Horror Stories to Tell in the Dark

by Anthony Masters

  Although Mrs Jackson was well into her seventies, there was very little wrong with her except what she called her ‘gammy’ leg. Whatever it was, she walked with a decided limp and, because we lived next door, I ran errands for her from time to time and came to know her well.

  Her cottage was completely traditional, from the roses round the door to the herbaceous border, and the daintiest curtains to the garden gnomes fishing around the miniature pond. Mrs Jackson regularly arranged the altar flowers in the church, and was also responsible for a special event that had become a fixture in the social calendar of Little Ashington Under Wold – the annual children’s party.

  ‘You see, my dear Gill,’ she had told me, ‘nothing pleases me more than the look of delight in the dear children’s eyes as they come into my sitting-room and see the spread I’ve laid out for them on the table.’

  Yes – they were delighted, but it was more greed than appreciation of her display, although they always thanked Mrs Jackson very nicely. Sponge cakes, chocolate cakes, fruitcakes, marzipan cakes, doughnuts, jam tarts, bridge rolls, sandwiches and much, much more – all home-made and absolutely delicious. Some of the children came from the village, but most were from a rundown housing estate on the outskirts, where there was much poverty and deprivation. Mrs Jackson was nothing if not aware of modern-day problems.

  ‘Poor little mites,’ she told me. ‘If their parents can’t afford to give them a treat then surely I can.’

  The vicar beamed and rubbed his hands, making a little speech at the end of each feast. ‘Well, children, I think we should all give three cheers for kind Mrs Jackson and her scrumptious teas. They’ve become quite a tradition, haven’t they? And what a spread they are –’

  The cheers were always deafening and Mrs Jackson flushed with pleasure.

  But there was only one drawback, one spectre at the feast, and that was Billy Baxter. He never cheered, never clapped, never said thank you. Shaped like a ferret, with a long chin and tiny eyes, Billy was dressed shabbily and was generally considered to be the most deprived of the deprived. He was also exceptionally rude, and several times when Mrs Jackson had gently chided him for his appalling table manners he had called her an ‘old git’. But all she ever said was, ‘He’s such a sad little boy and I gather his mother is on her own. We must make allowances, mustn’t we, Gill?’

  Billy Baxter, however, did seem to have it in for Mrs Jackson, and he ran a real campaign of hatred against her. Maybe he thought she was patronizing, maybe he didn’t like being reprimanded, maybe he thought she was a snob, but he continually gave her considerable doses of verbal abuse.

  One day, on the way back to school, I ran into Billy lurking outside the newsagents. ‘Buy me some sweets,’ he whined.

  ‘Buy your own,’ I said sternly.

  ‘I’m poor.’

  ‘Get a job.’

  ‘Too young.’

  ‘Run some errands.’

  ‘Like you do for that old git Jackson?’

  ‘She’s not an old git,’ I replied clearly and calmly, as if he was very stupid. ‘Mrs Jackson is a very generous lady.’

  Billy picked his nose and examined the contents with interest.

  I decided that this was not a conversation I was going to continue, so I tried to push past him, but Billy resisted, and although I was much bigger than he was I didn’t want to run the risk of the embarrassment of having a shoving match with him in public.

  ‘Get out of the way,’ I said.

  ‘Only if you buy me some sweets.’

  ‘I’ll buy you a razor-blade if you’ll cut your throat.’

  ‘Shove off.’

  ‘I will,’ I said, turning away furiously. ‘I’ll come back when the pavement isn’t blocked by a rat.’

  Feeling somehow that I had come off worse I walked off smartly back down the village street to a torrent of insults from Billy. I was blinking back angry tears of humiliation, when Mrs Jackson walked brightly out of the Copper Kettle tearooms.

  ‘Why, Gill – what’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘But there is. You’re crying.’ She glanced up and down the street, and then Mrs Jackson’s eyes rested on Billy’s retreating back as he pushed his way into the newsagents. She turned back to me, full of understanding, but all she said was, ‘We must make allowances, mustn’t we?’

  For the life of me I couldn’t think why. Billy was just selfish and ill-mannered. What was more, I found myself almost jealous of Mrs Jackson’s tolerance.

  ‘Hello, dear.’ It was the day before the annual party and I knocked on Mrs Jackson’s damson-painted door to see if I could be of any help. She was looking sprightly and wearing an apron embroidered with rabbits. Her hair was drawn back into a pale-blue scarf and the interior of the cottage smelt deliciously of baking.

  ‘Do you want a hand?’ I asked.

  ‘Or two?’ She smiled lovingly at me. ‘Do come in and try my cheese scones. It’s a new recipe and I’m not sure if it quite works.’

  Of course it did – they were delicious. Standing in her pretty red-and-white kitchen, surrounded by labelled tins and jars, with crocheted texts hanging on the walls and pots and pans sparkling on the Welsh dresser, I revelled yet again in Mrs Jackson’s special aura of warmth and comfort.

  ‘Has that Baxter boy been troubling you again, dear?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ I lied.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Oh, he’s just a pain. I can handle him.’

  ‘He’s just one of God’s little children, after all. Of course, I’ve had to speak to Billy about his unfortunate habit of picking his nose, but I only mean it for the best. It is so unhygienic’

  ‘What did he say to you?’ I asked warily.

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t tell you that, dear. It’s far too unpleasant.’

  ‘I’ll fix him.’

  ‘Oh no.’ She gave me a warm, ungrudging smile. ‘I’m sure he’ll soon see the error of his ways. Now – I want to tell you about my centrepiece.’

  Mrs Jackson’s party-table centrepieces were legendary, and the vicar had called them ‘overwhelming’. Still, that was the vicar – he made everything sound larger than life. Every year she created something different: a huge chocolate chicken, a monster jelly in the shape of one of Cinderella’s ugly sisters, an immense gingerbread cottage, an ice-cream mountain with a train running through it; a spaceship made of marzipan. So I waited with anticipation for news of what the latest one was to be.

  ‘Here we are.’ She went to a cupboard and produced a large cap with a bell on top.

  ‘What’s that for?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t you recognize little Noddy’s hat?’ Mrs Jackson gave me a merry smile. ‘I’m going to make a giant head out of cake – fruitcake – and I shall decorate it with icing sugar, marzipan, glacé cherries and hundreds and thousands. Do you think the kiddies will like that?’

  ‘Of course they will,’ I said fervently. ‘It’s a lovely idea.’

  A little later we both walked down to the village shop. It was late on Saturday afternoon and the sun was still high in a glorious July sky. As we approached the duck pond, Mrs Jackson produced bread from her wicker basket and, as usual, began to scatter chunks on to the water. The ducks arrived in a flurry and soon the air was raucous with their cries. Then I heard a nasal voice.

  ‘Fancy wasting bread on them lot.’

  I wheeled round to see Billy Baxter, his lips parted in a goading leer.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  He looked even more ferret-like than ever.

  ‘Why don’t you push off then?’ I asked him.

  ‘Just watching Lady Muck get rid of her leftovers,’ he said casually.

  I had a sudden longing to shove Billy in the pond, so I grabbed his shirt and held him at arm’s length while he tried to kick me. Good thing I’m so tall.

  Just as he was swearing at me, Mrs Jackson, who had apparently been lost in thought, swun
g round on us and said, ‘Let him go, dear.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Let him go.’

  I did as she told me and he stood there glowering at us, too surprised and frightened to take a running kick at me as he would have liked to. Instead, Billy contented himself with renewed abuse.

  ‘You should be arrested,’ he said.

  ‘Why’s that, Billy?’ asked Mrs Jackson gently.

  ‘You let her beat me up.’

  ‘I don’t think she’s hurt you.’

  ‘She assaulted me – tore my shirt. Look.’ He pulled at a hole, making it bigger. ‘It’s the only one I got.’

  ‘Clear off,’ I yelled, making tracks for Billy again. This time I’d get him by the throat, I promised myself.

  But Mrs Jackson raised a hand. ‘Please leave him,’ she said. I paused, while she inspected Billy Baxter rather as if he were a Victorian waif. ‘Listen,’ she said to him. ‘Why don’t you do something useful?’

  ‘Who? Me?’ He seemed aghast.

  ‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘Why don’t you come home with me and give me a hand with the party preparations for tomorrow – and maybe sample some of the food I’m preparing. Just to tell me how it tastes.’

  I stood there in silence, completely stunned as I saw my own role suddenly taken over by Billy. Why was she doing this?

  Mrs Jackson turned back to me with one of her most understanding smiles. ‘I know Billy is very rude …’

  ‘Oi –’ he began, but then remembered the food and kept quiet.

  ‘But he hasn’t had the chances other little boys have had, have you, Billy?’

  ‘No, miss,’ he replied demurely.

  I could have thrown up.

  ‘So I’ll see you tomorrow, Gill. I do hope you can come and help.’

  ‘I’ll see if I’ve got time,’ I said, stiff with offence.

  ‘I’ve got a little surprise, dear – specially for you and for me, so I hope you will be able to come along.’

  As they walked off together, I saw that Billy had taken her arm and was helping her along. The sight both infuriated me and made me jealous at the same time.

  I slept badly that night, for I kept dreaming of Billy yelling at Mrs Jackson – and the old lady taking it, whilst she carried a great big tray of doughnuts with the jam welling out of them into her sitting-room.

  The next afternoon, feeling tired and left-out, I went round to Mrs Jackson’s cottage at the appointed time. The children were noisily gathered round the huge spread, the vicar was talking cheerfully to them and not being listened to, and Mrs Jackson was clattering about in the kitchen, singing a sweet and uplifting hymn, as she often did when she was preparing a treat.

  I knocked on the door. ‘Can I come in?’ I asked hesitantly.

  ‘Wait a minute, dear.’

  ‘Have you got Billy in there with you?’

  ‘I certainly have. Just go into the sitting-room and I’ll bring in my centrepiece.’

  Dutifully, but with considerable ill-feeling, I did as I was told.

  The vicar was saying jovially, ‘Now, children, shall we all be little dogs and say bow-wow?’

  ‘Bow-wow!’ they all shouted noisily.

  ‘And little cats and say miaow.’

  ‘Miaow!’ they wailed, with considerable increase in volume.

  ‘And little donkeys and say ee-aw.’

  ‘Ee-aw!’

  The vicar came over to my side. ‘Now I wonder what’s keeping the good Mrs Jackson – she of the busy hands and the kind heart?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied dully.

  ‘I’m afraid my abilities as an entertainer are running thin,’ he confessed.

  ‘So sorry to keep you waiting.’ Mrs Jackson was slightly flustered. ‘I’ve just been arranging my centrepiece. Now – let’s turn the lights out, shall we?’

  ‘Mrs Jackson,’ I ventured.

  ‘Yes, dear?’

  ‘Are you feeling quite well?’ Her face was flushed, perspiration was standing out on her forehead and her eyes were feverishly staring ahead. Did she have flu? Could she have been drinking? And where was the wretched Billy Baxter?

  ‘Are you ready, children?’

  ‘Yes!’ they yelled.

  ‘Vicar?’

  ‘I’m ravenous, Mrs Jackson,’ he confessed.

  ‘I’m so glad. Just one minute.’ She disappeared back into the kitchen and then returned bearing Noddy’s head on a big silver tray. ‘I do hope you like this, children.’

  The clapping and cheering began, but quickly trickled away and the vicar whispered something indistinguishable. Then I took a closer look. I don’t remember much more except that it must have been my screams that started everyone else off.

  It wasn’t Noddy’s head on the tray after all, surrounded by so many glowing candles. Billy Baxter was there instead – his mouth wide open in a permanent scream and the bloodied stump of his neck ruffled in coloured paper.

  I hadn’t realized how much Mrs Jackson hated him.

  The group round the crackling flames of the campfire were silent with shock.

  ‘It’s amazing how many weird people there are out there/ said Jules, a Haitian living in London. ‘Let me tell you about Madame Simone. She practises voodoo from her flat in South London.’

  6

  Voodoo

  Marie-Denise was terrified of the joyriders who screeched their stolen cars around the Bloxham Estate in South London at night. She was eleven, and her parents had gone back to Haiti because there was some trouble at home, so her gran was looking after her and the twins. She wasn’t so much worried about herself – it was Jean-Luc and Duval that gave her such concern. In their parents’ absence the two nine-year-olds had got completely out of control and would run round the estate late at night, despite her best efforts to find them.

  ‘They’re devils,’ Gran would pronounce, standing on the balcony of Wessex House, looking at them charging across the muddy grass of the so-called ‘landscaped’ area below. ‘I can’t control them.’

  ‘The trouble is,’ said Marie-Denise, ‘there’s nothing to do here.’

  Her statement was all too true. There was a large number of signs around the blocks firmly stating NO BALL GAMES, and the only official nod to the existence of children was a rusty climbing-frame and a swing that had lost its chains.

  ‘I don’t care,’ replied Gran obscurely. ‘Those two are heading for trouble.’

  Later that evening, just as dusk was falling, Marie-Denise and Gran watched some joyriders arrive in a stolen VW Golf. They did handbrake turns, and a crowd of teenagers and children, which included the twins, watched them skid the VW round with an appalling screaming of tyres.

  Because the estate was rough it had become a no-go area for the police, and normally the joyriders remained unpunished. Even now they were squealing round the service roads with kids running after them, and Marie-Denise could see Jean-Luc and Duval jumping up and down in excitement.

  ‘I’ll go and get them,’ she said firmly, and her gran sighed.

  ‘You can bring them back, but they’ll be out again in seconds.’

  ‘No, they won’t.’

  But as Marie-Denise ran down the stairs she knew all too well that her gran was right. The boys’ hours of captivity were limited. The teacher at school said they were both a ‘pain’, and ‘what could you expect with the mother away like she is?’ But what could anyone expect here, Marie-Denise thought as she emerged into a wilderness of graffiti-smeared concrete, grey and unending, with the rubbish piled up on the pavements, burnt-out cars in the basement garage and closed shops, protected by steel shutters. The only traders who had stayed on were the industrious family who had a newsagent and an off-licence which had expanded into a grocery. They also had shutters, which at least protected them and their merchandise from ram-raiders.

  Now, as she strode towards the watching crowd, Marie-Denise felt vulnerable. She knew one of the joyriders, a bumptious and overconfident fou
rteen-year-old known as Terry Caxton. He continually mocked her at school, partly because she was protective towards Jean-Luc and Duval, and partly because he wanted her to notice him – which she determinedly didn’t. ‘Little mummy,’ Terry called her, and she hated him more than she had ever hated anyone. She always stood up to Terry, never allowing him to get the better of her, but this seemed to be a challenge and made him goad her even more.

  Marie-Denise pushed her way to the front of the crowd and made an ineffective grab at Jean-Luc and Duval but, well practised, they quickly evaded her and ran over to the other side of the road. The brand-new, stolen VW Golf was backing up fast, and behind the wheel was the grinning face of Terry Caxton. What was worse, he saw her and revved the car fiercely, showing off, his twelve-year-old brother sitting beside him in the passenger seat.

  Then Terry’s hands slipped off the wheel and he temporarily lost control of the VW, which mounted the pavement, scattering spectators and narrowly missing Jean-Luc and Duval. Because they were quick-witted and athletic, the twins managed to leap out of the way, but it was a close thing. Terry had the car back under control in seconds, but Marie-Denise fellinto a boiling rage. As the VW came to a halt beside her, she hammered on the driver’s window with her fists, screaming at him.

  Grinning provocatively, Terry wound down the glass. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked maliciously.

  ‘You raving idiot. You nearly killed them.’

  ‘Little mummy.’

  Speechless with fury, Marie-Denise slapped Terry around his sallow features as hard as she could, while his brother chortled with excitement. For once Terry looked nonplussed, and the crowd pressed forward, scenting trouble.

  ‘You’ll regret that,’ he said, his usual bravado grin rather automatic.

  ‘I enjoyed it.’

  ‘Know what your twins asked me the other day?’ he sneered.

  ‘I don’t want to hear.’ But Marie-Denise knew something bad was coming by the look of sudden delight in Terry’s ash-grey eyes.

  ‘They asked me if I’d take them joyriding.’ His moment of triumph was complete.