Tiny Tales of Terror

by Louise Ann Barton

  "Oh, Ebonee, you came for me!" Zaliki squealed. Tiny sandals pattered across the stone floor. Ebonee gathered the child up as small arms encircled her neck.

  "We must hurry, princess. Your family and Habibah and Emu are waiting for us."

  "Why did you take so long to come," the little one demanded.

  "Oh, you were locked in this tomb, apart from us. When they came for me and Habibah, our remains were dragged out into the desert. No burial for us. And Emu was so brave. As young as he was, he tried to protect us and so, he met the same fate."

  Ebonee led Zaliki into a brightly lit room and the child was surprised to see her family and Habibah waiting. Everyone she loved was there and they were smiling, happy to see her again. Even the jackal-headed Anubis, appeared kindly as he weighed Zaliki’s tiny heart.

  "It is time for Isis to come forth. You are a devoted servant of the Lady of the Thousand Names," he decreed, "and as such will serve at her side for all eternity."

  Zaliki’s great happiness was marred only by the loss of Emu. To her surprise the kitten appeared at Anubis’ feet and was now peering out at her with two round, gold eyes.

  "This small, brave lion gave his life to protect two followers of Isis," the great black animal head said. "It has been decreed that Emu will serve with you at the temple of Isis, where," the dark god added gently, "you will witness the rising of your beloved sun each morning, for all eternity."

  Zaliki fell to her knees, in wonder. After all this time, the gods had given her this great gift. She and Emu were to serve their goddess. They would stand together in the temple of Isis and again witness the rising of the sun. Overcome with wonder, her lips whispered the words:

  For all eternity. For all eternity.

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  THE INHERITANCE IN THE ATTIC

  The Blackwood Estate - Northumberland, England - 1978

  The last time I’d been in my parents’ London home, I was only six. They’d just inherited Grandfather Blackwood’s estate. "We’re going there today, Bertie, for the reading of the will," Father said, his face serious.

  Mother wasn’t crying although she usually did at funerals. She whispered, "Blackwood Estate has been passed down through your father’s family for generations."

  We drove there, Mother holding the map, murmuring, "The old fellow used to be such fun, then he’d no sooner inherited Blackwood, when he became a hermit. But," she mused, "he did send us those huge cheques each Christmas."

  When we arrived, Grandfather’s solicitor was waiting for us. I stumbled into the dimly lit entry, stunned at the size of house and grounds. "Sit here, young man," the lawyer instructed. "We grownups have important matters to discuss." Then they went into the study and closed the great, oak doors.

  Time passed and I grew impatient. Daring to get up, I began wandering through the heavily draped rooms, touching dusty ornaments, opening drawers. Suddenly, the study doors flew open and Father burst from the room, eyes wide, face white. Mother followed, crying.

  "You must!" the lawyer was adamant. "You’re bloodline and there is no one else."

  Mother hugged me to her. "I can’t give him up." But Father shook his head, insisting, "It’s best for the child." The solicitor led me away, promising, "You’ll be well taken care of. Someday, all of this will be yours." And my parents remained behind.

  The solicitor placed me with a good family. They treated me well, but I longed for my own parents. And, as promised, a huge cheque arrived each Christmas.

  By 18, those cheques had made me quite wealthy and I no longer felt the need to obey the solicitor and, so, struck out to reunite with my parents. Packing a small valise, I jumped into my roadster and immediately set out for Blackwood.

  Upon arriving, I found the ornate-iron, entry gates chained and padlocked. Prepared with a firearm in my jacket and a sturdy pair of bolt cutters, I had at the chain. Then I drove along, under the canopy of trees, to the entry. The bell didn’t work and I pounded on the portal. I listened, but no sound came from within. They had to be there! I planted a running kick beside the lock and the door budged enough for me to force it open.

  "Mother! Father! Can you hear me?"

  As I went from room to room, calling, searching, the atmosphere was as dark as it had been so long ago. And, just as I was about to give up hope, Mother’s voice floated down the stairs. "You must be quiet!" she insisted, nodding nervously up toward the attic and she descended the stairs carrying a dinner tray.

  "In the name of God, don’t wake her!" Father implored. But wake whom I could not tell.

  I grabbed Mother and shook her. "Why did you abandon me?" I thundered. "Why trade sunlight for this mausoleum?" Then I saw her hair was white, as was Father’s, their faces lined from torment rather than age. Releasing her, I whispered, "I will have answers."

  "Go while you still can," she begged. "She will punish us."

  Then she saw I was determined and drew me wordlessly into the study. The pages of the will were still spread across the antique, cherrywood desk. She indicated with a nod that I was to read the contents. I sat and scanned through the document, finding it not only listed the heirs, but also a family history.

  It read: In the early 1700’s, Auntie Mabs Blackwood was the first to own this estate. An exquisitely beautiful woman, she yearned to live forever. She hired self-proclaimed sorcerers to hold séances and black masses. One day she succeeded in conjuring up a demon and hastily struck a bargain.

  Noted for beauty, but not intelligence, Mabs neglected to ask for eternal youth or to determine the price before sealing the pact with a drop of her blood. "Done!" shrieked the demon and he vanished with a thunderclap amidst a cloud of sulphurous smoke.

  As centuries passed, Mabs came to realize that, although she’d become immortal, she continued to age, shrinking to a wizened, misshapen mound of flesh, covered with festering sores that didn’t respond to tending. As further evidence of the demon’s damning sense of humor, Mabs had been given this estate in which to live. It never needed repair, generated its own food, and was impregnable to visitors or would-be conquerors. But Mabs did need to eat, to be spoon fed as she sat on her attic throne, and so required a caretaker.

  Only upon the death of the caretaker, would the next of kin be admitted to the mansion. And, after revealing the dark secret, the solicitor would depart, and the doors and windows would magically lock, trapping the new caretaker inside.

  "That’s what happened to us," Mother whispered.

  "And now we’re dying," Father added. "As the last of the Blackwood’s, you’ll inherit this nightmare."

  "No!" I reached for my firearm. "I won’t let either of you suffer another day." I raised the pistol and, without hesitation, shot them both. Then raised the gun to my temple and pulled the trigger. But it clicked harmlessly. I checked the clip, but the weapon still refused to fire.

  As I stood in horror and confusion, a voice floated down from the attic. "Bertie," it called, sounding like a demon’s claws scraping inside the walls. "Bring my supper at six."

  "Not bloody likely!" I shouted. "Your pact, not mine. I’ll have no part in it!"

  Then I was struck with a hideous pain, as if rats were gnawing my innards. And I knew, all this had been decided so very long ago. Since I was the last of my line, I, too, was now immortal, living as long as was necessary to serve my Auntie Mabs.

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  FIRST-BORN SON

  Windlesham Hall - England - 1958

  Demons had taken her baby. There was no doubt.

  Carolyn Windlesham threw herself into her husband’s arms and sobbed. Their only child, their first-born son, had been snatched from his crib just days before his first birthday.

  When James Windlesham put through an emergency call to their family physician, Dr. Carstairs came directly. He was led to the crib and gazed down. The baby glared back. The doctor started in horror.

  "You
see," Carolyn sobbed, "our precious boy has been stolen. A changeling has been left in his place."

  "We haven’t called the police," James confided. "After all, how would that look? I mean they’d see this creature and the scandal would hit the papers. Our family, my political career, all in ruins."

  The doctor took in the monster’s lolling tongue and its yellow eyes. He saw the scaly skin, the claws, and the tail. The dreadful, sulphurous odor wafting up from the crib made him feel faint. "I need air," the doctor muttered, choking.

  But there was nothing Dr. Carstairs could do and so the parents began cutting themselves off socially. No more dinner parties. No more walks in public parks pushing the pram. No more anything which would allow outsiders to glimpse the drooling, wall-eyed abomination with its hairy knuckles.

  James paid their son’s nanny a thumpingly large bonus to remain and things quieted down during the next week. But the changeling grew at an alarming rate and possessed tremendous strength. "Think of how strong he’ll be in another year," James muttered and Carolyn shuddered at the thought.

  They soon discovered it was always hungry, but it refused bottles or solid food. Through trial and error they learned it would only eat raw flesh, washed down with a mug of blood. As they looked on in horror, James contemplated dispatching it and being done with the matter. But the beast seemed to read his thoughts and became too wary to approach.

  It wasn’t long before it could crawl out of the crib and turn the door knob. Carolyn whispered, "What if it gets outside and begins hobbling across the lawn, knuckles dragging? There’ll be no keeping it a secret then." And James decided to put it in a cage.

  In no time at, a large, steel cage had been installed in the nursery and the groundskeeper and the butler helped their master force the tyke inside. James knew these two would never betray his confidence as their fathers had worked for the Windlesham family for many years.

  The cage might have held it, at least for a while, but that morning Nanny Alice neglected to serve its bloody meal on time. Hungry and frustrated, the beast wrenched the bars apart and sank its teeth into the nanny’s leg. As Dr. Carstairs stitched up the wound and administered antibiotics, a sobbing Nanny Alice gave notice. James agreed to write a large cheque if the girl would promise to go to live with her mum in Australia and never mention the incident. And the girl was immediately sent off on a slow boat with a non-English-speaking crew.

  James had the damaged cage removed and, in its place, installed an iron cage with iron fetters. Carolyn protested, "If it can bend steel, what good will iron do?" But the three men carried through, forcing their charge into the new cage. Then James fastened the manacles around its wrists and ankles. The beast crouched in a corner, scowling up at them, making rumbling noises, seemingly unable to move.

  Carolyn asked, "Why isn’t it bending the bars?"

  "Because it can’t," James replied smugly. "Fairies can’t abide iron. Contact with iron objects can kill them."

  "But this isn’t a fairy," his wife protested. "It’s a demon."

  "It doesn’t really matter," James growled, "as long as it works."

  Since the iron cage and fetters did contain it, James had a chance to hatch another plan. "Isn’t it about the time of the year those gypsies arrive to squat on the north end of our land?" He strode off in search of the trespassers.

  The gypsies were not happy to see him. "See here," James told them, "I’ve come to speak to your Queen."

  One of the men led him to a lardo, gesturing for James to step inside. As he poked his head past the curtain, he saw an old woman in a brightly patterned dress seated at a table. She looked up, murmuring "I am the one you seek."

  James took the seat opposite and the terrible story tumbled from his lips. He begged, "How can I get my son back?"

  "Those who took your son left a gift in his place. As long as you keep that gift, you agree to the exchange."

  James choked on the words, "I don’t want that monster!"

  "Then you must make this plain," she whispered, earrings jangling. "You must kill the changeling."

  "Kill it? And then my son will be returned safely to me?"

  "Yes, but you must do as I say. Slay the unwanted one with an iron weapon. Sever its head and bury it in an unmarked grave. Then your precious son will be returned."

  James rose. "If your words are true, your band is forever welcome on Windlesham land."

  He hurried back to the house, locked a weeping Carolyn in their bedroom, and shouted for his men. They set immediately to their task, without mercy or regret, and buried the remains under a large oak. Then the three returned to remove all traces from the nursery.

  The next morning Carolyn rose early and peered hopefully into the crib. And there he was! Her own precious boy, laughing, wanting to be picked up.

  As the years passed, Carolyn and James watched carefully to see if the tot’s time away from home had marked him. And, as far as they could tell, he was healthy and happy, with one exception.

  The only food he would eat was raw flesh, washed down with a mug of blood.

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  WALPURGISNACHT

  In the forest, near the Brocken Mountains, Germany – 1356

  (Walpurgis Night is a festival still held in central Europe on April 30 and May 1, where both locals and tourists wear costumes and frightening masks, with an almost Mardi Gras atmosphere. In earlier times, however, this night was thought to be much more supernatural than our own Halloween of Celtic origin, especially in Germany in the forests near Brocken Mountain. In those days, bonfires were lit to keep the devilish beasties at bay and folk passed the night in terror, waiting for the cock’s crow.

  Originally meant to commemorate May dances, Walpurgisnacht was named for Saint Walburga (710-779), but later became related to the Gaelic observance of Beltane. Walpurgisnacht is referred to in many works, including the ballet in the opera based on the Faust legend, as well as Bram Stoker’s prelude to DRACULA, and is the title of the second act in Edward Albee’s WHO’S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF.)

  Walpurgis Eve! It was a time for beasties to be out growling and bumping about in the darkness, for witches to fly cackling across the face of the moon, and for the gathering of wolfsbane.

  As old Hedwig bent to dip her wooden bucket in the stream, she heard a twig snap. Her watery eyes darted about nervously in the fading light, searching the woods for danger. Then she hefted her burden and limped back to the cottage, where her black cat, Beltran, paced back and forth on the stoop, hungrily awaiting the old woman’s return.

  As Hedwig neared the door, she heard another twig snap. Something was out there and it was getting closer. No time to set bonfires! Terrified, the two slipped into the cottage and Hedwig bolted the door.

  "Stay inside ere goblins pick your bones," she cautioned the cat, then went about fastening the shutters and lit a candle. Living in the forest, there was no one nearby to lend a hand, not since her son, Gustav had gone off two years ago, to make his fortune.

  The old woman ladled out bowls of stew for herself and Beltran, remembering Gustav had sworn, upon his return, he would marry Greta. Woman and cat had no sooner settled down, when they heard something prowling around outside. Jumping up, she threw a handful of wood into the already blazing hearth, making the fire leap. "It’s not my chimney you’ll be coming down," she howled, "be ye demon or witch hunter!"

  They heard claws rake the nearest shutter. Heart pounding, Hedwig dragged the tall cupboard over to block the window. She curled into a ball, whispering, "We have only to last until cock’s crow." Beltran pressed himself against his mistress, unable to tell her that the intruder had already broken into the hen house and eaten everything, including the cock.

  As they crouched there, something leapt onto the roof, scrabbling around the chimney. There was a blood-chilling yelp. "The fire has kept him at bay," the old woman whispered to the cat. "We have only to last until daw
n." And so, with moonlight streaming in through the shutter’s cracks, they huddled together for comfort, while whatever was outside tried to claw its way in.

  Time passed. The candle burned low. "Midnight," Hedwig whispered. "The witching hour."

  Beltran suddenly howled and bolted. Hedwig tried to soothe him and got a nasty scratch for her trouble. "You foolish animal," she moaned, cradling her bloody hand. A knock sounded at the door.

  "Who is it?" Hedwig demanded in a tremulous voice. She went to the door and tried to peer out through a crack, but the moon was behind a cloud and all was darkness. "My son has an axe," she threatened. But the knocking began again and this time a strong, male voice shouted, "Mother! It is I. Gustav. Open the door!"

  Hedwig joyously flung the door wide. "Oh, come in my son. Quickly! There is something out there." Gustav was dragged inside and the door bolted before his mother turned to him, arms outstretched. Then she stopped, eyes wide, mouth open in surprise.

  "Gustav! Where are your clothes?"

  He smiled a toothy grin. "There are strange things outside. The better to run faster."

  "But, Gustav, your eyes are so bright."

  "Yes, Mother. The better to see in the dark."

  Then she noticed his hands like claws. "Gustav . . ." she began.

  "Yes, Mother, "it’s true. I was bitten last Walpurgisnacht. It took me this long to wend my way home." His head turned toward the bolted front door and he smiled that toothy grin. "The Walpurgis moon is behind a cloud, but it will be out again in a minute. We have that long for you to rejoice at my homecoming. And then . . ."

  "And then I have a gift for you," Hedwig stuttered. "A homecoming gift." She lifted the hem of her skirt and began ripping at the stitches. "Kept it safe here, just for you, all this time." And her arthritic fingers managed to deftly pluck something free of the material. She held her damaged hand before her in a pleading gesture. "It’s very valuable and I’d like to give it to you now."

  "Yes, my Mother. First you will give me your gift. And then," he grinned again, "there will be screaming."