Dark Words (Horror Short Stories): Collected Short Fiction

by Craig Saunders

  But this night there is another sound…growling bass from the field. The rave car was still there, its tunes a lullaby in the dark, soft and distant yet close enough to touch me out in the chill night. Fingers caressed the small of my back and goose bumps jumped on my skin.

  It is not uncommon for a rave to go into the wee hours of the morning, and through, into the next day. But it is passing strange for a man to sit unmoving in a car throughout the day and night, listening to the same radio station with never-ending patience.

  Cigarette smoke swirled thoughtfully about my head in the dim light from the kitchen. A moth batted ineptly against the windows. The soft night beats of Trance Nation drifted on the breeze, and I was in the grip of my goose bumps, rivets of cool flesh holding me down firm against the chair.

  Perhaps there was something wrong with the man. I imagined him having a bad trip, a catastrophic freak-out, perhaps brought on by dehydration in the blistering summer sun. Maybe he could not move for some nameless fear.

  Maybe he was dead.

  No, that’s foolish. People who listen to Trance don’t die in cars. They might die in far off places, but we’re too young to die in cars of sunstroke. Besides, people certainly didn’t die in Volvos. Safest car there is. And not in a field.

  I listened to the distant radio as I smoked my cigarette. If he was still there in the morning, I would go out across the field and check on him. He might need a friendly hand, a bottle of water, perhaps talking down.

  Did ravers drive Volvos? Perhaps they did. The world had moved on since our day. We were the seventies. We were the hippies. We were going to change the world, but as with every generation, work, the world, wives and kids had all conspired to change us.

  I shut the door on the dolorous beats and headed back to bed.

  “Alright?”

  I sat down and shifted myself onto the sheet, relishing the coolness of the night on my bare skin.

  “Fine. Go back to sleep,” I told her, kissed her on cheek (I’d been aiming for her forehead, but it was dark).

  I was asleep in moments.

  *

  I am in a room. There is a hole in the ceiling, surrounded by roots. I understand that I am underground. In the distance above, I see the green man. I know it is him. He has antlers, and is made of bark and roots and shoots. I call out to him. He reaches down to pull me out, but his hand is not wood. I feel the rubbery warmth of flesh, dead but still warm, and the skin slews off into my hand. I cry out. The owner of the hand tells me, ‘It’s alright, son’, but he lies…he is not a man, but an old lady. Her teeth aren’t in, and the mouth is sunken. Her words are distorted…she reaches for me again, this time there is no skin on her hands. Then, in a blink, as I struggle somewhere from within the grip of the dream, there are many hands, seeking out my flesh…and they have sharp daggers that probe and slice. Somewhere in my sweat drenched terror my mind manages to think ‘maybe they are needles…and they just want me to sleep…’

  I woke with a cry. I did not sleep again that night.

  *

  “Morning,” my beautiful wife tells me, but I already knew this. It had been morning for me for the last three hours.

  “It is,” I told her. She stepped across to the veranda. I appreciated the subtle movements under the sheer material of her light nightdress. She placed a soft kiss on my lips.

  “There’s some bacon and eggs left. Do you want some?”

  “Yes, please,” she said with a smile, which turned into a frown. “Is that music?”

  “Yep,” I said. “There’s a car in the field. It’s been there since yesterday.”

  She bit her lip and turned on her heel. “Noisy bastards. You’d think they’d have some respect for the people living here.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “We could be old folks. But then we wouldn’t be able to hear anything, so maybe that wouldn’t matter. I’m going to have a word with them later.” If I could, I added to myself, but I didn’t tell her this.

  “I’m going to have a shower.”

  “I’ll get the breakfast on.”

  I fried some eggs using the same pan as I had last night, and grilled some bacon.

  When she came out I put them on a plate, and we sat down to eat together.

  “How was your meeting?”

  “Boring, you don’t want to know about it. Tell me about your day. Did you get any writing done?”

  “Yeah, a few pages,” I lied. “It’s moving along nicely. I’ll get some more done today.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “Hmpf,” she managed through a slice of bacon lathered in egg yolk. We ate in companionable silence, and then I took the plates in to wash up while she got changed into what she likes to call her power dress.

  The music was a constant companion, or would have been if I could take it. Instead I put on my radio and drowned the sound out. I would go over later and check on my fellow raver, but I didn’t want to think about it now. I could get on with the washing up, perhaps draw it out all day so I didn’t have to think about the phantom car and its melodious tunes.

  I kissed my wife goodbye. She took our car and drove off with a wave.

  I smoked for a while, steeling myself, and left the back door open. I put some shoes on this time. The field at the back is strewn with little stones, dragged up by the plough.

  I walked down our long driveway, the sun burning on my topless shoulders, hot even this early. There is a ditch that separates the road from the field, and I hopped over it, into the stony field. I walked around, our house shielded from view by the high hedge, squinting against the early brightness. I could hear the radio again, now that I was closing in on the car. I turned the corner of our property. The car sat before me, twinkling in the sun, rocking on its axles slightly, like the bass was making it dance.

  My heart lurched. I could see the man sitting at the steering wheel, and his head lolled against his chest, shifting as the car rocked. I had a bad feeling about this. I could feel my flesh puckering again, as it had in the darkness of the night before. I could feel my balls creeping, trying to hide inside.

  But I had to know. I’d have to call the police. There was nothing for it. The bacon needed to know things, as my pancakes always said.

  I closed the last few feet in agony, fear sweating out on my forehead. I hated death. I’d seen enough with my mother and my grandmother. I didn’t want to see any more. I just knew, no matter how much my mind kindly tried to supply other alternatives, that I was fooling myself to think anything else. I pushed on, stepping over the uneven ruts in the field, closing in on the car. There were no tracks…how did he get here?

  I was shaking by the time I reached the door. It stank. Not the music, the music was sweet. It brought back memories of good times. I tried to hold onto that, but the stench…the stench brought back memories, too.

  I looked in, and saw what I feared in my heart to ever see again. His eyes stared straight ahead. Flies hummed within the sweltering car.

  Death’s heralds, buzzing around the raver’s head. But he was suited. As I had imagined, perhaps. An aging raver…the pace of the rat race too swift for him to keep his head above water.

  Beetles crawled on him, little scabrous imps scampering to and fro. He was bald, with a tuft of hair at the front, going (gone) badly bald. He had a slight paunch. The music though, the music was pushing the thoughts out of my head. The music, the sun, the stench…my head was pounding.

  I threw up on the dirt. I heaved until there was nothing left to hurl. My bacon came up, my eyes swam with tears.

  The music was all there was. That, and the old familiar smell of death.

  He had no doubt had his happy moments. His face looked strangely sad, and I wondered…remembered…that there had been happy times, too.

  Being dead, you remember the dream that came before. The sweet dream of life, burned into your soul. Your spirit is suffused with it, bathed in its bright
glory. In death, it is like the memory of the sun of your skin, of the sweet tarry taste of a cigarette, a kiss from your beautiful wife, or the tunes and sounds that take you from this life. I mourn the dream, for the dream that had come before had been too beautiful to leave behind.

  Even in death the tunes beat out time. The car still rocks and dances on its springs.

  It’s funny, how you only miss the dream upon waking.

  The End

  Also by Craig Saunders

  Novels

  The Dead Boy

  Left to Darkness

  Masters of Blood and Bone

  Damned to Cold Fire (previously published as 'The Estate')

  A Home by the Sea

  RAIN

  Vigil

  The Noose and Gibbet

  A Stranger's Grave

  The Love of the Dead

  Spiggot

  Spiggot, Too

  BLOOD DRUGS TEA (previously published as 'The Gold Ring')

  The Devil Lied

  Novellas

  UNIT 731

  Death by a Mother's Hand

  Days of Christmas

  Flesh and Coin

  Bloodeye

  Deadlift

  A Scarecrow to Watch over Her

  The Walls of Madness

  Insulation

  Short Story Collections

  Dead in the Trunk (Vol. I)

  Angels in Black and White (Vol. II)

  Dark Words (Vol. III)

  The Cold Inside (Vol. IV)

  Writing as Craig R. Saunders:

  The Outlaw King (The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One)

  The Thief King (The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two)

  The Queen of Thieves (The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Three)

  Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Quadrilogy Book One)

  The Tides of Rythe (The Rythe Quadrilogy Book Two)

  Rythe Falls (The Rythe Quadrilogy Book Three)

  Beneath Rythe (The Rythe Quadrilogy Book Four)

  About the Author:

  Craig Saunders is the author of over thirty novels and novellas, including 'Masters of Blood and Bone', 'RAIN' and 'Deadlift'. He writes across many genres, but horror, humour (the 'Spiggot' series) and fantasy (the 'Rythe' tales) are his favourites.

  Craig lives in Norfolk, England, with his wife and children, likes nice people and good coffee. Find out more on Amazon, or visit:

  www.craigrsaunders.blogspot.com

  www.facebook.com/craigrsaundersauthor

  @Grumblesprout