Night Terrors_An Uncanny Kingdom Urban Fantasy

by Matthew Stott

  ‘Sorry,’ said Miss Hethers, as she lost her way again, ‘I’m afraid I didn’t have a good night’s sleep.’ She reached into her handbag and pulled out a thermos of coffee.

  Billy Martin, head shaved, skin awash with a riot of freckles, was fast asleep, resting his head on his arms. He looked like he was shaking.

  Liam rose slightly from his seat and leaned over in Molly’s direction. From that angle he could see what it was she was working on. She wasn’t writing down what Miss Hethers was saying, wasn’t noting down numbers or equations or anything like that.

  She was drawing rabbit ears.

  Formby shuffled into Big Pins, nose twitching. Rita waved him over from a table in the back, and he hustled over, weaving a scenic route that took him past anyone sat with company. As he went, he snaffled up pieces of conversation, ears restlessly taking in anything that might be of value to others. It wasn’t purposeful behaviour, it was second nature. Formby was unaware that he was doing it, though some of Big Pins’ patrons were, and clammed up as he neared them. Smart people knew to keep their lips sealed when an eaves was close by.

  ‘Got you one in,’ said Rita, as Formby finally finished his walking tour and joined her, Waterson, and Ben Turner at the table.

  He let out a little cheer and clapped his fingerless glove-wearing hands together, his exposed fingertips dark with dirt. He saw the full pint of beer and unopened packet of cheese and onion crisps sat waiting for him and lowered himself on to a stool, opening the crisps with one hand whilst raising the pint glass to his mouth with the other.

  ‘Multi-tasking,’ said Rita. ‘Impressive.’

  Formby grinned, exposing a mouthful of sharp, little, yellow and brown piranha teeth. His chin and cheeks were covered by bristles turned white with age.

  ‘Have you ever heard of toothpaste, Formby?’ asked Waterson.

  ‘Yes. Heard of everything, me.’

  ‘Anything for me yet?’ asked Rita.

  ‘Listening. Listening, listening, always listening.’

  ‘And what have you heard?’ asked Waterson.

  Formby frowned and scratched at his head, raising a little cloud of dandruff. ‘Dreams.’

  ‘Bad dreams?’ said Rita, leaning forward.

  ‘Very bad. Lots and lots of very bad dreams.’

  Rita reached into her coat and pulled out Bob’s pad of paper that she’d kept after leaving his squalid flat. She flicked through the pages, found the one she was after, and slapped it down on the table, pushing it towards Formby. ‘Well?’

  Formby leaned forward, squinting. He reached out and traced the rabbit ears drawing with a grimy finger tip.

  ‘Not dead and gone?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s what I’m starting to wonder,’ she replied.

  ‘Wait,’ said Ben, ‘is this about those two mask-wearing, uh, things, you told me about?’

  ‘Mr. Cotton and Mr. Spike,’ Rita replied.

  ‘Right. I thought you said you, sort of, killed them. Or something.’

  ‘I did something to them. I’ve no idea how it affected them. Maybe it killed them, maybe it just slowed them down. I don’t know. It got them out of the way for a while, at the very least. Maybe this is just a coincidence.’

  ‘Bad dreams, rabbit ears there, the little girl wearing them at my funeral,’ said Waterson. ‘It seems like the evidence is starting to stack up.’

  ‘Circumstantial evidence. That’s all it is for now. We need more so we know for sure.’ Rita grabbed the pad of paper, rolled it up, and slipped it back into her coat pocket. ‘If we know it’s them for certain, we can find them and we can stop them. Somehow.’

  Formby finished his pint and let rip a deep, bassy belch.

  ‘Good God,’ said Waterson. ‘I’m dead and even I feel like I can taste that burp.’

  Formby sniggered and began licking the now empty bag of crisps.

  ‘You good to keep on snooping?’ asked Rita.

  ‘Yes, yes, I will listen. Sooner or later, someone says something. Someone who knows.’

  ‘How can I help?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Oh. Ah…’

  ‘Rita, I’m going mad here. I haven’t stepped outside in over a week.’

  ‘I know, I know, but you’re still too hot.’

  Ben grinned and raised an eyebrow. ‘Why, thank you.’

  ‘Hilarious. You know what I mean. You murdered someone a matter of days ago and the police are still on red alert looking for you.’

  ‘I grew a beard, and I have this hat, look,’ Ben pulled out a blue baseball cap and put it on.

  ‘Eat your heart out, Scarlet Pimpernel,’ said Rita. ‘I still think, maybe, one or two of the more observant officers might see through your cunning disguise.’

  Ben sagged and nodded.

  ‘If it’s any consolation, I really liked the funny cat vid. Keep that shit up.’

  Ben laughed, then sighed and took off his hat. ‘Fine. Okay. But I can’t stay in here forever.’

  ‘I know. We’ll work it out, I promise, okay?’

  Ben nodded, then headed off to the bathroom.

  Rita turned to see Waterson grinning. ‘What’s that shit-eating grin about?’

  ‘So, when are you two tying the knot?’

  Rita attempted to punch Waterson on the arm, but tumbled to the floor with a startled yelp as her fist passed harmlessly through him.

  Formby bent down to look at the fallen Rita. ‘More drinks now, please, yes?’

  Ben washed his hands and splashed some water on his face. After he grabbed a paper towel and dried himself, he balled the wet paper in his fist and threw it across the bathroom in frustration. He sighed and leaned against the sink. He knew Rita was right to keep him indoors and out of harm’s way. People might recognise him. The police definitely would. And he trusted her. More than trusted her.

  But it didn’t make his circumstances any less frustrating. He’d dodged one prison for another, and it couldn’t go on forever. There would have to be some sort of solution eventually.

  He thought about Sally, his ex. The girl who had dumped him. She’d have heard about what he’d done, of course. About how he’d torn a man too pieces. He wondered how she’d taken the news. If she thought that dumping him had been a lucky escape, or if she didn’t believe a word of it. She knew him better than just about anyone, surely she would never believe he would do such a thing? She might have thought him capable of boring a man to death, but not eviscerating.

  He thought about his little desk at Briers & Travers, the office he’d worked at as an accountant for more years than he cared to remember. He was surprised to feel a little pang of nostalgia for the place. That routine, that normalcy. The office banter, office drudgery, the people you looked forward to chatting to, the ones you looked forward to avoiding and chatting about. No doubt he would be the one they spoke about these days. The single topic of conversation. Steve would definitely be heading that up, Ben’s colleague, the man who’d bully him into going for an after-work pint or six. Steve would have a bunch of Google alerts set up so he caught any scrap of news on his friend and fugitive. Ben could picture him strutting about the office, doing the rounds, doling out every fresh morsel.

  Ben smiled. Turned out he missed that tosser, too.

  He sighed and pushed himself away from the sink, ready to rejoin Rita and the others. It was no good feeling sad about what was lost, it didn’t help, it was pointless. Time to accept, to move on, to embrace the crazy world he’d found himself in. The crazy people he now called friends. The crazy redhead who he might, maybe, call more than a friend soon. He took out his phone and started looking for new cute cat vids to send Rita.

  ‘They keep you as an indoor pet now?’

  Ben’s heart lurched. He recognised that voice. It was like that voice was part of him.

  He looked up to find Magda standing in front of the door, her long, black hair tied back, her brilliantly blue eyes boring holes through him.

  ‘No,’ Ben whimper
ed, back pressing up against the sink again, ‘this isn’t… you’re dead. I saw your body, you died.’

  Magda was a master werewolf, and the sole reason he was a fugitive. Ben was quite correct, Magda was dead. She’d fallen from the top of Blackpool Tower and had Rita’s axe buried in her for good measure. Magda’s soul had then—Ben had been told—been claimed by a demon. Yes, Magda the werewolf, who had infected Ben with her curse, was indeed deader than dead. And yet she was stood before him, a cool smile teasing at her lips.

  ‘Do you not miss my gift?’ she asked, and bared her teeth, large and sharp.

  ‘It wasn’t a gift.’

  ‘To be so free, so untamed. The smell of the hunt on the air, the excitement. I will give you that gift again, Ben.’

  ‘No, I don’t want it. I don’t want it!’

  He didn’t see her move, but Magda was pressed against him, teeth grazing his neck, ready to sink into his flesh and turn him into the beast.

  Ben’s heart beat so fast he thought he might have a heart attack. His stomach was a knot, his thoughts a cavalcade of wild terror.

  ‘Let the wolf out, Ben. Let it out.’

  ‘No!’

  Ben shoved Magda back.

  ‘I won’t be that thing again! I won’t kill again!’

  The top of Magda’s head began to bulge, and the sound of her skull cracking echoed around the tiled bathroom. Rabbit ears began to emerge from the top of Magda’s head, white fur slick with gore, blood pouring down her face.

  ‘Alan Crowther is waiting for you, Ben Turner, he is very, very cross with you.’

  Her rabbit ears twitched.

  And then Magda was gone.

  In the weeks since she had been freed from the nefarious clutches of the Magician, Alexander Jenner, Gemma Wheeler had seen quite a lot of Rita Hobbes, so she was not at all surprised to answer her front door and find the grinning Detective and her frowning partner stood before her.

  ‘Come in then,’ said Gemma, ‘I’ll get the kettle on.’

  ‘Cheers, ears,’ said Rita, and followed her inside, Waterson at her heels.

  Something about her experience at the hands of Jenner, Mr. Cotton and Mr. Spike too, meant that unlike most normal people in Blackpool, Gemma was aware of both Rita and Waterson.

  Minutes later, Rita reached up from the couch to accept the mug of tea Gemma offered. ‘Nice one.’

  Waterson looked at the mug pointed in his direction. ‘I’m dead.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Gemma. ‘Do you not like tea when you’re dead, then?’

  Waterson thought about correcting her, then nodded instead. ‘That’s right. Gone right off the stuff.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Gemma placed the unwanted mug on the coffee table. ‘Extra cup for whoever wants it.’

  ‘How have you been?’ asked Rita.

  Gemma frowned and wobbled her head. ‘Pretty good, you know. All in all. All things considered. Alive and not murdered, so that’s good.’ Gemma looked at the mug of tea she’d placed on the coffee table, then over to Waterson on the couch. ‘Oh. No offence. Sorry.’

  ‘None taken.’

  ‘Was that offensive?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Right.’ Gemma sipped at her hot tea. ‘I hope you haven’t come with bad news.’

  ‘Why would you think that?’ asked Rita. ‘Can’t a girl drop in on a friend for a bit of tea and banter?’

  ‘Yeah. But when you bring the frowning ghost it makes me suspicious.’ Gemma’s eyes went wide. ‘Oh! He’s not got out, has he? The Magician bloke, Jenner, has he escaped? Am I in danger?’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that, promise,’ replied Rita.

  ‘Okay. Good. I’m still not keen on the idea of being sacrificed.’

  Rita laughed and drank her tea. She had once dated Gemma’s cousin, a uniformed officer. She’d liked him a lot, he was fun, and cute. Well, “dated” was a bit strong for what the status of their relationship had actually been. They drank together. They occasionally saw films together. They quite often had loud, energetic sex together. He’d been keen to make things more official and “normal”, as he’d put it, but Rita had never been eager to turn it from a good shag into a boyfriend/girlfriend thing. She’d had every intention of leaving Blackpool for one thing, so falling in love with someone there would have been a disaster. Of course, now she wasn’t able to leave Blackpool anyway due to the hex. Funny how things turn out. She found herself sad that, whatever their relationship had actually been, he no longer remembered anything about it. The way he’d look at her with those big puppy dog eyes after they’d had sex, hoping against hope that she’d let him stay overnight.

  ‘We just dropped by to ask you a question,’ said Waterson, shaking Rita from her revery.

  ‘Okay then,’ said Gemma, ‘fire away.’

  ‘I was just wondering if you’d been experiencing any bad dreams recently,’ said Rita.

  ‘Well, I was traumatised by a man in robes wanting to chop me up with an axe, not sure if you remember, so yeah, I’ve had the odd bad dream here and there.’

  ‘Right. Sorry. But I mean something more specific.’

  ‘You mean the rabbit mask dream?’

  They’d all had dreams about the rabbit mask, the one Mr. Cotton wore. All of the women who Jenner had intended to sacrifice had seen the mask in their nightmares for as long as they could remember.

  ‘Have you?’ asked Waterson.

  ‘No. Not that I remember anyway.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ said Rita.

  ‘Why would I lie?’

  ‘No, right, of course.’

  ‘From what I can remember, the only mask I’ve dreamed about recently was the goat one the Magician was wearing. Doesn’t mean I haven’t seen the rabbit mask in my dreams too, of course, but I don’t remember it if I have.’

  Rita finished her mug of tea and placed it down beside Waterson’s unwanted one.

  ‘Thanks, Gemma. For the drink and for putting up with more questions.’

  ‘That’s all right. Most people pussyfoot around what happened to me. Worry I’ll break down and get all embarrassing on them.’

  Gemma walked them to the door.

  ‘Phone me,’ said Rita, ‘if you see anyone in a rabbit mask, in your dreams or otherwise, let me know. It’s important.’

  ‘Promise.’

  They said their goodbyes and Gemma closed the front door behind them.

  ‘So what now, then?’ asked Waterson.

  Rita rested her hand on the handle of the axe. ‘Time for another home visit.’

  Rita had visited Mr. Cotton and Mr. Spike’s house once before. The hidden house nestled within their dream realm. She’d saved Carlisle and put an end to the nightmare of Cotton and Spike. Now she was not so sure that the end had been as permanent as she had assumed.

  Waterson watched as Rita held the axe tightly in both hands, eyes closed, lips moving silently. The axe head strobed with colour, ribbons of magic whirling around it.

  ‘Right then,’ said Rita, opening her eyes and swinging the axe so that the blade stuck into, well, nothing. Into reality. The colours burst from the axe and an opening appeared.

  ‘We couldn’t just take the bus, then?’ asked Waterson.

  ‘Not on any route, Waters.’

  ‘Okay, magic portal it is then.’

  Rita had been to the house before, and the axe remembered the way.

  Detective Hobbes and Waterson stepped into the portal, into the wound in reality, and found themselves in a darkened room.

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ said Rita.

  ‘What? What is it?’ replied Waterson, on high alert.

  ‘It bloody stinks in here.’

  Waterson gave Rita an evil glare as she pinched her nose and the magic portal closed behind them.

  Rita flicked the light switch and the candelabras affixed to the walls sparked and sputtered into life.

  ‘Okay, how does that work?’

  ‘Buggered if I know,’ said Rita, ‘bu
t then this isn’t an ordinary house. This is all the stuff of dreams.’

  They were in a nursery. Sat in the corner of the room, a large wooden rocking horse eyed them balefully. Vines reached up through the floor, through the thick shag carpet, wrapping themselves around the horse. The vines had also claimed a chest of drawers, a wardrobe, and an empty crib.

  Rita pressed her foot down on the carpet. It squelched and brown liquid oozed to the surface. The whole nursery was in a state of decay. Rotting. Overtaken by vegetation that thrived in the putrefying room.

  ‘Come on, we’re on a wabbit hunt,’ said Rita, wiggling her nose.

  Waterson rolled his eyes and followed behind.

  Cotton and Spike’s home was large and old and in a state of advanced decomposition. It was as though the house itself had been a living thing, and Cotton and Spike had been its beating heart. Its soul. Without them, it was a husk.

  They moved as quietly as they could down the corridor, past the eyes of the oil paintings that lined the walls. Old, cracked paintings of men in powdered wigs and frilly ruffs. Rita wondered if the people in the portraits could see her, whether their eyes were following her as she walked. That’s the sort of thing you’d expect in a nightmare, and this was where nightmares lived. Where nightmares were born.

  She and Waterson made their way down the grand staircase, each step loudly announcing their presence. If anyone was home, they would definitely know they had unexpected guests by now. Yet Rita was pretty certain that she and Waterson were the only people present. No one else had walked the halls and rooms here for some time.

  ‘I take it you can deal with this pair if they do appear unexpectedly?’ asked Waterson.

  ‘I twatted them last time, I can do it again.’

  Rita opened the door to the large dining room that she had found Carlisle’s corpse in the last time she had been there. Part of her hoped she might find him there again, though alive this time. At the far end was a large table laden high with rotting piles of food. The smell was overpowering, and brought tears to Rita’s eyes.