I stood in the overgrown garden, gathering my thoughts for a few moments. I suddenly found it ironic that for months I had strived to train my mind in anticipation of this day, and when the day came, I didn't know what to do with myself.
I studied the deserted streets and neglected buildings, the wonderful feeling of enlightenment gone to be replaced by an eerie sense of foreboding. Try as I might, I could not recapture my earlier mood, and I knew perfectly well why. I was lost. Utterly lost.
It was while I was mulling over my predicament that a second noise shattered the silence. This time I was able to recognise it. The unmistakable clatter of a tin can being hurled or kicked against concrete. I held my breath and listened intently, but there was no repeat performance. Uncertainty and fear seeped through my veins. I was not alone after all. There was someone, or something else here with me.
I was still plagued by a nagging sense of urgency. I must find what I was looking for. And quickly. I was certain that my very life depended on it. But how can you search for something when you don't even know what it is?
Like a frightened child I began to wander the barren streets. Time lost all meaning as I explored the forgotten multitude of derelict buildings, the greyness of it all sucking the life from me.
All the while, there was something with me.
It never showed itself, but it made its presence known with a series of deliberate audible signals. A soft footstep here, a menacing scrape on concrete there.
I didn't know what it was or what it wanted, but I got the impression that for the time being it just wanted to play with me, see me squirm, frighten me. I kept thinking about poltergeists. Ghosts. Things that were there but couldn't be seen.
Or was it all just a trick of my subconscious mind?
Was this the dream?
Eventually, my journey came to an abrupt end in an old long-abandoned playground. Here, I sat on a wooden bench and rested my weary legs. Absurd as it may sound, I think I actually slept for a while. There were no dreams this time, only merciful blackness.
When I awoke from my exhausted slumber, I was amazed to find I was still locked in the dream. The emptiness was all around, suffocating me, and again I was faced with the familiar burden of guilt and remorse that so often awaited me on the waking side of sleep. The playground, presumably the scene of so much laughter and happiness, then bore witness to such a pitiful display of gut-wrenching grief that by the end, when the uncontrollable sobbing finally subsided, I was lying in the foetal position on the cold, grey, unforgiving tarmac, which was now sodden with tears of despair.
The sun is neither rising nor setting. I have lost count of all the derelict buildings in varying stages of terminal decay I have explored in my fruitless search for life. It appears that I really am completely alone in this barren wasteland, save for my tyrannical anonymous pursuer. But surely, if it was going to attack it would have by now. It has had ample opportunity. Yet it chooses to stay hidden in the shadows, tormenting me from a distance.
The only thing from which I can draw any comfort is the fact that now I know what I spent so long searching for. I was looking for signs of life.
I also know the cause of that terrible burden of guilt and loss I had so often endured. I was grieving for the life I lost. My real one. Now, I am able to understand that this is the true nightmare in all its desolate glory. I am trapped alone in this dead twilight world, tracked by a mysterious unseen adversary and it's all my own doing. A self-induced punishment, a hell of my own creation. If I thought it would do me any good, I would scream.
It seems as though I have been here for an eternity. It has occurred to me that all this is but another tremendously vivid dream, the space-time continuum hopelessly distorted and my strained and persecuted mind manipulating my darkest fears. But if so, how long can it go on?
I cannot survive in this lonely chamber of horrors much longer. I fear that I will be driven to madness, if I haven't already. Or maybe I will just melt into the grey surroundings, become part of them.
I don't even know if I am awake or asleep. Alive or dead. Surely it is only a question of time before I wake and am returned once more to my bed in the blessed land of the living.
Isn't it?
Monkey Man
“And they all lived happily ever after...”
Toby's mother closed the book and gazed down at her petrified son with a look of compassion only a mother could give. She knew he was scared. She could feel it. Since the moment he came home from school the fear had been slowly building, and as the afternoon marched relentlessly on towards night, he became increasingly jumpy.
Toby wouldn't tell her what the problem was. Throughout the evening she had gently poked and prodded at his defences trying to make him open up, but he remained tight-lipped. He was a stubborn little so-and-so, just like his dad.
She leaned in closer to her son and planted a delicate kiss on his forehead. “Okay?” she asked.
The boy nodded a little too emphatically.
He was tying to hide his fear, probably for her sake. But she could almost smell it coming off him in waves. It was in his voice, his eyes, his movements, like a dense black cloud threatening to engulf everything.
As a last resort, she decided on the direct approach. “Toby, what's wrong, love?”
The boy remained silent, but the expression on his face spoke a thousand words.
“Monsters?” she asked, tentatively. “Is it the dark? The Bogeyman? Did someone at school say something? What is it?” She fought to keep her voice from rising. Not in anger, but in pure frustration. “Do you wan to sleep with the light on? Would that help at all? For Goodness sake, just tell me what you're so scared of!”
Uncomfortable silence.
She was getting ready to give up when Toby finally spoke, quietly and deliberately, as if worried about who or what else may be listening. “I'm not scared of the Bogeyman. I'm not a kid. I know it's not real.”
“Then what is it, honey?”
“The Monkey Man. I'm scared of him, because he's real.”
Toby's mother was momentarily stunned into silence.
The what?
What a strange thing for a six-year old to say! In all her years she had never even heard of anything called the Monkey Man before, but decided that it must be some variation of the time-honoured Bogeyman theme.
Adopting her softest, most understanding tone, she met his eyes and tried to look sincere. “Toby, listen,” she began. “Nothing and nobody is going to hurt you, okay? I promise. Not the Bogeyman, the Monkey Man, or any other kind of stupid man. Or woman. Do you trust me? Do you trust mummy?”
Toby nodded again, as if he had known all along such creatures didn't exist. But he didn't look entirely convinced. There was more than a shred of doubt lingering on his face, and that shred of doubt was causing all the problems. But what more could she do?
With a sigh she stood and went to the door, then turned to look back at her son. She didn't want to leave him alone like this but it was getting late, and surely this was the best way? She remembered reading an article about good parenting in the Daily Mail. Left to his own devices he would confront his fears, win the battle, and be all the stronger for it. It was a necessary stage of development.
“Remember, Toby,” she said. “Monster's aren't real. I promise. They only exist on television, and in your mind. So don't you be afraid, okay?”
“Okay, mum,” Toby's voice was small and weak.
“Right, then. I'll leave the landing light on until you drop off. If you want me, just call out. I'll hear you and come running.”
“Okay, mum.”
“Goodnight then, love.”
“G'night, mum.”
Alone in the semi-darkness, Toby lay still, listening. The old terraced house creaked and groaned around him and the muffled voices of his parents drifted up the stairs, but he was oblivious to them. His ears were cocked, his heart thudded in his chest, and every nerve was wound tighter than a
spring. He had everything planned. At the first sign of trouble, he was going to run for it. Out of the door, across the landing and down the stairs.
There was such a thing as a Monkey Man. Adam Yates had told him so at school. And Adam Yates had a cousin who had actually SEEN it with his own eyes! He said when it was dark, the Monkey Man climbed up the drainpipe of little boy's houses, quietly opened their bedroom window, crept in, scooped up the boy, and carried him off as he slept.
Adam said after that, he did unspeakable things to them, and they were never seen again. Toby wasn't exactly sure what unspeakable meant, but it didn't sound good.
He secretly suspected that Adam Yates didn't know what the Monkey Man did to little boys either, and tried to disguise the fact by using words nobody else could understand. It was probably a made-up word, anyway.
Unspeakable.
Suddenly, there was a noise outside the window.
A scrape.
He was coming! The Monkey Man!
Instead of running for it as planned, Toby buried his head beneath the bedsheets. In his mind's eye, he saw the exterior of the house. A shapeless black mass, barely visible amidst the crawling shadows, clung to the drainpipe just below the upstairs windowsill.
For the first time, Toby noticed that his parents had fitted his bedroom with rather a large window, easily big enough for the sly Monkey Man to squeeze through. And was it off the latch?
Mum had left the landing light on!
How stupid!
She was advertising him like a fresh lamb chop in a butcher's window.
Did Mum want him to get taken away and have unspeakable things done on him? But why would she want that? He had been good. Well, mainly. He had only been six for two weeks and already he hated it. There was so much about the world he didn't know. It was so BIG. And weird! Anything could happen.
He just wanted to hide. Maybe then the Monkey Man would move along down the street in search of another, easier victim. But his body was frozen. He couldn't move a muscle.
Maybe the landing light being on was a good thing. At least he would see the thing coming. Without the light, there would be only darkness, and he would be defenceless.
Maybe, if he lay still, the Monkey Man wouldn't see him. He would climb up the drainpipe, take a sneaky peak through the window and see only an unkempt, unmade bed.
The seconds ticked by, agonizingly slowly.
Surely, if the Monkey Man planned to come in he would have by now. It had been a long time since he heard that single scrape, and he hadn't heard any other suspicious noises since. All was quiet now...
After a seemingly impossible amount of time passed, Toby found himself growing weary. His breathing slowed and his eyelids began to droop. Maybe mum was right, after all. Maybe the Monkey Man isn't real. She had promised, and mum never broke a promise. She always told him it was very naughty to break a promise. What was more, she would never let anything happen to him. He was safe.
Safe.
Adam Yates had been lying. That was naughty, too. He had been caught lying in school before. He thought telling fibs made him sound clever, or made other people like him more or something. He was a saddo.
Now he was awfully tired. He could barely keep his eyes open. He was surprised to realise that he no longer cared about the Monkey Man. All he cared about was sleep. Glorious, peaceful sleep.
He allowed his lids to close over his grainy eyeballs, and almost immediately succumbed to the great dark abyss.
The house was completely still. Nothing stirred, and the only sounds to be heard were the soft snores emanating from the master bedroom. Toby was in a different world now, a world of magnificent adventure and colourful dreamscapes.
Nobody heard the strange, stealthy noises coming from just outside; the scrape of boot against brick, or the creak of the drainpipe as it struggled to bear a weight it was never designed for. Nobody heard the soft click as Toby's bedroom window was tentatively pushed open.
The Awful Truth
YES DEAR...
The words blinked on the screen. Stephen Doyle, one of the finest software engineers in the country, leaned back in his chair, bathed in ethereal green light from the monitor, and smiled. He had been working on this particular program for six months, ten or twelve hours a day. Now, at last, it was nearing completion. Stephen had never felt so satisfied, so proud, or so important in his whole life.
He had been a computer geek since childhood, when he had received a second-hand Atari games console for Christmas one year. He was hooked instantly. Within a few years he had graduated to a Commodore 64 and had been upgrading his personal hardware and software to the latest specs ever since. Now he was the proud owner of over thirty thousand pounds worth of equipment. This was in itself quite an achievement for a twenty-four year old.
Of course, Stephen's social life suffered greatly due to his unhealthy fascination with computers. While other thirteen-year old's were hanging around bus stops talking about football and girls, he had been alone in his bedroom playing on the PC. While other eighteen-year old's were sitting around smoking dope and talking about girls, he was on the PC. And while other twenty-four year old's were going out clubbing or talking about girls, Stephen was still on the PC.
It got frustrating sometimes. And lonely. But Stephen had always believed that each individual should follow their own paths, regardless of outside influences. Sometimes your path would cross the path of another, sometimes it wouldn't. It just so happened that Stephen's chosen path veered off the beaten track to such an extent that the only people he interacted with on a regular basis were clients, people requesting his services for various reasons. Usually selfish ones.
By the letter of the law, what he was usually involved in amounted to industrial espionage. He would be contacted by the executive factions of major companies and paid huge sums of money to either gain access to and extract specified information from rival's computer systems, or to design and insert a virus which would render the entire system useless in minutes. Using these methods Stephen could ruin any business in the world, large or small. For a price.
Occasionally, Stephen would be offered more interesting assignments. One of the most bizarre concerned an extremely rich German bachelor who requested that Stephen use his skills to make an image of "the perfect woman." He then planned to circulate the image among selected dating agencies around the world until he found a rough match. The lucky lady would then be expected to undergo reconstructive plastic surgery until she further resembled his perfect woman.
The task proved easier than expected. Stephen simply doctored a publicity picture of Mila Kunis in photo shop to give her blonde hair, blue eyes and larger breasts. The whole project took less than a hour, for which the German bachelor was glad to pay more than ten grand. Easy money.
Stephen advertised his services on selected websites and in several choice international trade publications, but was very choosy about the projects he undertook. Most of his trade came via word of mouth. After doing a small job for a large Italian-based clothes manufacturer he was contacted by a multi-national oil company planning a new mega-bucks venture in the Middle East to prepare a feasibility report.
The company appreciated his thoroughness, and tried to reel him in permanently. But Stephen was reluctant to tie himself to any one arrangement, preferring to remain strictly freelance. And very much in demand. This angered the company, who weren't used to not getting what they wanted. For a time, Stephen feared reprisals. He even went so far as to acquire a handgun for his own protection. But after only one half-hearted threat it soon blew over and he never heard from the oil company, nor their 'representatives' again. The gun sat in his desk drawer, loaded but thankfully untouched.
However, it wasn't all work and no play. Everyone knew that made Jack a dull boy. Stephen did allow himself the occasional foray into the complicated world of intimate human relationships, if only to appease his curiosity. It wasn't difficult. Money talks, and most girls were shal
low enough to listen to it. The trouble was that for this reason, every relationship he entered into seemed doomed to failure, making him more eager than ever to return to his organised, self-imposed computer dominated exile.
In his limited experience, the fairer sex desired only material things. What you could give or do for them, what they could see and touch, and what they could flaunt before the envious eyes of their peers. This, and in most cases a vindictive streak a mile wide, combined to make Stephen overly cautious when it came to women. He just didn't have time for sexual politics. Computers were readable, predictable, programmable. They did what they were told. Women were a mystery.
One relationship, however, had lasted for over a decade. Well, perhaps 'relationship' was too strong a word. They had just known each other a long time, that was all. Her name was Yasmin. Yaz for short. She and Stephen had become friends when they were thrown together in mixed ability sets during the early stages of comprehensive school. Stephen had always fancied her like mad, but would never dream of revealing his true feelings for fear of rejection. What would she see in a geek like him? Instead, he settled on a platonic friendship.
At fifteen Yaz discovered her sexuality. And how. The opposite sex had always found her desirable with her shapely figure, hazel brown eyes, and long auburn hair. In the beginning, Yaz was sensible and strong enough to keep a safe distance. With Stephen, her unofficial guardian, always lurking in the background to tell her what those boys who seemed so nice were really thinking, and what they were really saying when they got together, she could do no wrong.
Then, Yaz experienced an awakening of sorts. She and Stephen drifted apart, and their friendship disintegrated into a bitter slanging match as scores of casual boyfriends were driven between them like human wedges. Stephen still did his best to look after her, offering advice and giving endless lectures on respect, morals, responsibility and the merits of practising safe sex - all of which were largely ignored. To his dismay, Yaz became keen to offer herself to anyone who showed the slightest bit of interest in her.
X: A Collection of Horror Page 3
