For Johnny, my nephew,
whose magic surprises me every day.
Great Clarendon Street, Oxford OX2 6DP Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide in
Oxford New York
Auckland Cape Town Dar es Salaam Hong Kong Karachi Kuala Lumpur Madrid Melbourne Mexico City Nairobi New Delhi Shanghai Taipei Toronto
With offices in
Argentina Austria Brazil Chile Czech Republic France Greece Guatemala Hungary Italy Japan Poland Portugal Singapore South Korea Switzerland Thailand Turkey Ukraine Vietnam
Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries
© William Hussey 2010
The moral rights of the author have been asserted Database right Oxford University Press (maker) First published 2010
First published in this eBook edition 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above
You must not circulate this book in any other binding or cover and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Data available
ISBN: 978-0-19-273278-1
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Contents
THEN The Sacrifice
1. Horror Boy Harker
2. Clown Killer
3. Demon's Dance
4. Stolen Memories
5. Ten Minutes in the Nightmare Box
6. Something Nasty in the Boathouse
7. Dreams of the Witchfinder
8. Attack of the Hellhounds
9. Strange Rain
10. The First Omen
11. The Ghost in the Graveyard
12. The Double
13. Eclipse
14. Mistery
15. Whispers in the Dark
16. Golems
17. Horror Stories
18. Abracadabra
19. Oldcraft
20. Emet (Truth)
21. A Flight of Witches
22. Slaughter at Steerpike Bridge
23. The Witchfinder Returns
24. A Desperate Experiment
25. The Final Sacrifice
26. Dawn
27. End of the Road
NOW Strangers at the Grange
THEN
The Sacrifice
‘HELP! Someone—anyone—please, help me!’
A roar of thunder drowned out Luke’s cries. Step by stumbled step, the strangers dragged him across the bay. The boy’s pyjamas dripped with rain and his bare toes squelched in the wet sand. A rope had been tied around his wrists and, with every tug, he looked up at the figures that held his leash. Robed and hooded, the strangers appeared ghostly in the moonlight.
‘Who are you? Where are you taking me?’
No answer—just the rumble of the sea, the screech of the wind and the whip-crack of lightning.
There were three of them in all—two men and a woman. Normal human beings, Luke assumed, though he could not be sure. For thirteen years, he had grown up surrounded by tales of wicked creatures that preyed upon the young, the weak, and the helpless. Luke shuddered. Perhaps these ‘people’ were the same monsters from his bedtime stories.
Perhaps there really were such things as demons …
The group struggled across the rocks, keeping as close as possible to the cliffs. It was high tide and the sea had eaten away most of the shore. The crash of the waves rang in Luke’s ears and salt water stung his eyes. He tried once more to wrench himself free but the man (the demon?) that held him was strong. Luke could not escape. By the time they reached the cavern, he was shivering and soaked to the bone.
Most of the caves in the bay were just small nooks bored out by the sea, hardly big enough for a cat to creep into. Crowden’s Sorrow was the only large cavern. It had an entrance the size of a cathedral doorway and reached back further than the eye could see. Time and again, Luke had been told never to come here. It was a warning he had always taken very seriously. The cavern had a dark, dripping mouth and the stalactites that hung behind its upper lip looked like a set of razor-sharp teeth.
The group came to a halt just inside the mouth of the cave. Water fell from those fang-like rocks and dripped onto Luke’s head. He shivered as icy trickles ran down his neck and along his spine.
The cloaked figures gathered around him. Luke’s gaze passed between them. Even with the occasional burst of lightning he could not see the faces beneath the hoods.
The tall man spoke up.
‘Let it be done here.’
Luke’s heart lurched in his chest. Since being dragged from his bed, this was the first time that he had heard one of his abductors speak. Now he forgot all about his parents, who were out of town for the weekend. He forgot about Mrs Grady, the housekeeper, who was supposed to be looking after him, but who had not answered his calls for help. He even forgot about Mildred, his little sister. All he could focus on was the man’s voice.
‘Very well,’ the woman said, her words heavy with despair, ‘but afterwards we must go deeper. Into the chamber, up the stairs, all the way to the Door. I just pray that we’re still in time. That his blood will be enough … ’
‘We’re sure that there is no other way?’ asked the third figure—a man, small and stooped. ‘You know that if we do this then we are no better than the Coven and their demons. We should keep our hands clean. We should remember the mistakes of our ancestors.’
Luke felt sick with horror. These people were neither monsters nor strangers—he knew them very well indeed. He called out their names. Only the little man flinched.
Ignoring Luke, the tall man said:
‘We have no other choice. We must act or the world will fall into darkness.’
The sea boomed, the sky shrieked.
The woman slipped a hand inside her cloak.
‘Just stop a moment and let’s discuss this,’ the little man pleaded.
Luke saw the man’s stubby fingers reach out and touch the woman’s arm.
‘There is nothing left to discuss,’ she said. ‘Can’t you feel it in the air? The Demontide is upon us. The blood—all of it this time—is the only way to stop it.’
‘And next time? What will we do then?’
‘We have a generation to ponder that question,’ the tall man said. ‘But only if we do this now. Tonight. Proceed, sister.’
The woman withdrew a long, curved knife from her cloak. The blade shimmered in the moonlight. Luke saw the letters carved into the hilt and began to understand what was about to happen.
‘You can’t!’ He fought against the hands that held him. ‘Let me GO!’
‘Turn him around,’ the woman instructed.
An arm locked across Luke’s chest. A hand cupped his forehead and
pulled his head back. He saw the knife flash before his eyes.
‘Please … ’
Three voices rose up from behind him in a sing-song chant.
‘Hobarron—Elder of Elders—showed us the light, and so we fight against the darkness. Let us spill the Finder’s Blood. Finder’s Blood to seal the Door. Finder’s Blood to vanquish Evil. Finder’s Blood to hold back the Demontide … ’
Luke could not look at the knife. His gaze swept out of the cave and into the bay beyond. Sprays of sea foam frothed around the mouth of the cavern like spittle on a madman’s lips. Little fishing boats moored on the beach broke into splinters under the fist of a mighty wave. On the far side of the bay, he could make out movement on the clifftops. Two figures stood side by side, staring down into the dark entrance of Crowden’s Sorrow. The children’s coats whipped about them as they staggered against the wind. The boy held his sister close, comforting her.
‘Adam!’ Luke cried. ‘Joanna … !’
The knife swept across his throat. Pain, as bright as lightning, etched itself behind his eyes. He could feel the coolness of the blade, the sting of its brilliant edge. Blood steamed the night air and Luke fell to his knees. Sliver by sliver, the pain slipped away.
As his life left Luke Seward, the wind streamed into the cave and back out again. The murderers in their cavern, the children on the clifftop, and the people of Hobarron’s Hollow—snug in their beds—heard it as a low, mournful howl.
25 Years
Later
Chapter 1
Horror Boy Harker
The teacher’s voice droned on in the background …
Meanwhile, an army of vampires flocked down from the hills.
‘Feast, my brothers!’ the master vampire cried. ‘Rip out every throat! Drain every artery! Tonight we shall bathe in blood!’
Jake licked his thumb and index finger. Resting on his knee under the desk, the comic book crackled at his touch. He turned the page to find a scene of vampire frenzy—all flared nostrils, bloodshot eyes, and bared fangs. He yawned and flipped the page.
The title of the comic shrieked out at him: TALES FROM THE CRYPT! Jake’s eyes widened. Amazing! Tucked inside this collection of old terror tales bought from a charity shop was the first horror comic he had ever read! The sight of that famous title, and the ghoulish image on the cover, sent Jake’s thoughts scurrying back six years. His ninth birthday. The day when his obsession with all things grisly had begun.
He remembered his dad pushing a big cardboard box across the kitchen table. With one eyebrow raised, Jake had flipped back the sides, plunged his hand into the box and brought out the first in a bundle of dusty old comics.
‘I collected this lot when I was about your age,’ his father had said, beaming. ‘They used to scare me stupid! The comic you have there was one of my all-time favourites: Tales From The Crypt!’
Jake stared at the cover. It showed a picture of a terrified man locked in the embrace of a zombie.
‘I treasured these comics, and now they’re yours. Happy birthday, son!’
That night, hunkered down under the duvet, torch in one hand, horror comic in the other, Jake had begun his journey into the world of monsters. There were four fully-illustrated stories per issue. By the end of the first tale, he’d felt pretty scared. Two stories down and he was well and truly spooked. The third slice of gruesomeness, a story about a man changing slowly into a flesh-eating ghoul, had to be abandoned halfway through.
Weeks passed and the comics gathered dust on his bookshelf. Eventually, Jake plucked up the courage to take down Issue 2 of Tales From The Crypt. By the end of the month he had finished his dad’s collection. By the end of the year, he was a certified horror nut.
With his dad’s encouragement, Jake moved on from comics to books. He searched libraries for tales of haunted houses, blood-hungry beasts and creeping corpses. He loved zombies (Ber-ains! Ber-ains! BER-AINS!), werewolves (vulnerable only to silver bullets), vampires (like Jake, allergic to garlic), golems, ghosts, and gremlins. He read everything he could find and, at the age of fifteen, Jake considered himself something of an expert on monsters …
‘HAR-KER!’
Mr Kilfoy’s screech jolted Jake out of his memories.
‘Sir?’ he said, stuffing the horror comic into his bag.
‘Macbeth, young man,’ the English teacher sneered. ‘I’m sorry to have woken you, but in the living world we were talking about one of Shakespeare’s greatest plays.’
Kilfoy stalked down the room. He reached Jake’s desk and slapped down a dog-eared copy of Macbeth.
‘Witches.’
‘Sorry, sir?’
Kilfoy picked up the play book and, with each word uttered, rapped Jake on the head with it.
‘The—Three—Witches—in—Macbeth! What is the point in me giving extra classes to prepare you for A Level English if you just sit there like a brain-dead moron? Listen—to—the—text, numbskull!’ Kilfoy cleared his throat. ‘ “Fair is foul, and foul is …”’
Jake snatched the book from Kilfoy’s hand and shot to his feet. He was tall for his age, his legs lanky, his arms long and thin. Towering over the teacher, Jake felt the blood roar in his veins.
Kilfoy noticed the look in the boy’s eyes and took a step back.
‘“Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air,”’ Jake quoted. ‘Spoken by all three witches at the end of Act One, Scene One. The witches in Macbeth believe that they have power but, in the end, their magic is just an illusion. Was that the theme we were discussing?’
Kilfoy’s mouth fell open.
Jake glanced around the room to see if his victory had been noticed. Anyone else in 5B could have expected a few sniggers and the odd thumbs up but, in his heart of hearts, Jake knew he would receive no such sign of approval. ‘Weird’ Jake Harker was regarded by his classmates with almost as much dislike as Killjoy Kilfoy himself. It was surprising, then, to see a face in the front row smiling back at him. Jake’s heart snapped into a gallop—it was Rachel Saxby, hands down the prettiest girl in the year.
The end of day bell rang out. Chairs scraped back and mobile phones bleeped into life.
‘Bell’s for me, not for you,’ Kilfoy barked.
Whatever he had seen in Jake’s eyes—whatever had unnerved him in those deep brown pools—had vanished. Now Kilfoy’s old authority returned to him.
‘If you’re taking part in the short story competition this term, leave your efforts on your desks. I guess we’ll have the same old rubbish from you, Harker? Ghoulies in their graveyards, vampires in their vaults?’
Jake took a folder from his bag and handed it over.
Kilfoy slipped his spectacles onto his nose and flipped open the folder.
‘A Hungry Heart by Jacob Josiah Harker. OK, let’s have a quick look … Hmm. A pretty young schoolgirl falls in love with … Ah, of course, should’ve known it—a werewolf with a taste for human hearts!’
‘It’s not a werewolf,’ Jake protested, ‘it’s a wendigo. There’s a difference.’
‘Oh really? And what, pray tell, is the difference?’
‘Well, a wendigo’s an animal spirit from Native American mythology while a werewolf is a creature that looks kinda like your mother. Only less hairy.’
‘What did you say, young man?’
‘Nothing, sir.’ Jake picked up his backpack and headed for the door.
During his chat with Kilfoy, the class had emptied. With an eye out for Rachel Saxby, he squeezed his way through the crowds in the corridor. Calls and shrieks—the excitement of another school day done and dusted—accompanied Jake into the entrance hall, through the large double doors and out to the school gate. He saw no sign of Rachel.
The wind howled through the streets like a mischievous ghost, rattling letterboxes and throwing litter into gutters. Head down, Jake trudged away from Masterson High and towards the Hobarron Institute. It was a half-mile walk but on that day, with the wind cutting throu
gh him, it felt like a twenty-mile trek. He marched through the Tesco car park and into the New Town housing estate. Beyond the houses, out to the west, scarlet streamers blazed in the sky.
Jake emerged from a side street and onto a long stretch of tarmac. The road to the Hobarron Institute rolled out through acres of cornfields like a black line scored through yellow parchment. He had walked a few paces when a Vauxhall Corsa roared up beside him. The passenger window slid down to reveal Rachel Saxby.
Jake had known Rachel all his life. Their parents were colleagues at the Institute and they had seen each other at various Hobarron events over the years. He even had a vague memory of dancing with her at a Christmas party when they’d both been about five years old. Since then they had never really talked. Despite this, Jake saw Rachel often in his dreams.
Now her sea-green eyes held him where he stood.
‘Hey, Jake, need a lift?’
‘Rachel. Hi. Um … I’m walking actually. I mean, obviously I’m walking—it’s the one leg in front of the other motion that gives it away. Ha-ha.’ Shut up, shut up, shut up! his brain screamed at him. ‘But, yeah, I think I’m OK. OK walking, I mean.’
‘Come on, Rach, why’ve we stopped to talk to this freak?’
It was the driver who spoke, one of Rachel’s girlfriends from the year above. Like Jake, Rachel had few friends in their own year, although in her case it was a matter of choice. Trendy, hip, sophisticated Rachel was more at home with the in-crowd of Masterson High’s Lower Sixth.
Dawn of the Demontide Page 1
