Tales From Dark Places - The Halloween Collection Read online

  “Get a grip, George! Get a grip,” he told himself.

  Other similar incidents took place. An evening spent in a pub drowning his sorrows ended badly when, drunkenly staggering away from the bar with yet another pint of beer in his hand, his legs collided with a stray chair that some oaf had left in his path. The momentum of his initial movement propelled his body forward and he was forced to hold himself back from toppling over. Once back in his seat, he broke out in a cold sweat and stared ahead with unseeing eyes.

  He was being held back; he couldn’t move forward. He couldn’t carry on with his life. Something was stopping him. Some sort of being was grabbing hold of him and not letting him go. He knew what it meant. He had no future, except for…Death.

  There was always somebody near him, behind him, watching him. A sinister presence, an unimaginable creature was after him. Something was snatching him away from life. He wanted to scream. He was so alone. Who could help? Who could save him?

  It was like perpetually being in that nightmare where you couldn’t escape the clutches of some pursuing phantom or monster. The more he tried to run, the more he was held back.

  Reality and his dream-world of fear and shadowy shapes became confused and mixed. He remembered once leaving a department-store and somehow, in his panic, trying to rush through the revolving doors out into the fresh air. He misjudged everything and got caught in the ever-closing exit. He felt suffocated and trapped, squeezed between the jaws of the doors. Had that happened or had he dreamt it?

  He felt the ghostly presence of the thing which was following him more and more. It was always there. It was as if it mimicked every step he made, as if it followed him like a rabid dog. Its blackness, its sombre, hooded shape never left him. He couldn’t escape; it wouldn’t let go until he was dead.

  Memories of his life in the safe, old village flooded back to him and, in particular, the tiny single-track railway-station where he and his mates used to dare each other to run across the track in front of approaching trains.

  * * *

  “George, is that what you’ve dragged me here for? To hear nonsense about being followed by a ghost or monster?”

  “But Jennie, you don’t understand…” George said, hardly able to look her in the face, staring down at his hands clasped around his glass of beer.

  “And somebody holding you back, not letting you move…You were always the same George, too nervous. Get a life!”

  George raised his eyes. Jennie was as attractive as he remembered. Black hair, firm features, lovely body and as fierce and unforgiving as ever. He winced under the gaze of her contemptuous, blue eyes.

  “That’s why things didn’t work out between us, George. You’ll never amount to anything until you face down your demons.”

  “Wait a bit longer, Jennie…” George pleaded. “I’ll get another round.”

  As he nervously stood up and made to walk to the bar, his foot caught on the foot of the table and he was pitched forward on to the floor, his nostrils sucking in the stale, fibrous smell of the shabby carpet.

  “George! For God’s sake! Has the devil got you by the heels? You’re pathetic!”

  As he picked himself up, he saw Jennie storming out and other beer-drinkers staring at him, one or two with rather curious, worried expressions. He sensed that black, shadowy figure nearby. He couldn’t see it, but it was there.

  * * *

  He stood on the station platform, waiting patiently. For the first time in weeks he felt calm. He checked his watch. The train would be arriving soon. There were a few other people there, including a pale-faced woman with short, blonde hair, wearing a long red scarf. She was looking strangely at him.

  George moved further up the platform in the direction the train was coming. He could see its outline in the distance, snaking along. He got to the point just beyond the raised platform where he and his mates used to play their game. They could run out on to the track without having to jump down, and used to be over the other side and away before anyone could stop them.

  That’s what he was going to do. He was going to run over the track right in front of the train, but much closer than he had ever done as a kid. He was going to confront his demons head-on. Jennie was right. He would never amount to anything until he faced down his fears. He was going to cheat death. He was cocking a snoop at that black-hooded devil. It was near him; he could sense it but he didn’t care. This way he would win Jennie back. He would get a life, a proper job and the girl he loved.

  The train was getting closer. He was amazed at his calmness. Everything was going to be fine. He glanced over to the platform. The blonde-haired woman was still staring at him.

  He could hear the rattle of the train. He tensed his body. The shadowy figure was standing by his side. He could see it now, dressed in a black, flowing robe, and he wasn’t scared of it anymore.

  The train was nearly there. He tensed his muscles. The black shape moved directly behind him. George drew in his breath sharply and, with a cry issuing from his parched lips, he bounded forward.

  He felt exhilarated; it was just like old times. He would soon be over to the other side of the track. He heard the shrill scream of the train, smelt its fumes.

  He couldn’t move. He was being held back. He struggled and struggled to get loose but couldn’t budge.

  He turned round. He was met by the sight of a huge, black figure, its hooded face hidden in darkness and its body wrapped in a long, black, flowing robe. The fearsome being raised a hand, and a long, bony finger beckoned. It lifted its head. Its hood fell open a little to reveal a black, cavernous depth, which George was immediately sucked into, hurtling down into its vast emptiness.

  * * *

  “Is he dead?”

  “What do you think?”

  “His shoe got caught in the rail. It’s still there.”

  The people who had been on the platform were now huddled in the waiting-room, listening to the reports from those who had rushed to the scene.

  “Who was he?”

  “I think I recognised him…he used to live around here”.

  “And what about the other person there?”

  Everyone stared at the blonde-haired woman, who was sitting quietly in the corner, nervously fingering the red scarf around her neck.

  “What other person?”

  “That black figure, wearing a hood, and a long coat…”

  “Was he carrying a scythe, love?” asked one man, sniggering unpleasantly.

  “No, no, I must have been mistaken,” said the woman hurriedly. “I need some fresh air.”

  She attempted to stand up, but gave a choking cry as she was held back, half-strangled by her long, red scarf.

  “Sorry, love,” said the man sitting next to her, looking embarrassed, and quickly moving his foot from the end of the scarf.

  She moved to the door, looking round behind her, as if she were being followed. Her anguished face was as pale as a death-mask.

  Despite a few sniggers at her strange behaviour, the vast majority were indifferent to her obvious discomfort and troubled look. As she glanced round, there were two or three others who looked nervously at her. They knew, once the Grim Reaper had finished with her, it would soon be their turn.

  The End

  © 2013 Alan Hardy

  Melinda

  By Gunjan Vyas

  She walked around her house a few times before unlocking the front door. The iron lock was big and rusty, just like the door’s hinges which creaked as she pushed it inch by inch. It was an effort considering how old the place was and how much it wept for renovation. As she stepped inside, the familiar odour of the musty, closed house welcomed her. The spider webs that decorated her walls had spread out even further in patterns that were thicker and more intricate than before. A fly was caught in one of them and was trying its best to escape from the sticky hell but all the insect's efforts were in vain.

  The windows were covered with dust. She didn’t even think about tryi
ng to open them; they were closed too tightly. As she walked through her living room towards the staircase, the floor creaked under her booted feet. Like everything else inside her house, it was very old and, at some point in her life, she planned to have her whole house refurnished. Now, however, the thought seemed more forbidding to her than the web must have been to the fly. The ceiling just above the staircase was dripping and covered with fungus. Its familiar damp smell filled her nostrils and she inhaled a deep breath; this was home.

  As she started to climb the stairs, candles appeared as if from thin air and lit up her way. Their light shone upon the tall, old vases that held dried and decayed flowers, casting uncanny shadows. She smiled as she remembered the day she had received them as a token of true love. How bright and fresh they were when she had held them in her hands, smelling them every two minutes and blushing as she snuggled into the warmth of his embrace. Those were the good old days that a part of her wanted to return to but the other part of her sneered at the mere thought of it.

  With each step, new candles lit up and the ones she had left behind died without even a flicker. Step by step, until she was in front of her bedroom. Without a single movement from her side, the door opened for her to step in and so she did. As soon as she was inside, the door creaked shut behind her with a soft thud. Her room smelled different from the rest of the house, it smelled like burning leaves. The air inside her room was devoid of all moisture and her skin felt dry just by being there. However, just like every day, she got used to the contrasting odour and continued with her routine.

  Her eyes fell on the canapé at the other end of her room but she resisted the urge to go near it; the time wasn’t right and she had learned to remain patient over all these years. She looked out the window and wondered how life would have been if she wasn't there. Unlike other windows in her house, the ones in her room were clean with a transparent pane for her to see the outside world. Just like others, however, it was tightly shut. It was a bright day and the sight of kids playing in a nearby park made her feel a little warm inside. There was life outside and there was happiness. Maybe she was no longer a part of it but the fact that it existed was heart-warming enough.

  She had heard stories about herself, the strange woman that walked to the church every morning only to sit on the bench outside and staying there for hours before returning to her broken, haunted mansion. Some said she was a haunted spirit and some said she was mad. Some said she was just a normal person with a peculiar routine, while others said she was evil. She heard everything that was being said about her and, apparently, no one liked her. Kids called her a witch and adults didn’t want to know her.

  She had got used to it by now, her appearance was revolting and she knew that. Skin as pale as a corpse and a face lined with age. She was always dressed in the same long, black gown, which was torn in various places. Her long black hair, which mysteriously never lost its youth even when her entire body had given itself to the process of aging, was always down and flowing. Perhaps this was one of the reasons why they were so scared of her. She didn’t care about anyone enough to harm them and she found their fear amusing.

  Her eyes moved to the wall clock which was stuck at 12:05. So much time had passed since he had left her, saying that he would return once the clock's hands started to move again but the time was not yet right. She’d been waiting for so long that just staring at it and begging it to move had become more of a habit.

  She shook her head in dismay when once more the day had shown her nothing different. She let out a long breath and placed herself on the bed that sat in the centre of the room. The hard pillows felt like rocks under her head and she moaned softly with every breath. Just the usual day, the same monotonous waiting again.

  The day started to die and the pleasant sounds of playing children started to turn into silence. Everything was quiet and the occasional hoots of some nearby owls only added thickness to the quietude. She closed her eyes and let sleep take over her, just how she usually did, but today it didn’t come to her. Her eyes flickered open and, involuntarily, her neck turned towards the wall clock which was now ticking away. The time had changed; it was 1:00. She sat up excitedly, her heart was beating faster than ever.

  She ran towards the window. She pushed on the glass and, to her suprise, it opened. The night breeze swept inside and, along with it, the scent of memories from a beautiful past. A sudden wind blew against her face and she turned towards the canapé, where they had made love for the first time, and there he was. A translucent body with the familiar face of her true love; tears filled her eyes and she knelt in front of him.

  “I didn’t think this was going to happen,” she said. “I didn’t know you were going to come back for me. It’s been so long…I don’t even remember how old I am.” He just smiled and lifted her to her feet, as if she were still as small and delicate as when they first met.

  “We can be together now,” he said, “but you need to take your own life if you want to join me.”

  “I have waited for all these years for just this moment. My life has been worse than death anyway and, if death unites us, so be it.” She hurried towards the window and, in a mad frenzy, lepted out into the night air. Today was the first day of her new life.

  ***

  The incident of a woman’s suicide flashed across the newspaper headlines. Many claimed it was her madness that took her life. Some others said it was loneliness, while some said it was finally her evil spirit leaving to unite with her demon god in hell. There were some who said that she took her life only to turn into a ghost and haunt the living. To this day, there is no one who has spoken to her, no one who has actually known her but there is no one in whose memory, the mysterious Melinda doesn’t reside.

  The End

  © 2013 Gunjan Vyas

  Charlie Featherwick

  by William O'Brien

  In Temptus Vale it is often said those sensing the witches should be very careful with thoughts and wishes. It is true many do not understand the laws of nature and as some know ignorance is bliss. However, there are many that are aware of spells, magic and the like but do not respect the subtle energies that define many worlds. Temptus Vale is a small town in a shallow valley, where many strange things have happened over the years. On this particular night, it was now a few minutes to midnight and the grandmother clock born before the Great War was ticking. It had been an exciting evening for Rosie, Sean and Lily playing in the streets and getting treats. Hehe… but best of all were the tricks! Dressed as a ghost, Rosie squirted fake blood all over her white frilled skirt and blouse. Sean made himself up as a zombie using green face paint and lamp soot for blackened eyes, while helping Lily with her outfit. Lily loved the pointed hat and plastic fingernails.

  It was common knowledge, or more so town gossip, about a young boy that had fallen down a staircase and died in Viewcrest House. The children at school said Mrs Cruelmonger did it, a mean old woman that had no desire for children to exist at all. Rosie decided to scare the old lady from number 83 by knocking on her windows as the other two were banging on her front door. Mrs Cruelmonger came out all in a tizzy, yelling and shouting about how they were such horrible children. Running around to the main door, Rosie caught up with the others as little Lily turned around and stood her ground. Donned in a black hat and long gown, she pointed her finger at the grumpy old woman and scowled.

  “I am a witch and I wish you dead.”

  Just before they ran away, Mrs Cruelmonger reached out with her scrawny hand and snatched a purple ribbon from the Lily’s hair. Laughter echoed through the porch as the wrinkled-faced crone grabbed her mop from the side of the doorway and started waving it at the trick or treat pranksters. Lily was the youngest of all and cackled the loudest as they all ran off down the street.

  The evening was full of giggles and tricks with very few sweets or treats. It was much more fun to play jokes on people than eat candy. Anyway, there were loads of toffees back at home. The group all sa
t around the fire trying to keep warm as the clock continued ticking and they talked about the fun things they got up to that night. The parents had gone to a Halloween party for grown ups as they had been told by the babysitter. Rosie was the eldest of the three and 14 years of age and was never quite sure why they needed a ‘baby’ sitter. After all, she had an uncountable amount of piercings and could stay up as late as she wanted. The sitter had fallen asleep on the floor after drinking too much strawberry cider, evident by the empty cans beside the table. The fire crackled and the pendulum of the clock continued with its momentum.

  Rosie sat by the fire reading scary stories to the younger ones when out of nowhere an almighty crash was heard. Jumping up, they all shrieked but the babysitter didn’t stir from her slumber. Sean knew the noise came from the kitchen because he had seen what had happened. A mop, leaning against a tall bin had slammed against the table—it didn’t just fall, it crashed down with a thunderous BANG!!! They all went into the kitchen and looked at the fallen mop upon the floor with the stolen purple ribbon tied to the handle—nobody wanted to touch it. Looking at each other scared and confused they moved back into the living room where the hot flames flickered. The book had fallen down and opened at a certain page: ‘The night has come, Those to be done, Never forgiven today’. Sitting back down, Rosie read the words aloud as a shiver ran over them all in the homely room. Trying to regain his composure, Sean looked over at Lily on the sofa and his eyes widened and his face went pale. Petrified, Rosie too had seen the ghostly image of Mrs Cruelmonger sat next to Lily, the old lady from the house across the road. A wind chime on the patio started to rattle erratically and cupboard doors began to shake violently as the apparition fully manifested. Smoke began to drift from around the old lady, over the carpet, snaking up the walls and along the ceiling.