The BIG Horror Pack 1

by Iain Rob Wright

  “What’s wrong with him exactly?”

  “If only I knew. Sammie was such a sweet, energetic little boy, but about nine months ago he awoke in the night screaming, yelling that something was inside of him. Of course, my husband and I put it down to a bad dream, but the following morning Sammie was sullen and pale, as if he’d come down with some wretched flu. He’s been like it ever since. He barely eats or sleeps.”

  Angela placed her whisky down on the glass table. “I still don’t see why that would make you seek me out.”

  “Because you were an exorcist for the Church of England. You performed more than one hundred exorcisms, yes?”

  Angela picked up her whisky again and took a large gulp that burned her throat. She let out a sigh. “It was more like thirty in actual fact, but the church only conducts exorcisms to bring people peace-of-mind. They don’t really believe in them anymore. A bit of dodgy plumbing and noises in the night and people think they have demons in their attics. It’s usually nothing more than a mask for other underlying problems; the things people don’t want to confront, like failing marriages and thieving in-laws. I’ve seen it all, believe me. Exorcism is nothing but a way for the church to take advantage of people and gain their faith. They perform their rituals and flick their holy water, but it’s nothing but a charade. I was a part of that charade once, I admit, and nine times out of ten an exorcism is nothing but theatrics. You’d be better off using your money to find a medical specialist. Your son sounds very ill.”

  Jessica smiled knowingly. “Nine times out of ten – so what about that one out of ten that is more than just theatrics?”

  “I don’t know,” Angela admitted. “Scam artists, schizophrenia, unknown phenomena? What are you getting at?”

  “I know about Jersey, Miss Murs, and I know that there is more to what went on there than the papers reported. I know you’ve dealt with evil before. You know that it exists.”

  Angela started to rise from her chair. “Look, I’m very sorry, but I think it was a mistake me coming here.”

  Jessica reached out and grabbed Angela’s wrist. There was pleading in her almond eyes. “Please, just listen to what I have to say.”

  Angela sighed. She never could resist a plea for help – especially not from a beautiful lady her own age. She sat back down.

  Jessica smiled but seemed close to tears. “Thank you.”

  “Go on then,” said Angela. “Tell me what you need to.”

  “Okay,” Jessica sipped at her wine and continued. “Sammie has been sickly since the time he had that nightmare I mentioned – about something getting inside of him – but that’s not all that’s happened. Sometimes it’s like he’s somebody else, somebody…older. He uses language that he’s never been taught and sometimes h-he swears. Such filthy language that you wouldn’t believe it. Then there’re all the accidents.”

  “Accidents?”

  Jessica nodded. “There’s a reason there’s no staff here anymore. The ones who were still in one piece left. The others were…less fortunate. Our chef, Nicholas, slipped while carrying a pan full of boiling pasta. One of the maids tumbled down the stairs and broke her neck like a twig. Our gardener, Tom, lost two fingers to his own shears and managed to blind himself in one eye. And my husband…my husband hanged himself, which is something he would never have done. Joseph wasn’t that kind of man.”

  “I’ve seen a lot of suicides in my time,” said Angela. “Anyone is capable of giving up.”

  “With all due respect, Miss Murs, my late husband was Joseph Raymeady, son of Wesley Raymeady, one of the original founders of Black Remedy Corporation, the largest commercial entity in the world. My husband, like his father, was one of the wealthiest and most driven men in the history of our world. Suicide to him was the same as failure, and failure was never an option to my husband.”

  Angela’s eyes widened. “Your husband owned Black Remedy? Well, then there are many reasons he may have felt guilty enough to take his own life. Black Remedy has been indicted for everything from child labour to illegal arms dealing. I heard that the only reason they’re still even allowed to trade is because they buy-off governments like most companies buy stationary.”

  “My husband was trying to change all that. His egotistical father was in charge of the company until his welcomed death seven years ago. Since then, Joseph has been trying to clean up the company’s ethics. Black Remedy has donated more than six-hundred million pounds to charity in the last three years. That’s more than the preceding fifty years combined. My husband was a good man, Angela, and he loved his family. He would not have hanged himself. There’s just no way.”

  “Okay,” Angela said, seeing nothing to gain by disputing the fact. “While I admit that the amount of accidents you’ve mentioned is unusual, I don’t see what makes you think an exorcism would help.”

  “This does.” Jessica reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a dog-eared notebook. It was small, about the size of an address book, and she slid it across the table to Angela. “Open it,” she said.

  Angela did as she was asked and was immediately shocked by the very first page she turned to. It was covered in the erratic scrawls of a child: crayoned pictures and pencilled words co-mingling in a tapestry of graffiti. The images featured symbols she did not recognise along with several depictions of winged beasts. Most disturbing, however, was what the pencilled words read. Several short sentences mentioned such disturbing things as: TaInTedsoUL, No eScaPe, He iS ABysS. SEekSAlvation. HeLp ME. Eventually Angela’s eyes fell across something in the lower corner of the page that chilled her bones to the marrow. Written in neat full-capitals, so that it stood out amongst the other messily scrawled words, was a simple plea: SAVE ME ANGELA MURS.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After one more glass of sixteen-year old whisky to calm her nerves, Angela had agreed to stay at the house, at least until morning. The notebook with her name written in it could have been a fake designed to keep her there, but Angela couldn’t know for sure. Real or not, it had left Angela flustered.

  As soon as she’d set eyes on the childish scrawls, a wave of dread had rattled her bones. She knew deep down in the pit of her belly that something strange was going on, and for some reason it involved her. Whether or not it was due to natural or unnatural means was yet to be determined. She needed to know more. And if these people are messing with me, I make them regret it.

  Frank had come by the lounge at Jessica’s request and taken Angela up to the second floor, where she’d been presented with a suite the size of a modest flat. There he left her to survey her new surroundings. An ancient four-poster bed occupied the centre of the room, its mahogany corner struts climbing from floor to ceiling. Opposite the foot of the bed was a large bay window looking out into the satin darkness of night. Angela imagined the majestic landscaped gardens that would no doubt match the grandness of the house, but right now they were invisible, cloaked in shadow.

  Above the bed was a magnificent oil painting that may literally have taken years to complete. It portrayed a heavenly battle, perhaps Lucifer’s war on God. In the foreground were two cherubim with gossamer wings outspread. They wielded spears, brother against brother.

  Clearly Jessica’s late husband had been one rich son-of-a-bitch. It was oddly unsettling staying at a dead man’s ancestral home. Angela wondered how anyone so blessed could be so selfish as to take their own lives. Obviously being filthy-rich isn’t as great as it sounds.

  Angela headed over to the en suite at the far side of the room. There was an antique freestanding bath inside, made of painted steel and perhaps two feet longer than most common baths. It looked like heaven. There was also a separate shower cubicle.

  A nice hot bath or a cleansing shower was a tempting proposition, but Angela settled for the faucet. The stainless-steel taps turned smoothly and Angela stared into a mirror hung above the sink as she splashed steaming water onto her face. Her eyes were red and sunken; the eyes of someone a decade older. How d
id I end up like this? My life used to make sense, but now here I am, standing in a gazillion-pound mansion because the lady of the house wants me to exorcise her ten-year old son, who is probably just reacting badly to the death of his father. I’m wasting my time here. But what else have I got to do? I need the money. Booze doesn’t buy itself.

  There was a knock at the door. Angela left the en suite and crossed the bedroom. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Frank.”

  Angela opened the door to find Jessica’s Chief of House standing with a tray full of sandwiches. She could tell by his grim expression that room service was not one of his usual duties.

  “Ms Raymeady thought you might be hungry.”

  Angela took the tray from the man and thanked him. She wasn’t much of an eater but had to admit that the sandwiches looked good. Without further comment, Frank presumed to walk away, but she stopped him. “Can you come in for five minutes, please, Frank? I’d just like to ask you a few questions.”

  Frank seemed confused. His silver sideburns wrinkled. “I…yes, I suppose so.” He marched past Angela and entered the bedroom. For a moment it looked like he was about to take a seat on the bed, but he chose to remain standing in his usual stiff manner. “Questions about what?”

  Angela closed the bedroom door and faced him. “I suppose the first thing I’d like to know is what you think of all this? What’s been happening in this house?”

  Frank sighed and shook his head. “I wish I knew. Things have been…tense. The accidents seem a few too many to be mere coincidences, but I’m sure that’s all they are. Mindless superstition got the better of everybody and the staff resigned.”

  “Not you, though?”

  “I have a duty to Ms Raymeady. Her late husband hired me almost ten years ago to look after his family. He was a good man and I intend to fulfil that role even in his death. Besides, I don’t believe in, well, any of what is being claimed. Mike and Graham don’t either.”

  “You don’t believe in Evil?”

  Frank laughed and rubbed at the salt and pepper stubble on his chin. “Before I took this job, Miss Murs, I spent twelve years in the Army. I absolutely do believe in Evil, but what I do not believe in is demons and monsters. The very notion of an exorcism is laughable to me.”

  “So you’re an atheist, I take it?”

  “I believe in flesh and bone and what I can see in front of me. But what I do or do not believe is of no consequence. Ms Raymeady is concerned about young Samuel – and I agree that there is sufficient need to be – so if you being here will make her feel at ease then I welcome you and will do my best to make you feel comfortable here at the house.”

  Angela smiled and decided that was as good a welcome as she would get from the man. “So, tell me about Jessica’s son. Samuel, is it?”

  Frank shrugged. “Samuel’s a good kid. A little strange at times but I’m sure that has more to do with his upbringing than anything else. A child isn’t supposed to grow up in a place like this, surrounded by servants and a father who was away more often than he was home. I can’t even remember the last time Samuel got to play with another child. Don’t get me wrong, Jessica loves her boy dearly, but sometimes this place is a little detached. I don’t think Samuel has any idea what real life is like. With his father dying, I’m not surprised he’s been acting out.”

  “Acting out?”

  Frank seemed a little uncomfortable, as if speaking freely was a betrayal of his employer. “He’s been swearing a lot, which is totally out of character, and he’s suddenly gotten much smarter. I mean much much smarter – like he’s been reading a set of encyclopaedias. It’s…peculiar. Plus, he seems to know all about current events, from politics to pop music, but all I ever see Samuel watching is South Park. Personally, I think he needs therapy more than anything else.”

  “I thought a psychiatrist had already seen the boy,” Angela said.

  Frank nodded. “A couple have. They didn’t provide much help, but such things take time. If Ms Raymeady had been a little more patient then perhaps we might have seen a change.”

  Angela thought things through for a moment. In her experience, claims of demonic possession often resulted in a verdict of mental illness. A psychiatrist was almost always more use than a priest was. But not always.

  Once Angela had witnessed an event where all the psychiatrists in the world could not have helped, but that was something she put out of her mind for the moment. It would only cloud her judgement.

  “Look,” said Frank, folding his arms. “I have other duties to attend to, so if you don’t mind? If you need anything, just dial 904 on the handset beside your bed. Otherwise I will see you bright and early tomorrow. Ms Raymeady will want you to meet with Samuel as soon as possible. If you then decide to stay longer, Michael will drive to your home and gather some things for you. Try to get some sleep, Ms Murs, and don’t worry if you hear anything in the night. Young Samuel has taken to causing commotion during the late hours. It is nothing to worry about.”

  Angela shot the man a questioning look. “Commotion?”

  “Samuel likes to quote the Bible, despite never having read it to my knowledge. He can get quite…animated.”

  “Okay,” said Angela. “Could you do me a favour?”

  “Of course.”

  “Write down the passages he mentions. It would be interesting to see which parts of the Bible he’s focused on.”

  Frank nodded thoughtfully. “Will do,” he said Frank and then exited.

  Angela got ready for bed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Angela was woken at 7AM according to her cheap CASIO watch. Once again, Frank had been at her door, this time with a tray of toast and orange juice, and once again he’d worn the same begrudging expression on his face. The poor guy really was having to pick up the slack for all the people who had left.

  “Hey, Frank. Did you get any sleep yourself last night?”

  “I got ten minutes here and there. Did you sleep well?”

  “I sure did.” In fact, Angela had slept like a log. The bed was so comfy that she hated having to leave it. She’d been mindful of listening out for Samuel’s religious tirades during the night, but once she’d slid between the sheets, fully clothed, she pretty much slept right through.

  “Ms Raymeady will meet you in the lounge where you shared a drink last night,” said Frank. “Along with a colleague you’ll be working with.”

  “A colleague?”

  Frank nodded. “Yes, a young man named Tim Golding. I’ll leave you to find out about him directly. He’s…enthusiastic, I suppose.” Frank turned and walked back down the hallway.

  Angela spent the next five minutes freshening up in the en suite’s sink, before polishing off the toast and juice and preparing to leave. Once ready, she exited the room and stepped out into the hallway. The burgundy carpet stretched in both directions, turning a corner at each end. Angela couldn’t remember which direction she’d come from the previous evening, so randomly chose to go left. As it turned out, the corridor wrapped around and led to the main balcony and staircase from both sides. If she had gone right she would have ended up in the same place, just coming from the other direction.

  Angela headed downwards, continuing past the first floor and arriving on the well-lit ground floor. Her footsteps echoed as they fell upon the marble tiles in the vast foyer. It was like being an ant inside a vast catacomb, doors and hallways leading off in a hundred directions. Angela remembered the piano lounge was located at the rear of the staircase and made her way over to it. Through the door’s glass panes she could see Jessica and Frank sitting at a table together, along with a scruffy-haired ginger-nut in his early twenties.

  Angela pushed open the door and immediately all eyes were on her. Jessica was smiling, but the weariness in her eyes made the expression unconvincing. She looks rough. Still gorgeous, though.

  “Can I get you anything to drink, Ms Murs?” Frank asked.

  Angela waved a hand. “I’m f
ine, thanks. I’m ready to get started.”

  Jessica gestured to the scruffy-haired man at her side. “Have you met Tim yet?”

  Angela shook Tim’s hand and sat down. “Not yet. I’m Angela. Pleased to meet you, Tim”

  “Pleased to meet you too, Angela. Looking forward to working together.”

  “And how exactly will we be working together?”

  “Tim here is a debunker,” Frank explained, the incredulity clear on his face. “He’ll be using scientific methods to monitor Samuel’s condition, while you use more…”

  “Spiritual methods,” Jessica finished.

  “So you’re here to regulate my religious mumbo jumbo, Tim. Is that it?”

  The scruffy man held his hands up. He was wearing a green t-shirt with a large picture of the Incredible Hulk on it. “Hey, I’m just here for a pay check. I’ll be doing my thing while you do yours.”

  Angela wasn’t convinced. “And what is your thing?”

  Tim shot her a goofy lopsided grin and said, “Science, baby! I’ve found that you can disprove ninety-nine per cent of paranormal “phenomena” just by using everyday scientific procedures. People get freaked-out over the slightest thing and then they stop looking for the simple answers in front of them and allow their imaginations to get the better of them. There’s always a rational explanation. My job is to find it.”

  “At least we’re in agreement there,” said Angela. “I’m not here to provide any kind of catharsis or religious endorsement. I intend to be brutally honest about what I find.”

  Jessica nodded and took a sip from a glass of what looked like vodka. Angela realised then that the woman was tipsy. Her skittish pupils were a dead giveaway. “That’s all I ask of you, Angela. I just want to know what’s wrong with my poor Sammie.”