Spinetinglers Anthology 2008 Read online

  Now, she stood in front of it and wondered what it was she had seen. Had somebody broken into the place and stood watching over her as she slept? Or was it something even more scary than that? Something supernatural? She didn’t know, but what she did know was that tonight, she would be prepared. She glanced down at the knife she held in her hand. She could see her reflection in it, her fair hair falling over her face. Her eyes looked fevered.

  She walked around to the side of the bed now, and placed the knife under her pillow, her jaw tight, her face pale.

  That night, Clare couldn’t sleep. She kept staring at the closet, her heart pounding with terror. Maybe she should have called the police last night, she thought.

  What would she have told them though, that there was something in her closet? Something that disappeared when she closed her eyes and pretended it wasn‘t there? A monster? They would think she was crazy and anyway, she’d had enough dealings with the police in the past. Her parents had seen to that, always calling them if she were even an hour late getting home. Then, there had been the ASBO and cautions.

  Memories filled her head of her dad shouting at her, her mum wringing her hands with anguish, her voice sad.

  “Oh, Clare. Why are you like this? Don’t you realise how much we worry?”

  She pushed thoughts of them out of her mind, and concentrated on the closet instead. The door hadn’t moved. She could see that in the moonlight shining through the thin net curtains. Outside, she could hear the wind picking up, rustling the leaves on the trees, picking up bits of litter and blowing spots of rain against the glass. Clare shivered. She glanced at the window. The moon was like a giant eye staring at her. When she looked back at the closet, she saw that the door was open. Adrenalin punched her hard in the stomach. Her breathing quickened, and her eyes widened slightly. Then, she heard it, the rattling of the coat hangers. It was as if something had come through from the back of the closet and was moving through the clothes to get to the front. Very slowly, Clare moved her left hand under her pillow. She felt the comforting handle of the knife and gripped it hard.

  The closet door opened wider, and in the shadows, Clare could see a darker shadow, and in that darker shadow, she saw the shining whites of a pair of eyes. No, she thought, not a pair of eyes. There were three eyes all in a row. They blinked. Trying not to wet herself, she withdrew the knife from under the pillow and closed her eyes. Maybe if she prayed hard enough again, it’d be gone like the night before. Maybe this was indeed a nightmare. She opened her eyes. It wasn‘t there! But then, she saw that it was by the open door of her room. It had moved, she thought. It left the closet.

  Clare grasped the knife, and keeping her eyes on the shadow the whole time, she fought her fear and slowly moved her trembling legs out from under the duvet. Her feet found the carpet. Her toes curled and dug into the pile. She knew she had to do this quickly. Heart pounding, she sat upright, flung the duvet off the rest of her body and sprang at the shadow, the knife raised high. With a scream, she brought it down hard and felt the blade slice through something. The shadow grunted with pain. Hot fluid poured over her fingers. Encouraged, Clare kept stabbing and stabbing, screaming with each sticky, hot thrust.

  Suddenly, the door burst open, and two men rushed in. Light flooded the room.

  “Oh, my God. Clare! NO...!” one of the men screamed.

  “Quick!” the other man said. “Grab her. I’ll inject her.”

  Clare felt herself being grabbed, her arms forced back. She was thrown onto the bed. One of the men wrenched the knife from her, threw it on the floor. The other man roughly jabbed a needle into her arm.

  “No!” she hissed, but it was too late. Immediately, she felt a numbness wash over her, her eyelids drooping, as the strong sedative flooded her body. Sights and sounds grew hazy and blurred.

  She tried to open her mouth to speak but couldn’t.

  The last thing she saw was the blood, splattered in streaky patterns all over the walls and closet door. How pretty, she thought, before she fell unconscious.

  One of the men, Jim, who was a nurse at the Rosebank Mental Hospital where Clare was a patient, shook his head in dismay and horror, as he gazed at the scene before him.

  On the carpet lay the bloody body of another patient, who had somehow broken into Clare’s room. All the doors were locked in this place, and the rooms monitored, but sometimes mistakes happened, thought Jim. He thought briefly of earlier and had an image of himself hunched over his laptop, his eyes absorbing the porn site. Clearing his throat, he grimly bent and checked the man’s pulse. Definitely dead. Jim wiped his bloody fingers on his trousers, then turned his gaze to Clare. She looked as innocent as a sleeping baby, he thought but the truth was, she was as dangerous as a provoked rattlesnake. Two years before, she had murdered both her parents, cut their throats as they slept, for the simple reason that they “didn’t understand her.”

  Now, this. Jim shook his head again; then, he turned and left the room to find help.

  While from the darkness of the closet, the eyes watched and waited.

  Park

  by Matt Bone

  I wouldn’t normally cut through the park, of course. Not at night. There are plenty of stories floating around – urban myths mostly, probably – but enough to give it a reputation, a whispered warning somewhere in the back of the mind: Why take the risk? It’s the region of the mind that flaunts its power in the solitary, in the unfamiliar – so it’s no great surprise to find it speaking to me now. Danger lies ahead, it says, Danger lies in wait. This will cut ten minutes off my journey, I tell it, and I need to make up time. The park is the same as it was a few hours ago, only darker, and deserted, and – no, the same. Same trees, same bushes, same small playground in the centre (I’ll be able to make it out soon), same meandering pathways dividing and converging, dividing and converging. I enjoyed walking the park in the daytime, I tell it – I tell myself – so why not now?

  It’s a good tactic, this. I could keep up these mental diversions until I’m clear of the park. What are you trying to divert? No – don’t answer that. Think of a song, or a movie. Think of the strangeness of talking in one’s head. Think of the carrier bag in your hand, the bottle of wine inside. The party. Of course, the party. This is why I’m late, because of the party. Else I’d be taking a walk through the town centre – or better yet, at home with a book. And the wine. I’m going to the party, to be clear. (Who am I being clear to?) I’m not late, not really – the party is early, far too early. Did they not consider those with abysmal timekeeping?

  A twig snapping, close by. (Or a branch breaking in the distance?). I’m in the park once more. I ignore the thoughts piling up, eager to question the sound, or more likely, give it murderous appendages, and instead, choose to notice that I’ve taken an upper path, and not one of the lower. A heavy foot, stilled, hungry for the chase. The whole park is on a continuous, severe slant – this is why it has upper and lower paths – and is shaped like an elongated oval with a dent in the middle, as far as I can estimate from the ground level. Not much of a park when you really think about it. I wonder what it looks like from above, from one of those satellites that aren’t supposed to be there. A large, green jellybean, with a subtly shaded gradient. Or a plain black one.

  Concentrate. I can dimly make out the paths below, or is that my imagination? It’s not really important, at any rate I know they’re there. Just like the buildings beyond the boundaries of the park, hidden behind the dense wall of foliage. Busy buildings, loud with life. I’m still walking, of course, perhaps brisker now, but only because – What was that?

  Nothing, keep on walking. Something dark – moving – then gone. Behind – no. No. Of course not, what could appear so dark against this background? The blind spot perhaps, in the eye. That could explain it. Yes, perhaps.

  The bushes enclose this pathway now, elbowing both sides. Suffocating it. (Were they always so close?) I can’t recall this path – is this the one I usually take? Di
d I change route without noticing? Perhaps I mistakenly – get a hold of yourself. Of myself. Get a grip of myself. Is it yourself or myself? Aha – I’m clear of the bushes. Well, on one side at least. I can see down the open slope again, though I can’t quite make out the lower paths. Perhaps it’s darker at this point, or perhaps I could never see them. The imagination is a powerful thing. Yes, a powerful thing! That explains it, of course. On a night like this, in a place like this, you’re going to see what you don’t want to see. Or what you expect to see. Or what you don’t expect to see, and don’t want to see. What don’t you want to see?

  It’s good to have bushes on one side. Then you only have to keep an eye on the open side. But why the open side? Don’t stare into the bushes, it only feeds the imagination. The wind is shifting the leaves, rummaging through the foliage as if chasing something. Or trying to drive something out. (Was there a wind before?) Keep walking. A tree! A vast bulk, immovable, reassuring, but... something attached to it. Glistening.

  Don’t stop, don’t look. But I have to – look, it’s just old beer cans. A dozen at least, crumpled and wedged beneath the vines. Always late for the party, that’s me. And I’ll be later still, if I don’t put an end to this nonsense. Just walk. Just walk and think of... think of nothing. That’s the best –

  It’s there again.

  The dark shape.

  Out there... in the open. It’s gone now. Did I see it, or did I just feel it? It was surely there, it was surely something. Something somehow... familiar. I can’t describe it. It was like – like an absence. No, that doesn’t make sense. I could feel it, it was something, it was there. And it’s following you.

  Don’t stand still, walk. Keep to the left. But not too close to the bushes.

  Something just brushed against my leg. Oh God – don’t look. There it is again, travelling the opposite way. It’s the carrier bag – the bottle of wine. For the party. The party! Of course. I’ll be there in five minutes. Probably less. What nonsense I’ve worked my mind into. Or it’s worked me into. Well, my body won’t have it – I’ll keep walking, to hell with my head. Perhaps I should drink the wine.

  Beyond those trees, within a couple hundred yards, are houses. Houses crammed with people, families. Nothing terrible could happen when so close to them. Why not? What was it that made us believe that safety lay within the gaze of civilisation? Wasn’t the opposite true? This is good. Amateur philosophy, and I haven’t even started on the wine. I’ll be out of here in no time with this kind of material. Out of here and before I know it, boring a large dull metaphysical hole through a host of unfortunate guests.

  And here is civilisation itself, in all of its cemented security. The playground: a small seesaw, two crooked swings, an untrustworthy slide, all on a slant. Not much of a playground really. Was that a slight tremor in the swing? Don’t start with that again. Even if there is, it’s to be expected – due to the Earth’s rotation, or vibration, or some such. What kind of explanation is that? Well, what can you expect? Nonsense springs from nonsense. But I’m past now anyway; the swing can do whatever it pleases, now it’s behind me.

  If danger lay only within civilisation’s view, then didn’t that mean that this solitary path, away from every sight but mine, is safer than any town centre, than any crowded party? It’s surely no more hazardous. Then why walk so fast? I must be past the halfway point now – yes, easily. I know this area; I recall these trees, those patches are flower beds, and over there.... A dark shape, huddled. A bush, that’s all. A little darker than usual; it simply doesn’t reflect the light as well as others, it soaks it up. An absence of colour – that’s what black is, how it’s defined. I remember now. I must have made the connection unconsciously, that’s what gave me the idea of an absence before. A mischievous memory synapse perhaps. Isn’t that how these things work, synapses? Yes, mystery solved: my mind is the culprit once again.

  I’ve stopped. I’m looking at a tree. Why am I doing this? I know the tree, of course – it’s the one I’ve often stopped at, during the day. But not at night. A tall weeping willow, with a peculiar outgrowth hugging its middle; a great, tumorous entanglement of branches, writhing in and out of each other. It’s almost modern art; some obscene sculpture of bodies caught in the moment of ecstasy. Or agony. I can make out where one blackened limb has been amputated, sliced sheer, as if by some white-hot blade. Another has been somehow cut horizontally along its length, and you can see the insides, like an anatomical diagram: Observe here, veins, here, arteries. But where’s the blood?

  It’s to prove I’m in control, of course, this sudden show of indifference. I will pause and describe this tree, because my will – my reason – is the greater. Are you sure that’s the reason? True enough, a difficult part of the journey lay just ahead – no, not difficult, simply... not ideal. A steep narrow staircase, made almost a tunnel due to the overgrown bushes and trees arching over it. Still, a staircase only, and the last obstacle that I had to worry about. No, not worry, nor an obstacle, simply –

  It’s back.

  There – beyond the tree.

  Oh, God. It’s really there. Run. What is it? Why is it following me? Run. Is it behind me? What am I running from? Run. Am I going the right way? Maybe I should have gone back. Keep running. No it’s quicker this way. I’m closer to the exit. Hurry. I’ve dropped the wine. Leave it. This is ridiculous; I’m running from my own imagination. Why take the risk? It’s the staircase – I shouldn’t go this way. You can’t go back now. The steps are too steep, too small, I can’t go fast enough. Try. I’m halfway down – no, more than that. I can see where the stairs end. It’s behind you. I’m almost – I’m falling, I’m falling forward, I can’t stop, I can’t grab –

  The Wild Hunt

  by Charlotte Bond

  “There,” smiled Sally, knocking the soot off her hands and leaning back on her haunches to admire her work. “Doesn’t the place look more homey with a nice roaring fire?” Her daughter smiled with cautious optimism. The cottage was a little more sparse than it had appeared in the advert, but Sally was still determined to make the best of it. After all, a cottage in the Scottish highlands, with no phone and no way for her ex-husband to contact them, was ideal. She wouldn’t let Katy’s Christmas be as bad as last year’s was.

  “Go on, my little Ophelia,” said Sally, “Go and unpack – it’ll look better with some of your mess around.” Katy rolled her eyes – her mum was more proud of her role in the school play than was natural, but Sally couldn’t help herself, it had been such a relief to see her normally withdrawn daughter launch herself into something so enthusiastically.

  As Katy trudged obediently upstairs, Sally stared out of the window at their surroundings. Their cottage was the highest up on the hillside, separated from the rest of the village by a small local road. The closest house – still a five minute walk away – belonged to the owner, a local farmer. As a converted barn, the cottage was all stone walls and pine beams, nice and airy, but after being empty for a long time, it felt cold and damp. The windows on one side looked over the village, with the winter sun peeking through them. There was only one window on the other side of the house, which was in the kitchen and it looked out onto the looming pine forest, which was just yards from the end of the drive. The grass of the hillside stopped just a little way in, as if afraid to venture in too far beneath the sharp needles and oppressive dark, which brooded in the shade of the pines. There was no fence or hedge that marked the end of the garden or the beginning of the forest. Sally shivered as she looked at it out of the window. It made her feel uncomfortable having so much unbridled nature so close, but she shrugged it off as a consequence of city life.

  Upon Katy’s reappearance, they wandered down to explore the village. The houses were picturesque but sturdy – doors made of thick wood and beyond heavy curtains, a fire was blazing in every hearth. Each house, without fail, was adorned with wreaths, sprigs, and garlands of holly and ivy, which Sally thought was quaint, if a little exc
essive.

  They wandered into the local shop for some essentials and as she selected her purchases, Sally was aware of eyes and whispers following her.

  A rotund, friendly woman in a garish cardigan rang their purchases up on the till. “I’ll just pop you some holly in, dear,” the woman said with a smile, which revealed lipstick smears on her teeth.

  “Oh, no thank you,” said Sally. A stony silence descended.

  “You’re not from around here,” the woman said sternly. “We all hang holly outside our doors.” Then the ice broke and she smiled warmly. “I’ll pop you some in anyway.” Sally smiled politely.

  When they had left, Katy turned to her mother. “She was rather odd, wasn’t she Mum?”

  “They’re just not used to outsiders, I guess,” replied Sally amiably. “After all, ours is the only holiday cottage for about ten miles.”

  As soon as they got through the cottage door, Katy picked a book off the shelf and settled herself in front of the fire. Sally unpacked the groceries and dutifully hung the holly outside the door. A hook seemed to have been put there for just this occurrence.

  Just as she was settling herself before the fire with a cup of coffee, there was a knock at the door, so unobtrusive it was almost unheard. Curious, Sally went to open it and found a young man dressed in a thick duffel coat, cord trousers, and heavy boots; his cheeks were rosy with windburn and his hair was dishevelled. Sally noticed the white collar, which peeked out from under his tartan scarf, as he held out a gloved hand.

  “I’m Reverend McAllister. Call me Tom.” She shook his hand.