What I needed was an on-line e-Grimoire, something that would instruct me on how to make her more docile, more compliant, and much less lippy. I’d read about this Italian Count from the Middle-Ages who was supposed to have murdered his five wives and brought them back to life as obedient, servile companions, happy to indulge his every whim and appetite. But I had no idea how to accomplish this. I spent weeks checking through hundreds of websites dealing with black magic and necromancy but most of them were either written by deluded cranks or over-imaginative teenagers. I then posted requests on likely-looking message boards and chat-rooms and finally got a reply from someone called Baal666. He asked me lots of questions, probably to find out if I was serious or not, then finally sent me a link to a website called Necrobyte.
Sure enough, what I needed was right there on the screen and I wrote everything down with a feverish, shaking hand. And just as well I did, because the web site crashed my computer after five minutes. It didn’t just wipe the hard-drive, it somehow made my motherboard catch fire and caused my monitor to implode in a shower of blue sparks. But I had what I needed and all I need do was carefully follow the instructions. The first step, of course, was to murder my wife. I did this by crushing a handful of sleeping pills and putting them into the warm milk Clara drank every night before going to bed. Once she was snoozing well and good, I taped her hands to the headboard, tied a plastic bag around her head, and simply waited until she suffocated.
The next stage I won’t go into too much detail over. It involved dumping Clara in the bath, cutting her open, draining away the blood, then removing all those eel-like, blue and purple innards normally best kept away from the light of day. When the job was complete I did as the instructions said and stuffed Clara full of sawdust, goose-feathers and horse-hair, then stitched her up with thick black twine. My needlework isn’t so good and a trail of sawdust kept leaking out when I moved her back into the spare room, so I used superglue to fix the troublesome loose seams.
Then came the anointing with unguents. The list of ingredients looked initially daunting, but the author had appended an alternative list of essential oils containing things like sweet almond, juniper, magnesium, and marjoram, all easily obtainable from the Body Shop. These had to be heated to a certain temperature, then mixed in a certain order with a scattering of graveyard dirt before being rubbed over my dead wife’s skin. The standard arcane mumbo-jumbo stuff was involved here, chanted incantations, burning candles and waving my hands in the air to create pentagrams and inverted triangles. The whole operation lasted three whole hours but finally everything was done. Except for one omission. There was the small matter of spilling my own blood as a tribute to Lucifer, but I thought that was just a touch too theatrical.
I poured myself a stiff drink and enjoyed just sitting there admiring my new, much-improved, perfect wife. There was no animation at that point – the e-Grimoire claimed it would be at least two full days before she was back on her feet and ready to do some cooking and cleaning. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t put her to other uses. Putting on a selection of smoochy Michael Buble music, I hauled her up and whirled her around the room. She didn’t weigh much to start with, but now filled with only sawdust, feathers, and horse-hair she practically weighed nothing at all. It amused me to think how much she would have hated this. Clara was one of the few women in creation who hated dancing. Every time we went to a party it would always be me urging her to get up and shake her stuff, but she never did. As I swung her up and down in time to the music I nuzzled my mouth close to Clara’s ear, telling her how much I loved her and how beautiful she looked. Then with one last graceful pirouette I swept her off to bed.
Making love that night with Clara was like nothing I had experienced before. We did things the old Clara would never have consented to. Dirty things, sick even. And not once did she mutter a word of complaint. I loved the sharp contrast between the burning rage in my groin as it ground into her own cool, vapid sex. When I was spent, I carried her back to the spare room, sat her in a chair and wished her goodnight.
The following day I left her much to her own devices. I slept late and only visited the spare room once to anoint her with the oils as per the instructions for the ritual. I wondered how much of the old Clara would survive. Would she be capable of normal speech? Would I have to teach her how to cook and use the vacuum cleaner? I hoped not as my own cooking wasn’t up to much and cleaning has never been one of my strong points. I did however have to get rid of the unwanted offal I’d removed from Clara. These sweetbreads I tied in plastic bin liners and then spent a large part of the day driving around town, dropping them off at various locations. I was dog-tired when I returned home, and after eating a cheese sandwich for dinner I went to bed alone.
I awoke in the middle of the night to find Clara lying beside me. I switched on the bedside lamp, excited by the possibility of her early reanimation, but she just lay there stiff and unresponsive, her skin cold and dry to the touch. When I tried speaking to her, asking how she was feeling, she stubbornly remained silent. Too tired to puzzle it out, I switched off the light, made diffident love to her, and fell into a dreamless sleep. In the morning her side of the bed was empty, but on the bedside table there was a note that simply said, ‘Tonight xx’.
I checked through the ritual’s instructions again but it never mentioned anything regarding intermittent reanimation. Then again, I imagine everyone reacts differently to coming back from the dead. In the back of my mind I worried slightly that my omission of a blood sacrifice to Lucifer may have brought about some yet unknown side-effects, but it was too late to do anything about it. I made frequent trips to the spare room that day hoping to catch Clara by surprise, but each time I entered the room she was in the exactly the same position where I’d left her in the chair. I made a few small repairs to the stitching on her torso where some of the black twine had worked loose and I brushed off a small pool of sawdust and feathers that had gathered in her lap before applying the oils. The pungent scent which at first had smelled (and tasted) mysterious and exotic was now cloying and sickly.
After another makeshift meal of cheese sandwiches and a bottle of beer, I decided to make a special effort for Clara’s return to the living. I took a long soak in the bath before shaving and liberally spraying myself with after-shave she had given me at Xmas. In the bedroom I put on a clean shirt and dressed in my best suit, then nipped out to the supermarket to buy a bunch of wilting roses and a budget priced bottle of champagne. The flowers went into a vase and the champagne into an ice bucket. I stoked up the hi-fi with Michael Buble and sat back to await my perfect wife.
After two hours I had finished off the champagne and the music had long since come to an end. Even the roses seemed to have visibly wilted a few more degrees. I was on the point of dozing off when I heard the sound of bumps and muted crashes coming from the spare room down the hall. I sat up straight and listened carefully as Clara took her first fledgling steps into her new life. The thumps and bangs continued for ten minutes before I finally heard the spare room door open and soft slithering footsteps approach the lounge.
Clara eventually came stumbling into view and I almost burst out laughing at her clumsy attempts to dress herself. She’d pulled on a cardigan back to front with her bra twisted over the top, as well as an old pair of paint-splattered jeans that she only kept for gardening or decorating. The laughter stuck in my throat however when she lurched to within a few feet of me and I noticed she was carrying a small valise with badly packed garments leaking out the sides.
‘Clara, where on earth do you think you’re going?’ I asked.
Her pale face contorted into a ghost of a bitter smile. ‘I’m leaving you, Howard’ she slurred.
That was when I noticed what she was holding in her other hand. It seemed that before Clara had slid into my bed the night before, she’d also made a trip to the kitchen. Clutched between her pale fingers was a long, serrated carving knife.
Before I could re
act, she had thrust the knife into my chest causing me to tip over the chair and knock over the vase of roses as I crashed to the floor. As I lay there watching my life-blood spread across the carpet to revitalise the petals of the half-dead blooms, I realised I was paying that blood tribute to Lucifer after all. Then, faintly through the harshly hissing static filling my head, I heard the crooning of Michael Buble start up again. Slowly, oh so slowly, I managed to turn my head a few inches and saw a wondrous sight.
Clara was dancing.
Stand and Deliver
We’d been huddled beneath the covered bus stop at the Three Horse Shoes pub in Killinghall for over an hour when the red liveried coach finally trundled along the rain-splashed road. One old chap at the front of the queue grumbled, ‘…and about time too.’ He was answered by assenting murmurs and much nodding of heads.
The bus pulled to a stop and the hydraulic doors opened to reveal the driver wearing a black mask and Tricorn hat, brandishing an antique flintlock pistol. We all sighed wearily. Drive-by robbery was becoming all too familiar on this bus route.
The Highwayman driver stepped off the bus. ‘Stand and deliver. Your bus fares or your lives!’
Purses were snapped open and loose change jangled in pockets as the required sum was forfeited. One lady who proffered a five pound note was met with a steely gaze and a curt, ‘Correct fares only, madam, if you please.’ The woman hurriedly complied.
When I presented my student travel card, he cocked his pistol and I thought my end was nigh, but he eventually lowered the pistol and pointed to my watch. ‘Can you spare the time, lad?’ he said mischievously.
I handed over the watch and the driver hopped back aboard his bus and drove off.
We were still complaining to each other about the robbery when a second bus drew up two minutes later. To our collective dismay, the doors opened this time to reveal a masked and tricorned Highway-woman waving a flintlock pistol. ‘Stand and deliver!’ she shouted at the top of her voice, and……. well, you can guess the rest.
As the bus pulled away, the grumbling old man said morosely, ‘That’s just typical. You wait over an hour for a hold-up, then two come along at once.’
The Christmas Card
When the last piece of stage setting was in place, Dave took a step back and surveyed the finished scene. He and Anna had gone for the old-world rustic look this year. This meant no tacky strings of coloured tinsel, no seizure-inducing flashing lights, and any moulded-plastic Santa faces complete with deranged grins found lurking in a dark corner of the attic had been stomped on and dumped. In their place was intertwined holly branches with red glass berries and metal foil leaves painted gold and silver. The girl from the craft-fair swore they’d look beautifully Victorian when placed along curtain rails and mirror frames. Dave was pleased to discover she had been telling the truth.
The holly branches perfectly set off the cut-down Highland Fir Christmas tree standing straight and proud in a sturdy ceramic pot in the corner. For tree adornments they had gone for a minimalist look, only using tiny ice-white lights and a selection of hanging wooden toys that looked like they’d come straight from a Dickensian toy shop. With the living flame gas fire burning merrily and tasteful festive music playing in the background - Bert Jansch and Sufjan Stevens replacing Slade and Shakin’ Stevens, - Dave thought everything was absolutely perfect. This was the part of Christmas he loved best.
C-Day, as he thought of it, was always an anti-climax – too many people milling around, with everyone trying desperately to exude good cheer as they sweated inside horrible sweaters and struggled to hide their disappointment as gifts were opened and then discretely laid aside. By early evening, all anyone had to look forward to was a hangover and acid indigestion. Dave preferred the run-in to Christmas when all avenues of festive cheer were still open to explore and enjoy without the tension and forced bonhomie that C-Day demanded. Just like the experts said, sometimes the best fun was to be had in the foreplay. Decorating the tree, wrapping the presents, cosying up on the settee with Anna watching It’s a Wonderful Life, and even writing and delivering the Christmas cards. These things were all part of the ritual that kept the magic of Christmas alive and well.
Dave poured two glasses of red wine and took one over to where Anna was hanging cards on a length of gold coloured twine she’d strung above a framed print of Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Handing her a glass, he hugged his wife one-handed while kissing her on the forehead. ‘Merry Christmas,’ he said.
‘Bit early for that, Dave’ Anna replied. ‘Ten days early to be exact.’
Dave’s hand remained in contact with Anna’s shoulder, his fingers tracing slow circles. ‘Never too early for Christmas, love. Or for anything else come to that. I was thinking once we’d finished this wine we could…..’
He got no further as from the hallway came the sound of the letter-box open and snap shut as something dropped onto the door-mat.
‘Who the hell would that be at this time on a Sunday night?’ he sighed, annoyed his seduction attempt had been interrupted.
‘Well, it’s not the postman. Probably a neighbour dropping off a Christmas card. Go fetch and I’ll hang it with the rest.’ Anna gave the string of cards a shake making them sway like multi-coloured bed sheets on a washing line.
Dave set down his wine glass and did as he was told. When he returned he held an envelope in his hand. ‘Look at this. They haven’t even bothered writing our name on it. Sloppy or what?’ Opening the envelope, he removed the card. On the front was a snowman with a long carrot of a nose where a robin red breast perched. He frowned as he read the message inside. ‘Don’t even think it’s for us. All it says is, Best Wishes – from Stuart.’ He crossed the room, handing the card to Anna. ‘I can’t even think of anyone around here called Stuart.’
Anna studied the card, a troubled look growing on her face. When she spoke her voice was hesitant. ‘Dave, I’ve seen this handwriting before. I’m not sure but...’ She laid down both wine and card and began rummaging through a desk drawer where she kept mementoes like special birthday cards, concert tickets and other keepsakes.
‘What are looking you for? Don’t tell me it’s from some fancy man I don’t know about.’
Anna pulled a white card with gold gilt around the edges from the drawer and studied what was written inside. Her face was very pale as she handed both cards to Dave. ‘I don’t understand this. Maybe it’s a joke.’
Dave took the cards and compared the hand-writing. The one Anna had taken from the drawer had been given to them on their wedding day. It was from his brother, Stuart, who had been his best man. Stuart, who had died in a car crash three months after they wed. Dave’s face creased in sudden anger.
‘What kind of sick idiot would drop something like this through our door? And at Christmas?’ He whirled and rushed to the window, pulling the curtain aside as if expecting the culprit to still be hanging around outside hoping to see the fall-out from the prank, but the dark street was quiet and empty.
Dave closed the curtain and made as if to rip the card into pieces but Anna quickly plucked it from his shaking hands. ‘No, Dave. Joke or not, this is definitely Stuart’s writing. You can’t throw it away like a piece of rubbish. We’ll treat it as a gift.’ Turning, she placed the card on the gold string with the others.
‘But we can’t just…’
Anna put her arms around her husband. ‘We can. What’s the point of getting upset? We’ll never find out who gave us the card, so let it go. They might have meant it as a nasty joke but we don’t have to accept it as one.’
Dave relaxed against his wife. ‘You’re right. Let’s not give them the satisfaction of ruining Christmas. Let’s drink our wine and go to bed.’
And they did.
Next morning Anna came downstairs to find Dave once more holding the mystery card, fat tears running unchecked down his face. ‘This is crazy,’ he whispered. She took the card from her husband’s trembling fingers and saw a new scribbl
e of ballpoint pen had been added. This one said, Love from Mum. Despite the warmth of the gas fire she found herself shivering. Dave’s mother had died a year earlier from breast cancer.
Dave took the card placed it back on the string with the others. ‘Tell me I’m not going mad. It’s her writing. Mum’s writing.’
‘You’re not going mad,’ she said and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on for tea. Sometimes tea was all the answer you were ever going to get.
Over the next three days more names began to appear on the card. Names of people long dead and buried. There was Dave’s aunt Mary, killed in a house fire. His cousins Stephen and Pam, drowned after a boating accident. Uncle Derek, brain tumour. Uncle Peter, suicide by hanging. His father, James, a soldier killed in Ireland while Dave was still a child. There were others too – old friends, work-mates, like Billy the car mechanic who had kept Dave’s first clunker of a car on the road before dying when a hydraulic-jack collapsed and dropped a mini-van on his chest. There was even an oily smear beside Billy’s name. Every time Dave or Anna removed the card from the string another name would be there, as if the dead were using the Christmas card like a guest book.
Dave no longer felt like enjoying Christmas. The holly branches over the mirror frame reminded him of bleached bones and the tree in the corner he’d thought so pretty only a few days ago now looked like just another dead and decaying piece of cheap rubbish. He began to have nightmares where he would find himself walking downstairs in the middle of the night and opening the lounge door to find the darkened room crowded with dead people standing or sitting silently, not even acknowledging his presence until one black silhouette moved forward and he heard his brother whisper his name in a voice bloated and hoarse with pain.
On the fourth day after the card had arrived, Dave got up late to find the house empty. He and Anna had argued the night before. Maybe the first time they had ever shouted at each other. Anna had been trying to convince him that perhaps the mysterious messages were appearing for a reason. She thought they were trying to tell Dave they were there to support him. To let him know they loved him. Dave, morose and sleep-deprived, had lost his temper, frayed nerves getting the better of him and he’d torn down the Christmas tree and snapped the holly branches into useless kindling. Anna had gone to bed in tears while Dave lay awake most of the night in the spare room.
Mezzanine and Other Curiously Dark Tales Page 9
