bone skittered against pavement.

  I dropped the ruined shirt onto the spotless floorboards of my brother’s hallway. With my foot, I slid it to the thin gap at the base of the door where the air from inside mingled with the cooler night breeze.

  Something was definitely rustling in the bushes out in the front garden. I thought I heard a low growl, but it was difficult to tell over the rush of blood in my head. My pulse hammered in my throat.

  This was it. I stripped off the rest of my clothes and bundled them tight in my arms.

  Gently, I lifted off the security chain. I unlatched the front door. And then I ran up the stairs.

  At the top, I tossed my bundle of clothes onto the landing outside Ben’s bedroom. Even before they landed I was locking the bathroom door behind me. I hit the button and the shower burst into life.

  Downstairs, the front door banged open.

  With the shower on full, I scrubbed frantically at my skin to get rid of the scent. Seeing an entire shelf full of Sophie’s expensive body products, I grabbed these at random, squeezing creams and lotions all over my body and lathering myself in a dizzying bouquet of floral perfumes.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ yelled Sophie through the wall.

  The house shook as something pounded up the stairs.

  Sophie screamed.

  I closed my eyes tight against the foaming mixtures but they could not shut out the memory of those obscene black feelers, writhing and squirming as the blind creature sniffed at the air, reliant on its primary sense – smell – to hunt its prey. I clasped my hands over my ears to drown out Sophie’s cries and Ben’s shouts as he ran to her aid.

  Hot water jetted over me, sluicing away sweat, blood, and soap, but not the guilt.

  Yet I prayed that my brother’s scent would prove similar enough to my own, now that it was mingled with the smell of the dead creature’s blood.

  Another screech ripped the air. I thought I detected a note of triumph in it.

  I hoped I did.
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  Farewell Performance

  ACT ONE

  Too late to turn back now.

  The queue surged another few paces, carrying him along. Aiden tried to appear relaxed as he looked around at the leather-and-PVC-clad, pierced and tattooed crowd that engulfed him. He did not fit in, but at least his work suit was a dark navy, almost black, and might offer some camouflage. He undid his top shirt button and loosened his tie.

  His fingers were sweaty, and when he retrieved the square of glossy paper from his pocket he saw that the moisture had started to shred the corner he had been gripping. He was beginning to wish he had never been given the flyer, or at least that he had ignored it.

  In fact, he still wasn’t entirely certain who had given it to him. His best guess was that it had happened as he’d boarded the Tube that morning, that it had been pressed into his hand by that girl as she’d pushed past him and out through the closing doors. He’d caught little more than a glimpse of her face: her head had been bowed, hidden beneath a dark hood as the rush hour horde swallowed her.

  Or perhaps it hadn’t been her at all.

  As the carriage had heaved itself away from the platform, he had uncrumpled the flyer and found it to be an advert. Apparently, there was to be some sort of performance at a place called the Travellers’ Playhouse. The top third of the black paper showed nothing but a curious logo: the thin crescent of an almost fully waned moon whose upper extremity rested against that of its own mirror image to form an arch. A soft silvery green glow surrounded this lunar doorway, and beneath it, in a flowing antique font, were the words ‘Planetes’ and, slightly smaller on the line below, ‘Magickal Show’. At the bottom was printed: ‘Tonight only, 9 p.m.’ and the names of the theatre and street. There was nothing else.

  Mostly, it was the odd word that had intrigued him. Planetes. From some almost forgotten TV show he seemed to recall that ‘planetes’ was the Greek word for ‘wanderers’, and that it was the root of the word planet – those points of light in the night sky that did not stay set in constellations like normal stars but instead seemed to wander the heavens.