The BIG Horror Pack 1

by Iain Rob Wright

  Angela agreed with him. “Exactly. That’s why I know this family is messing with me. They know that the Church ordered me to perform an exorcism to try and cure Charles Crippley of his delusions. He’d been brutalising the livestock on his farm and publically condemning people that he felt were ‘sinners’. The local community started to complain, so the diocese decided to do something about it. I visited Charles at home every day for over two weeks, but every day he was worse. He took to spitting at me and blaspheming. He became sickly and stopped looking after himself. I performed The Rites on him several times but they only seemed to exacerbate his condition. His friend, Barley, was becoming more and more present and all I felt like I was doing was bringing something vile to the surface, like pus from a boil. I continued trying to help, though, even when Charles said Barley was going to punish me, along with anyone who followed me.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Sunday services happened. Charles wasn’t there when I began, which was strange because he was always one of the first to arrive. I started more or less as usual, giving a sermon about the Good Samaritan and the importance of helping your neighbour. I was almost finished when Charles wandered down the aisle. He was shouting that we ‘were a flock of immoral lizards led by a soulless dyke.’ He knew I was a lesbian, despite me never having ever admitted it at that point. In fact, I’m not sure I even knew myself back then.”

  “That’s weird,” Tim said. “Maybe the guy had one of those gaydars or something.”

  Angela took a deep breath and continued. “As soon as he came in I noticed he was carrying the knife. It was one of those big, curved blades that they use in slaughter houses. He was blocking the doorway and shouting. Then he got started. He killed nine people by the time he was done. I was the only survivor.”

  “That’s horrible,” Tim said, feeling a little sick to his stomach. Looking at the middle-aged ex-priest, he could see the lines of torment etched into the creases of her face. She looks ten years older than she is.

  Angela blinked and a tear fell down her cheek. “Enough,” she said, wiping it away. “I’m done with trips down memory lane. My point was only supposed to be that Jessica and Frank have done their homework. They’re using my past to try and manipulate me. Worst of all is that they’ve involved a ten-year old boy in their schemes. Did you see the shape Sammie was in?”

  Tim sighed. “I’m not so sure you’re on the right track there, Angela. My bullshit meter is pretty sensitive and I think Jessica is legitimately worried. You must sense how strung-out the woman is? It’s clear as day. As for Sammie, there’s no way they could coax a kid his age to behave the way he is. There’s something just not right with him, and that’s why we’re here – to help figure things out.”

  “If Sammie is so innocent then how did he know what happened in Jersey? He must have been briefed.”

  Tim shrugged. “I don’t know, but we can find out the answer together. If I get one whiff that we’re being played for fools then I’ll walk right out the door right beside you. Until then, I would rather have your help than not.”

  Angela finally gave in. “Okay,” she said, letting out a breath and deflating. “I’ll stay…for now.”

  Tim hopped up off the end of the bed and clapped his hands together. “Great! Because I could do with some help setting up my equipment.”

  Angela frowned at him. “Equipment?”

  He winked at her. “It’s time to blind them with science, my righteous lesbian friend.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Angela had decided to stay behind in her room to have a bath before doing anything else, so Tim left her alone to enjoy her soak. He’d since made the trip outside to the Raymeady estate’s vast driveway where his transit van was parked. The DeBunkMobile. Beside Tim’s van was the long black Mercedes Frank had driven him there in two nights previous. The five-door saloon was as financially indulgent as the house and its grounds were.

  At the edge of the pebbled driveway was a garage block. Beyond it was a modest pond. The water’s surface was devoid of ducks and other wildlife, which seemed strange for the time of year. Tim reached into his pocket and pulled out the key for the van. He disengaged the lock and opened the rear doors. A wide smile stretched across his face as he said, “Hello, my little friends.”

  The back of the van was really Tim’s office, full of his gadgets and gizmos. The intention of his investigations was always to debunk claims of the supernatural or paranormal. Science – along with common sense – was the best way to do that. His equipment included audio recording equipment, an infrared camera, microscopes, barometers, thermometers, a motion detector, assorted chemicals, and a toaster, but that was for making snacks. Many of the tools allowed Tim to separate the ‘normal’ from the ‘paranormal’. For now, all Tim wanted was his environmental testing kit. It would be best to start by investigating the grounds and working inwards towards the house.

  He rummaged around and picked out a small plastic clip-case, then closed the van’s doors. The nearby duck pond was as good a place as any to start investigating so he decided to head there first. Maybe he could find out why the peaceful habitat was devoid of wildlife when it should have been teeming with various species of birds, rabbits, frogs, and other creatures that inhabited the English countryside. Maybe the ground water is polluted. If it got into the house’s plumbing it could have led to Sammie becoming sick.

  Tim detected a sharp odour as he approached the water’s edge. It was a mild tang, subtle yet faintly eggy, like the fumes from an exhaust pipe. The pond water lay still, undisturbed by the light breeze of the day.

  Tim crouched down on the bank and unclipped the plastic clip-case. From its contents he plucked a strip of litmus paper and doused it in the pond water. He waved it to-and-fro in the air for a few seconds, before examining it and seeing it had turned a dark red. Tim pursed his lips. Acidic. Factoring in the eggy smell, he suspected sulphur. It may have been used by the gardeners to alter the pH of the soil, especially if there was a high lime content. It could then have seeped through into the pond, which would explain why there was no wildlife, but as Tim looked around he saw no vegetable patches or gardens, just overgrown lawns. It didn’t seem like a gardener had been by in a while. So what then? How did the pond get so badly contaminated?

  Tim headed away from the pond, just a few meters, over to a patch of grass. He knelt down and picked up a few grains of soil, cupping them in his palm. Next, he produced a slim plastic test tube and dropped the granules inside. Finally, he added litmus flour and some pure water from a small flask. Rattling the test tube around for a couple of seconds, he waited for the solution inside to settle. Just like the pond water, the soil was acidic. The liquid in the test tube turned red.

  There was a noise behind Tim, which made him spin around. A hissing sound. A hissing sound coming from the pond. He headed back to the water’s edge and saw that the surface of the pond had become unsettled. At first it merely shimmered, but then it began to bubble and pop like soup in a cauldron. The pond was beginning to boil. Tim could feel the heat coming off it on his cheeks. The smell of eggs grew to eye-watering levels. What the Hell…

  Tim crept closer, staring into the water’s murky depths. He got down on his knees, moved his face closer. The pond continued to churn, frothing and bubbling, almost as if it could detect his increasing proximity. He’d never seen anything like it before. Even if some sort of gaseous vent was heating the pond, there was no way it could have gotten so hot so fast.

  The pond hissed.

  The water boiled.

  The air grew thick with stench.

  Then suddenly the pond was airborne.

  Several fist-sized drops of boiling water flew toward Tim’s unproected face. He swung an arm around to shield himself but was too slow. Some of the liquid got through his defences and doused his face. The soft flesh of his cheek and forehead cried out in agony. He leapt backwards, crumpling to the ground and holding his face in his hands. He sc
reamed and shouted.

  “Tim! Tim…are you okay?” It was Angela’s voice. Tim felt the woman hit the ground beside him and place her hands on him. She forced him over onto his back.

  He clutched at his face and struggled against her. “The water. It burned me. It burned me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The pond. The pond is boiling.”

  “I don’t understand.” Angela sounded frantic. “The pond is hot? What do you mean?”

  The pain in Tim’s face lessened slightly. He removed his hands tentatively and pointed at the pond. “The pond is boil-” He stopped mid-word.

  The pond was normal. Its surface still and serene. It was also full of fish and frogs. Goldfish zipped through the water merrily, flitting back and forth. Frogs lay motionless at the bottom, waiting to strike anything mouth-sized. There was even a family of newts frolicking by the water’s edge.

  Tim’s mouth started working back and forth, but no sound came out. He could not understand it.

  “What’s wrong?” Angela asked him. “I don’t understand what’s happened.”

  Tim tried to catch a breath and calm himself down. “I…. Oh, hellsinki, I don’t have a clue what just happened. Maybe I’m fucking losing it.” His face no longer burned and as he fingered his cheeks, the skin felt completely normal. But that could not be. He was burned. “Can I ask you a question, Angela?”

  “Of course.”

  “What does my face look like?”

  Angela looked confused, but she gave him an answer. “Ugly, same as usual.”

  Tim laughed. “Cheers. No…burn marks or anything, though?”

  Angela shook her head. “You want to tell me what happened?”

  Tim heaved himself up onto his feet and shook his head. “Nothing happened. At least it appears that way. Come on, let’s go back inside the house.”

  Angela didn’t ask him any more questions about it but, as they walked away, she stopped and pointed down at something on the ground. It was his environmental testing kit. “Do you need that?” she asked him.

  “No,” Tim replied. “I’m beginning to think my usual methods might not be as effective as I’d hoped.”

  “Guess you need a Plan B then.”

  Tim scratched at his fuzzy beard. “To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever needed a Plan B before.”

  “I’m going to take that as a bad sign,” said Angela.

  “Yeah,” replied Tim, thinking about things a little deeper. “Me too.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Frank unlocked the door to the security office and stepped inside wearily. He hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours, too mistrustful of the recent houseguests to allow for sleep. He would need to set some time aside soon – his mind was beginning to get cloudy – but right now there was too much to do. Jessica is relying on me.

  Frank’s main priority was the protection of Ms Raymeady and her son. With a disgraced priest and a professional ghost hunter/conman in the house, Frank needed his mind fresh and alert. He needed to be ready for any tricks the two charlatans might pull. While Tim had proven himself previously to be a man who looked for facts rather than fantasy, Frank didn’t trust him. He didn’t trust either of the two. If Jessica wanted them there then that was her prerogative, but it didn’t mean he had to like it. Things were much easier when it was just her, me, and the drivers. Angela and Tim will bring nothing but false hope and broken promises.

  But then again, Frank didn’t have any better ideas to help young Sammie, either. The boy was heading straight for life in the funny farm the way he was behaving, but he was also Joseph Raymeady’s son and the only existing link to a man Frank had spent a decade serving. He would do what he could to protect Sammie, but at this point he had to admit that things were looking pretty hopeless.

  He took a seat at his desk and gave a quick glance to each of the CCTV monitors in front of him. The house was in order, for now. Mike and Graham were in the kitchen fixing a batch of gluttonous sandwiches to take out to the car. Jessica was in the piano lounge with a large glass of wine, staring into space. He watched her for a while, his heart aching as he wished to ease her burdens. The two tricksters were currently strolling around the grounds, already as thick as thieves. No doubt colluding on whatever con they’re about to spin. Finally, Frank checked on Sammie. The boy was in his filthy room, scribbling away at his desk. As per usual.

  The child had a sick mind. The things he drew could only be the concoction of a deeply disturbed personality, but they were also frighteningly astute. Frank himself had received many sketches from the boy and they had depicted things no one else should know; things from Frank’s days serving in the Army. Sammie drew scenes of torture in Sierra Leone one day and dead children in Northern Ireland the next. The one thing the pictures always had in common was that Frank had witnessed them all first-hand. It was as if Sammie was reaching into his nightmares for artistic inspiration and presenting him with the faces of all the men and women who had died fighting by his side. Nine men, one woman. I remember them all.

  The worst picture Sammie had drawn for Frank featured a soldier firing cartoon bullets into a pregnant woman. The foetus was spilling out from her guts along with her intestines and slopping on the sandy floor in a sickly pile. Frank knew that the soldier in the picture was he. What he didn’t know was how Sammie, a ten-year-old boy, could have ever known his darkest secret. A secret from the day he led his squad into a quiet little village in the Muthanna Province in Iraq. It had seemed safe, a good place to rest up, but it had been an ambush. Frank’s bad decision-making had cost lives, and a pregnant woman her baby.

  One of the CCTV television screens flickered.

  Frank gave the monitor a tap, but it only made things worse. The picture become scrambled with static. Frank hit the monitor again, harder.

  The picture snapped back into focus.

  Frank flinched in his seat.

  Sammie was no longer sitting at his desk. He was standing in front of the camera lens, staring up and grinning. His eyes were dark orbs. His teeth jutted out from swollen, brown gums. He seemed to be watching Frank as Frank watched him. Does he know I can see him?

  Frank leant closer to the screen, trying to work out what the boy was doing. Sammie inched closer and closer to the camera, little by little, but the lens was fixed eight feet off the ground. It was almost as if the boy was levitating. His pale face getting closer and closer….

  Crack!

  The monitor’s screen split from corner to corner. Frank leapt back in his swivel chair, his momentum and the wheels taking him away from the desk. The screen had shattered, struck by some invisible hammer. He sat there in silence, twiddling his thumbs and trying to control his breathing as he processed what had just happened. From the way things were going it might be another twenty-four hours before he got any sleep.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Angela was still freaked out by the picture Sammie had drawn for her. The incident with Tim at the pond had done nothing to calm her nerves, but she was now determined to take charge of the situation. She would not be manipulated or frightened. The look on Tim’s face when she had found him on the lawn had been enough to convince her that he was as much a pawn in this as she was. If it was all just one big set-up then she would make sure those responsible regretted it, and if not…. Well, if not, then Angela was determined to get to the bottom of things.

  The only person she could trust was Tim and that was only because he was as freaked out as she was. The two of them were now back inside the house, standing in the cavernous foyer. There was no one else around.

  Tim put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. “Hey! Hello?” He turned to Angela and shook his head. “It’s a bloody nightmare trying to find people in this place, you know?”

  “I know,” Angela agreed. “I’m not surprised Jessica’s on edge. Empty houses have a way of making people skittish – especially old empty houses.”

  “You think that’s what’s
going on? Simple paranoia?”

  “I hope so, because what’re the alternatives?”

  Frank appeared from the east side of the foyer, his polished work shoes clicking on the marble. “Ms Murs, Mr Golding. I was beginning to wonder where you two had gotten to.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that,” said Tim. “We’re ready to see Sammie again now.”

  Frank nodded. “Okay. You may be wasting your time, though. The boy likes to watch South Park during the afternoons. He can be quite unresponsive.”

  Tim frowned. “You let him watch that cartoon?”

  “You can try stopping him if you want.”

  Tim shrugged his shoulders. “Hey, I’m not here to raise the kid. Just to take a stool sample or two.”

  Frank led them to Sammie’s room again, and even before they got there, Angela could hear the television blaring. She’d never watched South Park herself before, but she knew the show was new and popular like most things kids enjoyed nowadays. Like Pogs and Beavis and Butthead. She also knew it wasn’t suitable for ten-year-old boys. “Why do you let him watch the program? Isn’t it meant for adults?”

  “It is, yes, but he gets violent if you turn it off. He tends to get fixated. Before South Park, it was Power Rangers.”

  Tim scoffed. “Can’t you control him, a big man like you?”

  Frank’s expression was impassive. “Samuel is stronger and more aggressive than he looks. The only way I could restrain him is by hurting him, and that is not something I am permitted or inclined to do.” He turned around and unlocked Sammie’s door. “I’ll leave you ‘experts’ to do your work.”

  “Thank you,” said Angela, stepping through into the bedroom. Tim followed her and Frank left, allowing the door to snap shut behind them. Suddenly Angela felt very claustrophobic – trapped even. The room was humid and tropical like a Florida storm.