“All right, all right,” he shouted as the banging continued, louder now. “Hold your horses, I’m coming.” It sounded like the door would be off its hinges soon if he didn’t get a move on.
He managed to get his trousers on at only the second attempt and cursed loudly as he barked his shin off the heavy corner post of he bed. The pounding on the door continued as he limped down the stairs.
“Jesus Christ. Would you give it a rest!” he shouted. “The pub’s shut. Can you not just go to bed like everybody else?”
He threw open the heavy bolts and dragged the door open, wincing as the cold air hit his exposed chest. He was ready to lash out, to shout the drunk down...it wouldn’t be the first time that he’d had to use his fists to turn them away...it was part and parcel of the job.
But this time he stopped just before the shout left his mouth.
Jock Dickie was standing in the doorway, one huge meaty fist raised as if to hit the door again. His mouth hung slackly open and his eyes were two black marbles set deep in his skull. But the worst thing was his skin…it was pale, almost sickly gray, sweating slightly with an oily, obscene glow.
“For God’s sake, Jock,” Dave said. “It’s after one o’clock. Get yourself away to bed...you look like you need it.”
The big man swayed slightly and had to hold on to the doorjamb to keep him from falling. A long moan came from the fleshly lips, a descending note of want and pain accompanied by a stream of stringy drool from the left corner of his mouth.
“Oh shit. You’d better come in while I call for the doctor,” Dave said. He turned away from the door, so he didn’t see the huge grin that spread across the big man’s face as he stepped across the threshold.
“Help yourself to some whisky,” Dave shouted as he headed for the phone. “You look like you could do with one.”
He couldn’t believe the change that had come over the man in the past two hours...he only hoped that, whatever it was, it wasn’t contagious. He rang the doctor, who wasn’t best pleased at being called out at that time in the morning.
“Jock Dickie, is it?” the voice on the other end of the phone said. “And you’re sure it’s not just the drink? I don’t want to drag myself out there only to find him sleeping off a hangover. I’ve only just got in from the last visit and I’ve had enough of dispensing aspirin for one night.”
“No,” Dave replied. “He’s had a good drink, but it’s worse than that. He looks like death warmed up, and I think he might keel over any minute. I wouldn’t have phoned you, but you know what the man’s like...it takes gallons to get him pissed, and even then he never keels over.”
“Okay,” The doctor replied, and Dave heard the resignation in his voice. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Just make sure he doesn’t start eating the furniture before I get to him.”
Dave hung up and turned back to the bar.
Jock was holding a whisky bottle up to the light, studying the patterns made by the liquid as it swirled and sloshed in the bottle. He licked his lips, in anticipation of a drink yet to come, but put the bottle down and turned toward Dave.
“Drink,” the big man said, his voice slurred and childlike, saliva dripping from his red, fleshy lips, “…I was promised a drink.”
“Aye, that’s right,” Dave said, “I suppose I did. And I think I’d better have one with you. I may as well...it looks like I’m not going to get much sleep tonight anyway.”
He moved forward towards the bottle, but he didn’t make it. A massive meaty hand grabbed him by the forearm, digging deep into his muscles and grinding his bones together with a sudden flaring pain. He opened his mouth, ready to scream, but it was choked off in his throat.
His head was dragged round to look into the moon-like face of the man that held him. The fleshy mouth opened and this time Dave did scream as twin fangs slid from the gums in a sudden flash of blood.
The scream didn’t last long...just long enough for Jock Dickie to lower his head to Dave’s neck.
“Drink. Promised.” Jock said as his head lowered and the fangs went in and Dave’s world exploded in white, hot pain.
When the doctor arrived ten minutes later he found the bar empty, and he didn’t see the spots of blood, which were spattered on the floor around the bar.
He had a longing look at the bottle of whisky on the bar but he knew he had many calls ahead of him that night.
If he knew what the night held for him and the town, he may have changed his mind, but he closed the door of the bar carefully and headed wearily back to his car.
By that time doors were being knocked on in other parts of the town and old friends were being invited in for a drink.
~-o0O0o-~
“I can’t go in,” Brian said.
The blackness seemed almost beckoning and it was as if the night was waiting for his decision. Nothing moved around them, no noise disturbed the air and the trees hung suspended in the shadows.
“Come on, Margaret. It’s pitch black. And the floorboards are probably rotted through...you could do yourself an injury in there.”
“Pussy.” She said, and, without waiting to see if he would follow, walked through the door and into the blackness. In the space of two seconds she had disappeared from view.
And still he couldn’t bring himself to follow. He patted his pockets for the third time in as many minutes, looking for cigarettes that might have magically materialized out of nowhere.
“Margaret?” he called and heard his voice echo in the hall beyond. “Come on. Stop playing silly buggers.”
Silence fell again, and suddenly Brian felt stupid. He hadn’t been afraid of the dark since he’d outgrown the bedside night light when he was seven...this was no time to let the old fears back in. He took a quick look around the drive in front of the house, but nothing moved.
At the end of the drive, so far away, he could just make out the squat curves of his car and he wished he had never told Margaret anything of his fears.
“Too late now,” he whispered to himself. He stepped through the door before he had time to regret the action.
The blackness fell around him like a blanket and it was long seconds before his eyes adjusted enough to see the doorway he had just come through. Moonlight was throwing a silver and black mosaic across the floor in front of the door but apart from that all was dark.
It was more than mere darkness...it was a complete absence of light, and Brian believed that he could stand there for hours and still see nothing.
“Margaret?” he called again and the echoes cascaded around him in a chorus.
“Over here,” she answered, from somewhere to his left, muffled, as if speaking from another room. Brian moved towards the sound, his foot hitting something metallic that rattled and clattered as it ran across the hard floor.
He moved slower, feeling ahead of him with his foot, and realized he walked through discarded rubbish...beer cans, paper and fast food cartons. Somehow it lessened his fear to know that other people had been here, that he and Margaret were not the first to venture within.
“Where are you?” he said, half whispering, almost afraid to raise his voice lest the whispers grew too loud.
“Just keep coming,” her voice replied, louder this time and closer.
Brian realized that his eyes were finally adjusting to the darkness...that there was a lighter area ahead of him and slightly to the left, the area from which Margaret’s voice was coming.
He reached a wall and felt along with only his fingertips until he reached a corner. He negotiated his way round it gingerly, trying to push away the growing notion that something was waiting on the other side to grab him, something with fearsome claws and teeth that would tear him into bloody pieces.
“Where the hell are you?” he hissed.
“Here,” a voice said almost in his right ear, and a cold hand grabbed him by the wrist.
There was a giggle. He felt soft lips brush against his cheek.
“Come and see,” she said,
almost girlish in her enthusiasm.
“Christ...I think I’ve peed myself,” Brian said, his voice shaky and his heart pounding in his ears as Margaret led him round the corner and into a room of marvels.
A marble floor stretched away from them, a floor that shone in soft silver, tiled in a complex labyrinthine mosaic, a Celtic serpent that twisted and coiled away into the gloom on the other side of the room.
Shadows flitted across the floor, gray and black wraiths that waltzed slowly in a complex dance to the night.
Off to his left there was a huge gothic fireplace flanked on either side by black Valkyries, great statuesque personifications of womanhood, their every curve lovingly chiseled. And on top of the mantle was a mirror that would have graced any of the great stately homes. It was nearly eight feet across and five-foot high, its frame cunningly wrought into a forest of vines and creepers.
In reflection he could see Margaret’s pale face, a grin spreading ever wider as she looked around the room.
Brian looked up, and up, to a great dome of glass in the ceiling and the almost full moon beyond. The sky was full of stars, only partially obscured by the brightness of the moon.
As far as he could see there was no glass missing from the entire dome, a dome that stretched the length and breadth of the room and arched almost twenty feet overhead, held together by great oak beams.
“How the hell did this lot survive,” he whispered. “It’s been at least forty years since anyone actually lived here...you would have thought that the kids would have got in long before now. That dome alone should have been like a magnet for them.”
“I don’t know,” Margaret said, taking him by the hand. “But don’t worry about that now...come and see what I’ve found.”
She led him across the room, their feet slapping noisily on the tiled floor. There were areas in the corners that Brian didn’t want to look at too closely...gatherings of dark shadows that seemed to crowd in ever further.
Margaret was still holding tight to his hand as she led him to the wall opposite the fireplace and stood him in front of a portrait that was almost as tall as Brian was.
He saw that the vandals hadn’t missed the room after all...the figure in the painting had sprouted a moustache and glasses, but that didn’t take away from the power of the subject.
It was set in a graveyard, a misty gothic mausoleum that sat among a grove of dead and twisted trees. But the main focus, the thing that completely dominated the picture, was the person who was in the act of leaving the tomb. No, not a person...a thing, most definitely made for the night.
It was white, as pale as a moonbeam, its features seemingly carved from finest ivory. But is was the eyes that held Brian spellbound...the blood red, piercing eyes that watched him from out of the picture.
“Looks like this is where Old Sandy got his idea for the story...don’t you think?” Margaret said. “Let’s say that he came in here, looking for somewhere to sleep, and saw the picture. Wouldn’t it make a great idea for a story he could use to extort whisky from gullible schoolteachers?”
Brian couldn’t take his eyes from the picture. The closer he looked, the more detail he could see...the talons gleaming on the fingernails, the flared nostrils, but most of all, the twin fangs dripping redly. He would have stood there for long minutes if Margaret hadn’t pulled at his arm.
“Okay. I’m satisfied,” she said. “I’m about ready for that coffee now.”
And as he turned toward her a cloud passed in front of the moon, throwing the room into deep, silent, darkness.
~-o0O0o-~
Tony was left alone in the bedroom as the Minister went to answer the door.
He knew that the police would ask him a lot of questions...not just about the old man, but about Ian as well. He had no idea what he would tell them.
He knew they wouldn’t believe him.
After Billy had gone away he had tried to tell people about the cellar under the house...about the sword and the skeleton and the book. But nobody believed him...it was just like when he told Granddad’s stories. All he got was derisive laughter or, worse, the pitying look from people who thought he was soft in the head.
Policemen would be even worse. He’d seen them on the telly. They bullied and shouted at people to tell them things, and they never believed stories that involved ghosts or stuff...not until it was too late anyway. Anybody who watched films could tell you that.
And his dad always said they were stupid. “Stupid fucking bastards” were his actual words, but then Tony didn’t put too much store by that one...almost everyone in the world was a stupid fucking bastard according to his dad, even Tony himself.
He heard the Minister open the door downstairs and the noise of muffled voices filtered up the stairwell.
His first instinct was to run. Run and hide. But after what he had seen that night he thought that a church, or next to a church, might be the safest place for him to be. He’d seen the films, read the comics...those things always hated churches, and crosses always killed them.
Which was why he still sat on the edge of the bed when the door opened and two men came in followed by the Minister.
They weren’t in uniform, but Tony knew they must be policemen. There was a stillness about them, a watchfulness as they seemed to soak in information. His suspicions were confirmed when the younger of the two took a notebook from his pocket.
The other policeman looked at a picture in his hand then over at Tony. Nodding to himself he handed the picture to his colleague and moved forward towards the bed.
“Hello, Tony. You’ve led us a merry dance. We’ve sent someone over to your house to get your mum...she’ll be here soon.”
The policeman’s eyes were deep blue, and although he tried to smile, it never reached those eyes.
He looked a little like ‘Colombo’, only his raincoat wasn’t as crumpled, and he didn’t smoke cigars. He looked big and soft and gentle, like a friendly dog, but there was something about him that made Tony keep quiet...something about those too blue eyes that seemed to pierce him with their stare.
“We need you to tell us what happened tonight in the cemetery. We think there’s a very bad man out there, and we want to catch him.”
So Tony told them...about the graveyard, about the old man, and about the vampire. He saw the look that the policeman gave to his colleague, that pitying, incredulous look. Tony got angry.
He felt sick of running, sick of fear and most of all, sick of not being believed.
“Maybe it wasn’t a vampire.” Collins said, his voice soft but his eyes hard. “Couldn’t you just think a wee bit harder?”
Tony shook his head, and saw the look of disgust in the policeman’s face. So he told them about the stranger, about the garlic and the overcoat and the quiver of crossbow bolts, and that made them pay attention.
He saw the looks that passed between the policemen, and he sensed the sudden quickening of interest.
“This stranger,” the policeman asked, “You say he had a crossbow?”
Tony nodded.
“Can you describe him? Maybe tell us a wee bit more about him?”
Tony tried, but all he could remember was the overcoat. That, and the black shirt. And even when the policeman produced a photograph, he still couldn’t be sure.
“It looks like him...I think. But the man in the cemetery had gray hair...and I think he was thinner.”
It seemed to be enough for the policeman though. They left Tony on the bed and took Bill Reid over to the doorway.
Suddenly the policemen had become animated, and they spoke fast, with many arm movements and references to their notebooks. They spoke in whispers, and Tony was only able to pick up a few words. The ones that registered were ‘Jim Kerr’, ‘escaped’, ‘psychopath’ and ‘killer’.
The older policeman turned back towards Tony, just as there was a loud buzz from his pocket. He took out a small radio.
“Collins here,” he said. “What have you got for m
e?”
Tony wasn’t able to hear the message properly, but when the look in the policeman’s changed from concentration to concern, then to pity, he knew that it was news he didn’t want to hear.
~-o0O0o-~
Brian stood still, gripping Margaret’s hand and was grateful when she returned the grip with a firm squeeze.
“Do you still think it’s romantic?” he asked, managing to keep any quaver out of his voice. “Or does the absence of moonlight spoil the moment for you?”
He felt grateful for the answering giggle...it reminded him that outside of this dark room there was a real world that he was going to get back to...hopefully sooner rather than later.
“Are you kidding?” she replied. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
He felt rather than saw her turn towards him in the dark and her lips brushed against his. He pulled her close and kissed her hard. Their lips parted and her tongue slid hotly against his.
It was a long seconds before they pulled apart. He kept hold of her, tight, and ran a hand through her hair, the other pressing hard against her back.
“I’ve been wondering all night how I could get you alone in a dark room...I just didn’t think it would be this one.”
She giggled into his neck and he felt soft lips nuzzle at his neck.
“Well what are you going to do about it?” she said, nibbling at his right ear, “…remember...you promised me coffee first.”
Brian was about to reply when a shriek rent the air, a high scream the like of which he’d never heard before. He felt Margaret stiffen in his arms and he held his breath, but the noise wasn’t repeated.
“Just a crow,” he whispered, but he wasn’t convinced...the noise had been too human, too much like someone in pain and fear. He instinctively held Margaret closer. He immediately felt foolish. If it came to a fight she was probably stronger and fitter than he was, and if it came to flight, she was most definitely faster.
Suddenly the room seemed smaller, the darker shadows creeping ever closer. It was way past time for them to leave.
Eldren: The Book of the Dark Page 11
