The Halloween Mask and Other Strange Tales E-Book

David Stuart Davies

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Seitenzahl: 157

Beschreibung

Prepare to have your blood chilled and your nerves tingled … This collection of eighteen short stories blurs the line between the real and unreal, and transports you to the misty world of the supernatural, where faceless phantoms linger and nothing is what it appears. What is the terrible secret of 'The Doll's House'? What horror lies behind 'The Halloween Mask'? And why is a whitewashed cottage called 'The Fly House'? David Stuart Davies, a modern master of the unsettling narrative, provides a feast of ghoulish, ghostly and gripping tales to keep you awake long after the lights are turned out.

Leseprobe

To Paul Chapman

and my other chums of the

York Ghost Story Club.

CONTENTS

Title

Dedication

1 The Halloween Mask

2 The Secret

3 Reunion

4 The Key

5 The Welcome Visitor

6 Lunch with Granddad

7 The Doll’s House

8 The Ring

9 Sherlock Holmes and the Ghost of Christmas Past

10 I Know What You Did

11 The Fly House

12 The Lady in the Garden

13 The Stigmata Skull

14 The Christmas Angel

15 Instant Removals

16 The Books

17 The Oldest Ghost-Story Writer in the Land

18 The Return

About the Author

Copyright

1

THE HALLOWEEN MASK

Ron picked himself up from the gutter. God, he felt like death. Dead drunk more like, he thought, as a knowing, twisted, inebriated grin touched his features. It was all Allison’s fault. Inviting him to her Halloween party had given him hope – hope that there was reconciliation on the cards. A chance that they could get back together. The grin soured and faded. How wrong could you be, buddy? She was all eyes-on and all arms-around that advertising exec. in the shiny suit called Brian. Ron grinned again. Actually, the suit wasn’t called Brian, he mumbled to himself, taking a few uncertain steps onto the sidewalk. The suit was called Melvin.

He tried to laugh at this laboured witticism, but it never came.

Allison.

It was as though she had invited him to the party so that she could humiliate him. To show him that she had moved on from Ron Granger, the down-at-heel schmeel scraping a living in a jewellery store on the lower east side. Yes, she had moved on and up. Allison had graduated into the big time. To guys with shiny suits and their own expense accounts.

And so Ron had started hitting the booze. Bloody Marys – his tipple. It lessened the pain and removed certain portions of reality like an almost-completed crossword. You could see the picture but bits were missing. Reality was not complete. That’s the way he liked it. The vodka told him so.

He couldn’t remember leaving the party or making his way from the village towards the less salubrious part of town where he roomed.

As he left the brighter lights, he picked up speed a little and, with some determination, headed in the direction of home – or the place where his few things were and he slept nights.

‘Hiya, buddy.’ The voice came from the shadows. A passing pedestrian. Ron looked up and shuddered. The man’s face was a skull. Black caverns rippled where his eyes should be. Fear crept upon Ron for a moment and then with sudden realisation … a Halloween mask. The guy was entering into the spirit of the evening.

Ron grinned a drunken grin. ‘And boo to you, too,’ he slurred.

As he passed Al’s Irish Bar, the man himself, Big Alan, emerged and began lighting a large cigar.

‘Hiya, Al. Enjoy the smoke,’ he called, his voice strangely husky.

Al studiously stared at the cigar and ignored him.

That, thought Ron, was not like Al, but maybe he doesn’t want to acknowledge a drunk in the street. I must look like a mess. He gazed down at his coat and gasped. There were several dark patches on his overcoat that looked like blood. Again, realisation took the fear away. ‘Blood?’ he said quietly, almost as a chuckle. ‘More like Bloody Mary. Unsteady hand with the precious booze. Still, I wasn’t buying.’

Finally he reached his rooming house and after some difficulty with the key – it kept slipping past the aperture – he let himself into the barren and shabby set of rooms that he called home. He slipped his shoes off and flung his coat on the chair, which was followed by his damp shirt, tie and suit.

Unsteadily, he made his way to the bathroom. As he did so his mind was suddenly awhirl with images and sounds.

The dark street.

His faltering footsteps echoing in the blackness.

The noise of a revving motorcar.

He reached the bathroom and clicked the light switch. Bright lights dazzled his eyes.

Bright lights dazzled his eyes.

The roar of the engine grew nearer.

He moved towards the sink.

He jerked his head in panic and saw that the car was almost upon him.

He gazed at himself in the mirror.

He felt the thump of the bonnet as his chest exploded.

He saw the kerb racing towards him.

Then in the mirror he saw himself. A man in a Halloween mask. A skull where black caverns rippled where his eyes should be.

But this was no Halloween mask.

2

THE SECRET

Brian loved fishing. It was a hobby that had been nurtured by his father. The rippling water and what lay beneath its glossy surface fascinated him. By the age of ten he had become an accomplished angler and most Saturdays he and his dad would set off for Balcolme Ponds to join the other fishermen for a quiet day by the water’s edge while they waited patiently for the big catch. Brian didn’t mind being teased by his schoolmates that ‘fishing was boring’ and that he was like an old man because he enjoyed just sitting with a rod in his hand for hours on end. But Brian loved it. Even at his young age he found a strange kind of refreshing tranquillity sitting on the bank, staring at the murky water and watching the ripples sparkle in the changing light, waiting for that slight tell-tale pull on the line.

When his father died suddenly, he stopped fishing for a while, but after a couple of months, he felt the urge to be by himself again at the water’s edge. He knew that it would somehow aid his grieving and he felt that his dad would want him to take up the rod again. However, he couldn’t go back to Balcolme Ponds. That would be too painful. He wanted to find a stretch of water that was quiet and his alone. He wanted to be a solitary fisherman.

After a few fruitless excursions, he found the ideal spot only a few miles from home. He’d tracked through a nearby wood and then suddenly veered off the beaten track into a patch of thick undergrowth. He had no idea why he’d taken this route. Some inner force had prompted him to negotiate his way through the dense foliage. Less than five minutes later, he came to a small clearing and a stretch of placid water: a large lake. Excitement ran though him as he moved to the edge. Surely there would be fish swimming about in there, he thought, smiling for the first time in a long while. After sitting staring out onto the lake for what seemed ages, he made his way back home, determined to return the next day after school with his rod and tackle and test it out.

Within half an hour of dropping his line into the water the next day, he had made his first catch. It was only a scrappy little gudgeon, but Brian’s heart burst with joy as he brought it wriggling out of the water. He had found his own lake – Brian’s lake – where he could fish and be alone with his own thoughts and memories of his dad. He felt a rush of pleasure consume his body. He couldn’t help it: he just laughed out loud, his voice echoing strangely across the surface of the water.

Brian went almost every day after school for at least an hour. Whether he caught anything or not didn’t really matter to him. It was the act, the process of angling, that really gave him pleasure. And then one day, when he had navigated his way through the thick undergrowth – his secret route, as he thought of it – he found that there was someone else in the clearing, sitting on a rock at the edge of the lake. It was a boy about his own age. He was hunched up and looked damp. His dark hair was plastered to his head and shimmered with droplets of water. When he heard Brian approach, he turned his head to gaze at him. The boy’s face was pale and gaunt, with very large eyes. He smiled when he saw Brian.

‘Hello,’ he said.

‘Hello,’ Brian replied, hesitantly.

‘You come fishing?’

‘Well, yes.’ Brian wasn’t so sure he wanted to fish now that his special place had been invaded by this stranger.

‘Can I watch?’

‘If you like.’

‘Yes, please. I won’t get in the way.’

‘OK.’

Brian unpacked his tackle and readied himself to cast off.

‘Are you using bait? Worms or something?’

Brian shook his head. ‘Worms is for amateurs. I’ve got some maggots here. They’re nice and plump.’

‘Can I see?’

‘Yeah.’ He held out the jar of moist wriggling creatures.

The boy pulled a face that clearly expressed his distaste. ‘They’re horrible.’

Brian smiled. ‘The fish love ’em.’

‘Glad I’m not a fish,’ said the boy. And they both laughed.

The boys sat close to each other on the edge of the lake while Brian cast off and they waited in silence to see if he would catch any fish today. At first Brian was conscious of his companion, but he soon lost himself in his own thoughts and forgot about the pale-faced boy by his side.

After half an hour, the line grew taut and began to pull slightly.

‘I think you’ve got one,’ said the boy in hushed tones.

Brian nodded and pulled gently on the line. It resisted: the sure sign that he’d hooked a fish. He tugged harder and the line fought back.

‘I think it’s a big one,’ said the boy, with suppressed excitement.

Brian rose to his feet and pulled hard on the line, jerking up the rod and bringing his catch bursting through the surface of the lake. It was a perch. Lithe and silvery, it shone in the evening light.

‘Wow,’ said the boy.

‘Yeah,’ agreed Brian. ‘I’ve never caught one of these here before. It’s my biggest yet.’

‘It must be me. I’ve brought you luck.’

Brian sneered good-naturedly as he reeled the fish in. ‘Huh, more likely my skill as an ace angler.’

‘Oh, that as well.’

Brian plopped the still-wriggling fish into his keeping net. It was a real smasher, he thought. If only his dad was here to see it.

‘My name’s Andrew.’ The boy’s voice broke into his thoughts.

Brian turned to him. ‘Brian. That’s my name.’ And after a brief pause the two boys patted each other on the back and grinned.

They sat chatting for a while, easy now in each other’s company. Strangely Brian no longer felt that Andrew was an intruder in his domain. He hadn’t any real friends at school – his dad had been his best pal – and he began to enjoy the company of someone his own age. Certainly Andrew was easy to get on with.

‘Will you be here tomorrow?’ asked Andrew, as Brian began to pack up his tackle.

‘Yes. I come most days.’

‘See you then,’ said Andrew staring out at the lake.

‘Yeah. OK.’

And so it was that every day for over a week Brian would turn up at the lake and find Andrew waiting for him, his face beaming with delight to see his new friend. One day, as the light was failing sooner than usual and rain clouds were gathering, Brian decided to pack up early. As he was about to leave, Andrew touched his arm, gently, his features clouded with apprehension.

‘What is it, what’s the matter?’ Brian asked.

Andrew bit his lip and turned away. ‘Nothing really, I just … I just wanted to tell you …’ His voice faltered.

‘Just wanted to tell me what? Come on, spit it out. You can trust me. We’re pals aren’t we?’

Andrew smiled and nodded. ‘Well it’s a secret really. Do you want to know a secret?’ he said in a whisper, his eyes widening.

‘A secret? Yes. What?’

‘Shall I tell?’

Brian gave a puzzled grin. ‘Yes, tell me your secret.’

‘OK. You see, I’m dead.’

‘What?’

‘I’m not really alive. I’m dead.’ He pointed to the still flat waters of the lake. ‘I drowned out there. They couldn’t save me.’

Brian stared at his friend in bewilderment, but a fine tingle of fear spread up his spine.

‘You’re mad,’ he said.

Andrew shook his head. ‘It’s true. I am dead. Touch my hand.’ He held it out but Brian flinched. ‘Go on, touch me.’

Slowly Brian reached out and laid his fingers gently on Andrew’s hand.

It was as cold as ice.

‘You see,’ said Andrew. ‘I told you.’

Brian fled. He turned and ran, thrusting himself through the thick foliage as fast as he could. The branches clutched at his clothing, scraped his face and seemingly made every effort to enfold him in their leafy embrace. When he eventually broke out into the clearing, his heart was pounding as though it would burst through his chest, but he didn’t stop running, running away from the dead boy, until he reached the end of his street. Here he paused and attempted to regulate his breathing again and control his shaking body. As he made his way up the garden path, he thought his legs would give way.

His mother saw immediately that something was wrong. She ran her hand over his damp brow. ‘I think you’d better get to bed with a couple of aspirin,’ she said, shepherding Brian towards the stairs. He did not resist.

But he had no intention of falling asleep. He was frightened of what dreams might come when he had entered that dark realm, so he sat up in bed and let his mind relive the moments by the lake when Andrew had told him his ‘secret’. There was no sense to be made of it. He remembered with terror the freezing touch of Andrew’s skin, like the skin of a dead fish.

But as the shadows lengthened, he did fall asleep, into a dreamless and calm slumber. He woke in the morning refreshed and feeling strangely like that incident at the lake was something experienced by someone else. One thing was certain, he was not going there again. He was not the least bit ashamed of being frightened by the prospect.

After a day at school, Brian almost began to feel normal again. He even started to wonder whether he had imagined the whole thing at the lake. Nevertheless, he was neither brave nor foolish enough to return there. Instead, he made his way to Balcolme Ponds. He felt safe there but the once-familiar surroundings reminded him of how much he missed his dad. Vivid memories of their time together crowded his mind and he had almost forgotten about what had happened at the lake by the time he got home.

That night, he woke up suddenly. Something had propelled him from a deep sleep into cold harsh wakefulness. He sat up in bed, apprehensive and frightened, but he didn’t know why. Then he heard someone mention his name – softly and sibilantly. It came from the shadows at the far side of the room. He stared at the blackness and emerging from it came a figure. A figure of a boy. It seemed to shimmer with a faint greenish glow.

It was Andrew.

‘Where were you, Brian?’ he said. ‘I waited for you by the lake today but you didn’t come.’

Brian blinked hard, hoping that this vision or whatever it was would disappear, but it didn’t. It remained, shimmering and frightful in the gloom.

‘Promise you will come.’ The figure moved closer to the bed and as it did so the skin on its face seemed to slide off the bone. Only the eyes – those wide staring eyes – stayed in place as the flesh dribbled down its cheeks until only a damp glistening skull shone in the darkness.

Brian could not move, he could not speak and his head felt as though it would explode. Suddenly, his mind could take no more and he fell back on his pillow. He had escaped from the nightmare into unconsciousness.

The next morning he felt groggy and uncertain about what had happened during the night. He had flashes of images in his imagination – pieces of a strange jigsaw – but he was unable to piece them together to produce a complete picture.

He spent the rest of the day as though it was a dream. Voices were echoes, faces were shadows and everything seemed to be enacted in slow motion. This did not concern him. Indeed, he enjoyed the sensation. He was in his own little dreamlike cocoon.

At the end of the day, he made his way with slow deliberation to the lake.

Andrew was waiting for him by the still waters.

‘I knew you would come.’

‘Yes,’ said Brian.

Andrew stepped forward and took Brian’s hand. His touch was still ice cold but now Brian did not mind. Slowly they moved to the water’s edge and stared out at the dark expanse of the lake. Brian remembered his father and those early days of fishing with him. How he had stared at the water in the same way as he did now. He was fascinated by the ripples and what lay beneath the glossy surface.

Hand in hand the two boys waded out into the lake. Further and further and further until they disappeared from sight.

3

REUNION

Eva’s hand shook a little as she locked the front door. She smiled at her own nervousness. It was to be expected. It would be strange if she wasn’t nervous. Well, excited really. That was the real emotion.

Door closed, she adjusted her hat and smoothed down her frock – her special frock, the one she’d bought in the January sales in anticipation of this day – whenever it would be. She hadn’t realised then she’d have to wait until August before she could wear it. 20th August to be precise. Her red-letter day. Their red-letter day.

As she reached the gate she saw her neighbour Dolly Pearson returning from a shopping trip.

‘Good heavens,’ Dolly cried. ‘You look the bees’ knees. You off to the palace or something?’

Eva grinned. ‘It’s Tom. He’s coming home today. Home on leave. I can’t wait.’

‘Oh, my dear, that’s wonderful. How long has it been?’

Eva’s smiled faded a little. ‘Over a year. He’s been out in the desert.’

‘Well, you look a picture, I must say.’

Eva glanced down shyly. ‘I wanted to look my best. Anyway, I can’t stop, I’m late already.’