ART: A Novel of Extreme Horror and Gore

by Matt Shaw

  Our hope is that fans of each of our work individually might use this book to consider looking into the back catalogue of the other. For as much as our styles are very different, we found working together on this book was an incredibly smooth process. The violence and depravity of Matt’s words as he wrote as the killer, were hopefully contrasted with the uncertainty and inability to express his feelings for his wife and the world as a whole from my perspective as I wrote as Andrews.

  In closing, I just want to thank each and every one of you for taking the chance on this story. As you know, for independent authors like Matt and I, growing a healthy core fan base is critical. Our hope is that existing fans of our work will be open to checking out some books of the other. Either way, I hope you enjoy the read.

  Michael.

  MICHAEL BRAY is a UK based horror author, hailing from Leeds, England. His debut novel, Whisper, went on to become a critically acclaimed best seller.

  Influenced from an early age by the suspense horror of authors such as Stephen King, Brian Lumley and James Herbert as well as TV shows like Tales From The Crypt, The Outer Limits & The Twilight Zone, he spends his days muttering to himself at his computer and writing for his rapidly growing fan base.

  WWW.MICHAELBRAYAUTHOR.COM

  www.facebook.com/MichaelBrayAuthor

  Extract from SEED - From Matt Shaw

  The police entered the property first. A woman was wailing within the small, terraced house. The sound of fear and pain within those screams echoed through the building and their souls to a level which would haunt them for the remainder of their lives.

  Following closely behind the police, the paramedics rushed in too. Medical kits slung over their shoulders. They were prepared for most states of emergency and yet both teams were completely unprepared for what they were about to see within the lived-in house.

  Death’s unpleasant musty scent lingered in the stale atmosphere, making all who entered the house gag on their initial few breaths. They all knew the smell (although they wished they didn’t). It was one of those smells that you wished you could forget but couldn’t, no matter how hard you tried to. Once inhaled, for the first time, it was with you for life.

  They all feared the worst as they filed down the hallways towards the room where the sounds came from but none more so than Detective Andrews. He knew the occupants of the house through his job as a police officer. He failed them before and the stink in the air was screaming to him that he’d failed them once more despite his promises to them and himself.

  He hurried down towards the room, pushing past the other officers who were slowing him down, and froze when he caught sight of what waited for them.

  “Let the paramedics through!” he ordered the following officers. “Now!”

  Extract from SCRATCHERS - From Michael Bray

  SCRATCHERS

  I’m not crazy.

  That’s something I want to get straight right off the bat. I’m sure they will say otherwise of course when they get here – especially when they see the holes in the walls and the blood on the floor. But really, I’m not. I have already called the police, and I want to write this down before they get here.

  My name is Trenton Hughes, aged thirty three. For work I’m a surveyor for a pretty big global firm. You have probably heard of them, but I’ll spare them the indignity of being associated with me after word of this gets out. I’m paid well, and have always tried to live a good life.

  I started to see the little people who live in the walls a few days ago.

  It was just after my wife, Hilary, told me she wanted a divorce. I probably should have seen it coming, but I didn’t, and the news hit me like a freight train. I went through the usual responses. Told her things would change, told her things would get better. She responded by informing me that not only did she not want change, but she was already seeing someone else, a work colleague called Ted.

  Thanks Ted. Thanks a lot.

  How did I respond to this earth shattering news? Was it with the British stiff upper lip that my birth parents possessed? Was it with grace and dignity, or a steely determination to get on with my life?

  Not exactly.

  I went and had myself a nervous breakdown.

  You hear all this bullshit about how time heals, and if you love someone, let them go. But none of that really means anything when all you can think about is your wife with her legs wrapped around another man’s waist and screaming his name whilst you gradually come apart at the seams.

  I started smoking again, not because I missed the delicious flavour of those tar packed cancer sticks, but because I knew Hilary hated me smoking. She used to moan and whine about the smell and the damage that i was doing to my body. Let me tell you, that first one tasted pretty sweet, and almost made me forget all about her fucking someone else whilst I was by myself polluting my body.

  Same story with the drinking. The six pack a night that I started with to help me get through to the next day soon became twelve, and in the interest of efficiency, those have now been replaced with a bottle of Vodka a day, or failing that, good old Jack Daniels. Hell, I would drink anything really if it would help to take away that feeling of absolute worthlessness and self-pity for a couple of hours. It was during one of these self-depreciating binges that I first saw the wall people, or Scratchers, as I have since christened them.

  I was slouched on the sofa, eyes raw from lack of sleep, booze, or crying – take your pick – when I saw one of them scurry across the edge of the wall. I didn’t freak out as you might expect, instead I sat there and stared, feeling like Gulliver in the Lilliput of my too expensive, too empty apartment.

  He was about six inches tall – action figure sized if you will – and wearing a tiny brown tunic. His tiny eyes glinted in the semi gloom, and he was armed with what looked to be a converted nail file sword, one of Hilary’s no doubt that had been lost at some point in the past. He froze and stared at me, holding the tiny weapon defensively in my direction. I could only gawp back, the worthless drunk and the impossible tiny man engaged in a stare down. The Scratcher sniffed the air, then shoved the kitchen door open a crack and squeezed inside. I just sat there, listening to the tiny pitter-pat of his feet as he went. It was then, as I sat and really listened to the house, that I truly heard them.

  They were stealthy, moving behind the walls, a subtle scratching as they moved between plaster board and insulation. The sound of them reminded me of the house I grew up in, the way the rats that used to make nests in our barn during winter months used to scurry around as the looked for food to scavenge on. I think that was when I truly started to feel afraid, because as I sat there and listened, It sounded like there were a hell of a lot of them.

  My response to this disturbing discovery, was not to leap into action the way any self-motivated hero would, but to finish my freshly opened bottle of Mr. Daniels’s finest and bring on a glorious, booze fuelled sleep. The next day, with a head that throbbed like a rotten tooth, I dragged myself off the sofa and walked to the kitchen, trying to convince myself that I wanted a glass of water, when I knew it was the unopened bottle of Smirnoff that a was really looking for.

  Gleaming white tiles greeted me, the room edged with expensive, custom made fitted cupboards which I had never wanted but Gloria had insisted on. I wondered in the back of my mind what kind of cupboards Ted had in his house.

  Anyway, I’m losing track.

  As soon as I opened the door I could hear them, that same subtle scratching sound as they went about their business. I don’t know how long I stood there and held my breath. It felt like hours, the average lung capacity of a human being told me it was significantly less.

  With more effort than I expected it to take, I forced myself to walk across the room to the cupboard under the sink, and kneel in front of it. Most of the noise seemed to be coming from there, and I grasped the handles with every intention of looking, but just couldn’t bring myself to open them. I don’t know if I was more afraid of se
eing them, or of not seeing them. Either way, i didn’t think it bode well for my sanity. Eventually, I yanked the doors open, expecting to see a fully function micro- village like something from The Borrowers, but was greeted instead with the familiar landscape of spare mop heads, cleaning materials and old washcloths. I was about to close the doors when something caught my eye. I fished out one of the washcloths from the back of the cupboard and held it up to the light. Clothes had been cut out of the material, leaving only tiny templates for trousers and shirts behind. With my racing heart feeling like it was now beating in my throat, I checked the other rags and cloths that were in there, and almost all of them were the same. It looked as if my dish rags had clothed an entire tiny populace.

  Surely now he will react and do something proactive, I hear you say.

  Actually no. I closed the cupboard, opened the Smirnoff that I had tried to lie to myself I didn’t want, and drank until I passed out on the sofa. ( I hadn’t been able to sleep in the bed since Hilary left. It still smelled of her perfume). When I woke up, I was aware of three things all in fairly quick succession. First, that my body felt as if it had been put through a mangle stamped on and then put through it again. Second, that I was struggling to cope with the amount of booze I was consuming, and that I really aught to slow down a touch. The third thing I noticed was the note taped to my chest. It was written on a small scrap of paper, and the text looked to have been scrawled by a young child, or - dare I say it - a tiny hand. The text uneven and spiky, and in truth barely legible, but still, the message was clear enough despite the awful spelling.

  Firgit abot us

  Or els.

  Ice replaced blood, and even the throbbing headache subsided for long enough for me to be afraid of that tiny scrap of paper. There was sinister simplicity to it. A way of wording that told me that these people- pardon my French – don’t fuck around. As I write this – covered in blood and waiting for the police to arrive – it dawns on me that I should have left there and then. The second I got that note, I should have packed a bag and got the hell out of dodge, but stubbornness has always been a problem for me, and so I decided instead to try and catch the little critters on video, partly to prove to myself that they weren’t a figment of my imagination (Believe me, the idea had dawned on me) and second, to maybe discover something new, a new species of undiscovered creature. Hell, my booze addled brain even thought that I might even earn a little bit of money and maybe, just maybe, win my wife back from the arms of the mysterious Ted.

  Extract from Sick Bastards - From Matt Shaw

  PART ONE

  Now

  Family Time

  I thrust forward and she let out a squeal. Had it not been for her facial expression - a look of sheer lust - I’d have thought I had hurt her. At least I think her expression is one of lust. It’s hard to tell in the light offered by a gentle flame licking away at the darkness of the room. Not that that would have bothered me if the expression was one of pain. So much pain in the world - what’s a little bit more? I pulled back a little and thrust forward again with the same level of aggression. She yelped again and buried her face down in the pillow whilst, at the same time, lifting her arse in the air to allow for deeper penetration. Definitely wasn’t an expression of pain. I didn’t need telling twice and I upped the speed and hardness with which I penetrated her. We don’t make love. We never have. We fuck.

  I pulled out and flipped her onto her back. Her response was a hard, heavy slap to my face. I smiled at her. She spat back.

  “Fuck me!” she ordered.

  I positioned myself on top of her and pushed in again. A heavy sigh from the pair of us. Feels so good. So wet and yet so incredibly tight. I breathed in her scent. No perfume. She never wore perfume anymore. No matter. I’ve grown accustomed to the smell of her scent as it mixes with my own. I kind of like it now. I breathed in hard as I continued to pound her hard and fast - the way we both liked it. I was close to the climax but could tell she needed longer. Either that or she wanted me to up the game a bit. I put my hands around her neck and squeezed hard - cutting off her air as she liked. She gasped and struggled which made the sensations I was feeling that little bit nicer. Her face was flushing now. Not sure if she is close or whether it’s because I’ve stopped all of the blood.

  A knock on the door distracted us both. Before we’d a chance to hide ourselves, the door opened a crack and Mother stuck her head through. “I’ve been calling you for hours!” she moaned. “Put your sister down! Dinner’s ready.”

  I pulled out with my vinegar stroke ruined; a jet of sticky white semen splashing across sister’s stomach. Sister looked just as frustrated as I was. My orgasm ruined by the appearance of mother and her orgasm denied completely right at the last minute.

  Thanks Mum, thanks a lot. Great timing as usual.

  “You owe me,” my sister huffed as she pulled up her French knickers, ignoring the cum trickling down her belly. I flashed her a wink as if to tell her she’d be getting it later and threw my trousers on, followed by my shirt.

  We went downstairs together with me leading the way - the candle from the bedroom stretched out in front of us, with my left hand, lighting our pathway so we didn’t stumble upon the stairs. Mother had already returned to the table where Father was waiting for us. He was standing above the meat with a knife in his hand, ready to do the carving.

  Just for once I wished he’d let me carve the meat. I’d start with the throat.

  And as for the meat - it was staring at my sister and I. Eyes wide with fear. It was shaking its head and mumbling through the sodden rag stuffed into its mouth for us to help it. Same old, same old. It was disturbing the first time we heard the meat beg for its life. Almost completely ruined the banquet (and at the time it was a banquet - a heavenly one). Now it’s just part of the starter. I never knew, or understood, why Father didn’t start by cutting the tongue out as soon as the meat was strapped to the old dining room table. Part of me thinks he must like the interaction with it.

  Male meat this time. I feel a little bit disappointed. I prefer the female variety as I find the skin easier to chew. Always seems tougher on the male stocks. I’m not sure if that really is the case or whether it’s my imagination making me believe it to be the truth. It’s not something I’ve ever discussed with any of my family. I don’t want them thinking I am ungrateful. I’m never ungrateful. None of us is. I’m just a little guilty afterwards for what we have done to a fellow human.

  I sat down next to Mother and blew the candle out before placing it onto the table next to my plate. No need for the candle in here - this is one of the best lit rooms of the old country house with at least four candles in all corners of the room. But then, it needs to be bright in here, to stop us from accidentally chomping down on a small fragment of bone.

  Mother winked at me, “See you’ve picked up some of the tricks I taught you. Told you she’d enjoy it.”

  I shot my mother a glance to quieten her. We don’t talk about such things at the dinner table. It’s not right. In fact we don’t talk about such things in the company of Father and Sister. It was supposed to be our dirty little secret. That’s what she told me that evening when she first crept into my bedroom wearing nothing but black underwear and ripped stockings. Our dirty yet highly enjoyable little secret and that’s the way I wanted it to remain. I didn’t want Sister to think I’d been cheating on her. She gets overly jealous sometimes. I remember the time she caught me with a piece of female meat just before dinner. I wasn’t doing anything but she didn’t like the fact that I was engaging with it in conversation. Apparently the look in my eye was wrong.

  I looked over at Sister to see if she’d heard. She hadn’t. She was already sitting there - next to Father’s seat - with her hands pressed together as she addressed the Lord.

  “Dear Father, thank you for what we are about to receive...”

  “Don’t know why you bother with that,” said Father, “he never listens.” And - with that - h
e plunged the knife into the meat’s leg. The meat screamed. The meat always screamed. Again - the first time we’d a meal as such I found it off-putting. So did Sister. Both Mother and Sister cried at the time but we knew we had to eat it or else it would have been all for nothing. Even Father looked sickened. Now it’s normal to us. In yesterday’s world I’d have likened it to the sounds of a lobster screaming when you dropped it into a pot of boiling water...

  The meat screamed again as Father tore a large chunk of flesh from its thigh.

  Mother held her plate up and Father dropped the slab of flesh onto it for her. A little bit of blood splashed her hand but it didn’t bother her. She just licked it off. A glint in her eye.

  The first time any of us tried blood we gagged. It was to be expected. We gagged as we chewed the meat too. The first time. No one sicked it back up though. We knew we couldn’t afford to. We knew we’d to work through the gagging feeling. Be grateful for what we got as there wasn’t a lot else on offer at the time. Now though - months later - things have changed and we’ve all grown quite accustomed to the coppery taste. Can’t have too much though as that does lead to sickness. Sister found out the hard way and taught us all a valuable lesson.