Tiny Tales of Terror

by Louise Ann Barton

  At the end of the week, I began feeling better. As for Wayne, he tottered along, as usual, with no noticeable symptoms. That night I stumbled and cut my leg. Wayne attended to my wound, but for some reason, it wouldn’t heal.

  At the end of the month, I sat before my mirror, brushing my hair, thinking how much I hated Wayne. Perhaps I’d been brushing a little harder than usual because large clumps of my honey-blonde hair fell onto the vanity top. Now the man was making me bald!

  Wayne must die!

  Two days later, I developed a serious infection and a worried Wayne arranged to transport me to his clinic. Wayne and the doctors conferred, their faces grim, whispering about my condition. By now, I couldn’t lift my head off the pillow and it hurt to open my eyes. Wayne leaned over my bed, hugging me to him, his lips whispering in my ear so no one else would hear.

  "Caaaaatherine," he breathed, dragging out my name, his stench enveloping me. "I found a medical text misaligned on my office shelf. And when I took it down, it opened to the page on radiation poisoning. Curious, I thought. Then, as I was hanging up my jacket, a button came off. When I bent to pick it up, there was the panel."

  My eyes flew open. I would have faced him, but he had my head pinned.

  "I put it back," he whispered. "And then I removed a panel on the other side of the examining room. On the wall adjoining the solarium. Right where you always sit."

  I was trembling because I now knew why I was ill. I tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.

  "Do you know what I decided then?"

  Tears escaped down my cheeks.

  "Catherine must die. And so you will. I’ve never lost in a business deal and you were just a commodity. Bought and paid for. And when my toys break, I go and buy another."

  I watched as he strode off with a new spring in his step. The old bastard, I thought. He’ll probably live another 20 years.

  BACK TO TOP

  THE HAUNTING OF GUNDHAR HALL

  An Icelandic castle tour - present day

  "This hall, is it haunted?" the German fellow asked.

  The Icelandic tour guide held up her umbrella, signaling those in her group to assemble in the large room. Then she fixed him with sky-blue eyes and stated flatly, "Yes, horribly haunted." At this pronouncement, her charges huddled closer together.

  "This was during the time when tribes from the north came sweeping down, pillaging and murdering. This great stone castle could not even support a moat in this frozen wasteland, leaving King Gundhar and his people with little defense. Those huge, hairy savages came upon them without warning."

  She gestured to an alcove. "This is where they thrust Gundhar. Then the barbarian leader ordered his followers to bring stones and mortar and seal the king inside. The wall carvings tell us they left one stone out of the top row. This opening was for air so it would take Gundhar longer to die, while he heard his wife’s screams. And the opening afforded bright-eyed, hungry rats a means of entry so the king could be slowly eaten alive."

  "And they killed his poor wife?" asked the German’s companion as she thumbed through the brochure."

  "Those merciless invaders brutally used the queen, one after the other," the guide said, "then they crucified her, still living, onto one of the front portals." She paused to peer at the little group. "They left the poor lady to freeze to death." The guide pointed to the wooden-trestle table with its benches. "The invaders slew all those they found in the castle and then sat down to the waiting feast."

  "Ya, but the reek of the rotting dead eventually drove the invaders out," the German tourist announced.

  "And now the brochure says the hall is haunted," the Danish mother with two little ones in tow insisted. "Especially on the anniversary of the slaughter."

  "Quite so," the guide replied, "but that’s a week away. Now hurry or we’ll miss our bus." The tourists obediently scurried off.

  Once back at his hotel, the German, Herr Vollmer, phoned the museum in charge of the castle restoration. "The anniversary of the conquest is upon us," he announced. "I freelance in making historical films of such places. Your museum will be well compensated if you will permit me and my assistant to spend the night in the hall." When the curator hesitated, Vollmer continued, "Just the one night and we will be gone the next morning, without a trace, I assure you."

  "That is what I fear," the curator responded, "without a trace. The hall is horribly haunted, you understand. And there will be no one to assist you as our staff will be occupied setting off fireworks in the village."

  "We require no assistance. And we are willing to sign waivers releasing the museum of any responsibility for our safety," Vollmer smirked, thinking of how those documents would make his film the more interesting. "We’ll even bring our own supplies."

  A figure was arrived at and a bargain quickly struck. And so it was, on the eve of the anniversary, that Vollmer and his assistant, Hannah, traveled on horseback across the frozen tundra, through the blackness of the Icelandic night. Once inside, they began setting up stationery cameras and recorders, and Hannah was to be in charge of the handheld equipment.

  "Just what do you think we will see?" she asked, spreading their supper on the table.

  "A flash here and there of a ghostly figure and, perhaps, a chance recording," was her employer’s reply.

  Although they waited eagerly, it seemed, at first, that nothing was fated to happen. As the two sat down to their cold supper, there came a pounding at the front doors and the shouts of many men. Hannah flinched, but Vollmer assured her, "It’s just the villagers, all dressed up and playing the part."

  The girl gasped as the front portals crashed open and a horde of huge, dark brutes wearing animal skins, burst into the dining hall. The first to arrive struck his axe into the table, then snatched up the roast. Another made for the wine, while others grabbed Vollmer, propelling him back into the alcove, striking his head. With grunts and laughter the invaders located stones and mortar and began to seal the opening.

  As if in a dream he heard Hannah’s screams, but it was the dreadful pounding on the front door that finally roused him. And he realized the brutes were nailing her up! As he began clawing at the stones, the invaders took their leave. Once the wintry wind swept through the open doors and extinguished the candle, the rats came. Drawn by the blood of his damaged fingers, they skittered across the floor and wriggled through the opening, into his tomb.

  The next morning, the guide was horrorstruck to find the remains of the horses in the snow and Hannah’s corpse nailed to the front door. It was later realized that water must have been poured on the girl, immediately freezing her to death. Vollmer was found still alive, whimpering, inside the alcove. He was suffering from concussion, shredded fingertips, and severe rat bites. "He’ll live," one of the investigators stated, then noticed the cameras were still running.

  When the film was analyzed, Hannah and Vollmer were the only figures to be seen. "It’s as if someone is attacking them, but there’s no one there," observed a technician.

  "Look at that camera case in the shot," the investigator insisted. "There’s something reflected in its shiny surface. Can you make that area larger?"

  As the enlargement appeared on the screen, the investigator gasped. There in the reflection was a huge brute of a man. And he was clad in fur.

  As the two men stared at the screen, the technician asked, "But what will your report say?"

  The investigator drew himself up sharply. "I shall simply confirm what everyone already knows. That Gundhar’s Hall is haunted. And," he added, "it’s time that damn curator was enjoined from renting the castle."

  BACK TO TOP

  TO SLEEP WITH KINGS

  Near Egypt’s Great Pyramid, Giza, 2012

  We had given my mum the slip, leaving her seated in the outside garden at the Grand Pyramids Hotel in Giza, enjoying a late afternoon tea. I knew she’d be incensed when she discovered we’d gone. Wi
thout a word. But we were fifteen and this was to be a great lark.

  Once down the hotel steps and out into the sweltering Egyptian heat, my cousin William and I sought the services of a guide. Jumping into the old taxi, I ordered him, "Take us to the Great Pyramid."

  "Oh, sir," the fellow protested, "by the time we get there, they will be closing. Best to wait until tomorrow."

  Well, bloody Hell! This was the only time we lads would be able to give Mum the slip. It was now or never! I leaned across the seat back. "Look," I insisted, "backsheesh. Here’s a big tip for you if you take us without delay."

  The driver pocketed the note and the taxi sped away. It was a long, dusty ride, but we eventually arrived at the Great Pyramid complex, flanked by smaller pyramids. "Behold," he told us, "the Great Pyramid of Khufu and its mastabas. It is truly one of the Seven Wonders of the World." William stared in awe as our guide rattled on, "On each side it is 756 feet long and 450 feet high."

  The driver agreed to wait, with the promise of another note. As we plodded through the sand, William said, "Oh, Phillip, I can’t wait to see the Grand Gallery and the King’s Chamber."

  The sun was setting as the last tourist departed. When the guards weren’t looking, William and I slipped inside, along cut-stone corridors. When we’d moved on to where others couldn’t overhear us, I shared some of the pyramid’s history.

  "Arabs looted this tomb in 820 A.D. but couldn’t find the treasure. They took revenge by stripping the gallery’s fine, white limestone casing and using it as building material in Cairo. Then they tried to dismantle and carry off the entire pyramid. Only managed to nick 30 feet off the top before realizing it was an impossible task."

  "Jolly right!" William laughed. "What with 2,300,000 blocks of stones, weighing almost three tons each." He, too, had read the literature.

  We continued along the narrow corridors until we arrived at the Grand Gallery, with its 19-foot-high ceiling, empty save for the huge sarcophagus. As we stood there, reverently drinking in the atmosphere of its 4,500-year-old history, a man’s angry shouts reached our ears.

  "Someone slipped in, I tell you! That fellow from the museum will be so angry! Find the intruder now!"

  I saw we couldn’t get away, not knowing the inside of the dark tomb with its narrow and confusing passages. "We’re in for it," I whispered, "but we needn’t both be caught. I’ll turn myself in and you can hide, out of sight. Then go on to explore."

  "Right you are, Phillip," he agreed, disappearing up a ladder.

  "Hello! I’m here!" I called out, making my way back to the entrance.

  They shoved me along, out of the pyramid and toward the waiting taxi. Roughly depositing me inside, they ordered the driver to remove me from the site.

  He complied and after a few minutes, I said, "Take me back to the hotel, then return for my cousin." I fished in my wallet for more Egyptian pounds. "He’ll have finished by then and will needing a ride." The driver nodded, this being more backsheesh than he’d seen in a long time.

  When I arrived at the hotel, my mother was in the lobby, angry, eyes flashing. Our bags now packed, waited stiffly like little soldiers, at her feet.

  "Phillip," she began crisply, "You’re a great disappointment. We’re leaving for France." She ordered the luggage taken to the waiting transport. "And don’t contact William. He’s a bad influence. I’ve told his parents as much."

  When my mum’s feeling righteous, she doesn’t back down. She lectured, nagged, and accused for the next six months as we toured France, Belgium, Spain, Ireland, and Scotland. I was keen to learn about William’s adventures up in the king’s chambers at Giza, but contact was impossible. She had taken my mobile and even saw to it that I was locked up tight in my room at night.

  Returning home to our estate at Sevenoaks, I was eager to learn if William had written or tried to ring me up. Drawing our butler aside, I asked him to give me such messages before my mum intervened. But the fellow shook his grey head and that was the truth of it. My cousin hadn’t tried to communicate.

  Pondering on how this could be after I’d unselfishly left him to the great adventure, I felt more than a little betrayed. As a diversion, I clicked on the telly and flipped through the offerings. And, suddenly, there was the curator from Giza’s Grand Egyptian Museum, a noted scholar and archeologist, who, like a pharaoh of old, held supreme sway over Egyptian antiquities.

  Speaking in an impassioned manner, he told of erosion to the cartouches in the inner chambers at the Great Pyramid, caused by the salt from tourists’ bodies forming on the walls. To preserve the tomb’s interior, the museum had stopped tours, ordering the pyramid sealed that very night. With a sickening feeling, I checked the date of the interview and found it corresponded with that of my escapade.

  My mum glanced up from sorting our messages to announce, "Your troublesome cousin disappeared during our last night in Giza. No word from him since. His parents are frantic!"

  And I thought of William who’d obediently concealed himself in the darkness six long months ago. And of the workmen who’d escorted me from the pyramid.

  Those men had been following orders. They had no way of knowing.

  They had sealed William up. Alive! Inside in the tomb.

  Breathing labored, lightheaded, I went to stand before my mother.

  "Mum," I begged, "we need to talk."

  BACK TO TOP

  DEATH OF A DEITY

  At the holy shrine – on the planet Arcana

  STAT SHEET: Listing of a character’s statistics, talents, strengths, and weaknesses for a role-playing game, such as Dungeons & Dragons.

  NPC: A non-playing character in a role-playing game, such as Dungeons & Dragons

  Ariel, the child who served as high priestess, hurried through the lush forest. Long, red hair framed her face. Her tiny, jeweled sandals trampled fragrant blossoms as she ran. The sheer, purple veils, her only garment, streamed out behind her. The priestess made her way to the foot of the waterfall, where the sacred temple stood. Inside the open-faced structure covered with ivy and trailing vines, stood the ten-foot high, marble statue of the Arcane god. The priestess stared up at the huge figure; its eyes were closed.

  The child thought, May he see fit to grant my request.

  Quickly, before worshippers could arrive to interrupt, the supplicant lit the sacred fires and sprinkled incense. She dabbed holy oil on forehead and over her heart. Then she adorned herself with an ornate jeweled necklace to make herself more attractive to the deity. She knelt and began her breathless plea.

  "Oh, Arrion, the all powerful, protector of the Arcane people, hear my prayer."

  She paused, listening for a reply, but the only sound was the sparkling water splashing into the pond below. As she prayed, Ariel glanced up from time to time to peek at her god, but the marble eyes remained closed.

  "My people face extinction," Ariel cried out. "There are traitors in our midst! We are threatened by war! I beg of you, grant me your wisdom."

  And still Arrion kept his counsel.

  As Ariel kept praying, time passed. Just as she was ready to admit failure, a scraping sound was heard. Her head jerked up and she glanced quickly about. There it was again!

  The priestess looked up and saw, to her amazement, the head of the great marble statue had turned in her direction. Then Arrion’s eyes opened. Ariel gasped as one huge hand clutched his sword hilt. One marble foot stepped forward.

  This has never happened before, the child thought in terror. She rolled sideways to avoid being crushed as Arrion stepped down from the pedestal. The folds of his long, marble robe swayed alarmingly. The ground shook under the deity’s heavy feet.

  Panting with fright, Ariel scrambled to rise. "Grant me your wisdom, great one." She knelt, waiting, hardly daring to breath. Then words came from those cold, marble lips.

  "There is a boy named Cameron living in the Eastern Valley. He is destine
d to save the Arcane people. Although a child at present, he will grow to become an important leader. When the time is right, see that he takes refuge in the Caves of the Stone Kings."

  "I don’t understand," the priestess blurted out. "All who have attempted such a journey have died."

  "In death there is life," was the reply. "Rebirth is the answer you seek."

  Ariel wailed, "What shall I do? When shall I do it?"

  "I will grant you all the knowledge you require to carry out your mission. Go now to search for Cameron. You will recognize him by the angry scar on his cheek."

  The statue turned and walked slowly into the pond, continuing until the water covered his head. The audience was, apparently, over.

  This was much more than Ariel had expected. She wondered, Am I worthy of this task? Aloud, she called after the retreating giant, "How will I know when to act? And will Cameron even listen to me?"

  "I will come to you in dreams. And you will come to him in dreams. You will guide him on his mission."

  "How can you expect me to do all that? With the country at war!" wailed the child. "I’m only eight years old!"

  *

  "Bedtime!" Her mother’s voice crashed through the virtual world. Shocked, Ann removed her viewing glasses. The forest, the pond, the entire planet of Arcana vanished. She shot a glance at her ten-year-old brother, Tommy, the boy who would be god. He was seated on the other side of the table, still wearing his viewer. Thinking she couldn’t see him yet, he grinned wickedly. With trembling hands Ann began to scoop the dice and pages of character stats back into the gaming box.

  Then the girl climbed tearfully into bed and pulled the covers over her head. Her mother came to her a few minutes later, bearing a goodnight kiss. The sobbing child confided, "Just because Tommy’s older, he thinks he can trick me. That’s why he wanted to be the god! The enemy is marching. Tommy thinks he’s safe at that pond’s bottom. What a jerk! He’ll get my character killed. Make me start from scratch. Roll up a whole new set of stats."

  "Sorry, Ann." her mother whispered. "I know how much Ariel meant to you."

  "I can’t beat Arrion in combat. His stats are too high."