Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror (8 page)

“
You
can finally be all that you set out to be. You can become Monde. Not
just a figment of your fractured imagination, but really him.. You
can continue the work you started in life… in death.”

Roberts
looked on as Elgin grinned, and he was sure he could see a narrow,
forked tongue flicking around behind his teeth. The main door was now
opening, the sound of its tired, creaking hinges followed by the
steady
clip clop
of
footsteps on the polished floor.

Elgin’s
eyes were now black bottomless pools that reminded Roberts of
Alessio’s well.

“
I
need an answer, Mr. Roberts,” Elgin hissed. His breath was hot
and smelled of sulfur.

“
You
freak. You fucking freak!” Roberts spat.

He
heard Remy’s lumbering footsteps and was relieved—at
least until he saw him. Like Elgin, his eyes were black. His teeth
were thin daggers of bone, and his forked tongue probed in and out of
his mouth. He stood beside Elgin and folded his arms. Roberts backed
away, knowing the true meaning of terror for the first time since
that day with Petrov. The two men—two
demons
—stood
and approached the bars. Roberts looked on in horror as the white
paint on the cell bars began to peel and melt away under the heat
that emanated from them. Smoke billowed out of the collar of Elgin’s
shirt, and Remy’s gold police badge had begun to sag and warp.

“
Join
us, Mr. Roberts,” said Elgin, his own dagger teeth making his
voice sound different. Deeper somehow. Roberts backed away as far as
he could, pressing himself against the cinderblock wall of the cell.
He could see a shimmering haze of heat around them now as Remy took
out his keys with hands that were more like claws, unlocking the
cell.

“
Come
with usssshh, Mishter Roberthhhh,” Remy hissed as he swung the
door open. Elgin entered, sliding towards Roberts with his wiry,
crooked form.

“
Join
usth. Let usth take you away from all thsth…”

Roberts
closed his eyes and screamed.

MYSTERY
DISSAPEARANCE OF

CONVICTED
SERIAL KILLER

A
nationwide manhunt began yesterday after the mystery disappearance of
a convicted serial killer.

Marco
Roberts (35), otherwise known as the DEMON DISMEMBERER, was convicted
of more than 90 killings over a sixteen year period, and had been
transferred to The Walls unit of Huntsville State Penitentiary,
Texas, to await execution by lethal injection.

Upon arriving at five p.m. to deliver Roberts his
last meal, guard staff were baffled to find Roberts missing, but his
cell securely locked. Staff Sergeant Julius Remy, the senior guard on
duty, reportedly said: “Nobody came in or out of here all day.
That I can guarantee.”

Security
footage was retrieved, but found to be severely damaged due to an
equipment malfunction.

Although
there is no evidence to suggest that Roberts escaped, authorities
have advised the public to remain vigilant, keep their doors and
windows locked, and to report Roberts at once if spotted. The search
continues. If you have any information as to Roberts’
whereabouts, please contact the police action helpline at 555-6342.

I’m
an old man now, but I think I can finally pluck up the courage to
talk about the day Snoddy, Denton and I killed that kid, back in the
summer of 2010. People say that time heals, but I don’t buy
into that. If anything, it makes things worse. You may wonder if I’m
sorry for what happened—well the truth is, not a day passes
without me wishing I could turn back the clock and change things. But
I was just a kid, and at fifteen sometimes you do things just to keep
up with the pack. Stupid, I know, but back then it made sense. You’d
think carrying this around with me for so many years would be
punishment enough, but I think I always knew—deep down—that
it wasn’t… Bad luck has followed me ever since that day,
bound to me like a ball and chain. My mother and father were killed
in a car accident when I was eighteen, and my sister, Tina, was
institutionalized for the murder of her best friend—only to
escape, disappearing to God knows where… Because of this, I
have done all I can to keep my own family close, protected from
something I guess I always knew would catch up with me… Now
he’s back, and he’s coming.

I
am writing this from a hotel room in Southend, having fled my home
when he first came for me. I know now there is no way to escape it.
My best guess is that
they
helped him to find me, the dark things. The rats and the spiders, and
the festering things that live in the black, wet places of the world.
He’s one of them now, you see. Kept alive by what? The need for
revenge? The pain of betrayal? Who can say for sure… I can
already hear him, scratching around behind the walls, and I’m
too old and too tired to run anymore.

That day, the day it happened, had been a hot one. It
had been a rare English summer that year, without winds and rain. We
Brits always make the most of summers like that, but the flip side is
that boredom soon sets in, especially for restless kids with no
school to go to. Snoddy and I were hanging around my place, generally
wasting the day away, when he suddenly asked me if I had heard of the
old Fisherman house. I had, of course—everyone had. It was one
of those places everyone had a ghost story about, usually one that
came from a friend of a friend, or from somebody who knew someone who
knew someone else who used to live there. That kind of deal. It was,
of course, the usual schoolyard bullshit. I looked back at Snoddy,
his skinny face taut and determined. The wheels were already turning
in his mind as he watched me and waited for my answer.

“
You
wanna go break in?” he asked me, flashing his pierced lipped,
crooked-toothed grin. I didn’t, not really, but I couldn’t
say that. I was already technically grounded, and didn’t want
to push my luck. But you can’t say that when you’re a
kid, not when the pressure of expectation is heaped on you by your
friends. So I reluctantly agreed.

We
picked Denton up on the way. Most people didn’t like Denton.
The other kids said he was fat, but he was just big for his age, with
a huge barrel chest and broad shoulders. He played rugby for the
school team, and although at a glance he did look a little chubby, he
was fitter than most of the other kids in our year group. They would
never say it to his face, of course. Denton had a well documented
mean streak and a bit of a reputation as a bully, and I think that
without him driving things along, that day might have been much
different. Right from the start, I could tell he was itching for a
confrontation. You could sense it in the air, if that makes any
sense. I think Snoddy felt it too as we walked in tense silence past
houses ripe with the smells of freshly cut grass, and the meaty
charred smell of barbecues going full tilt.

The
Fisherman house had been empty for over thirty years, and depending
on who you talked to, had either been the site of a grisly murder, or
the home of an old man who kidnapped and ate local kids. I never
believed any of it, and although I knew it was just a building—bricks
and mortar—it still gave me a small chill when I first set eyes
on it. The grass out front was hip high and a sickly, faded yellow,
and the house itself was an ugly stain on what was otherwise a nice
area. Its walls seemed to bow inwards, and the windows were covered
by graffiti-scrawled wooden boards. It certainly looked the part, and
despite my disbelief, I could imagine any one of the stories about it
being true. Suddenly I regretted going, and wondered if Denton and
Snoddy felt the same. I thought Snoddy might’ve called it off,
given the chance, but not Denton. The look in his eyes said he was
going ahead with it, no matter what. So with our pride on the line,
and none of us prepared to state our concerns, we went on.

We
saw Steve as we neared the dilapidated porch. He was sitting
cross-legged in the sun, writing feverishly on an old notepad. Denton
never liked Steve. There was a history between them, and Denton had
made it his personal mission to make Steve’s life hell for the
last couple years of school. Steve was brush thin, with long gangly
arms and a thick greasy mop of hair. He wore thick, horn-rimmed
glasses that fit him poorly, and he was always pushing them back up
his face when they slid down his nose. He was one of those kids who
wore the cheap brands of clothes, the ones who always turned up for
school with dirty shirts. You could almost smell the poverty on him,
but he always did well in class.

“
What are
you
doing out here?” Denton asked aggressively, flashing a
crocodile grin.

Steve
looked up, but didn’t answer, his Adam’s apple bobbing
nervously. You could see how scared he was.

“
Nothing,
just researching the house for my website.”

“
What
website?” Snoddy asked as he absently pulled the grass out in
huge clumps.

“
Urban
exploring. I write about abandoned places like this and review them.”

He
flashed a hopeful grin, only to realize no one else was smiling.

“
Geek.
Lemmie see,” Denton said as he snatched the notebook. I could
see that Steve wanted to object, but experience had taught him not to
fight the bullying, but to go along with it. He looked at me then,
and I gave the briefest of nods. I never had a problem with him, see.
We were never friends, we never moved within the same circles, but I
never had anything against him. My eyes flicked to Denton, who was
leafing through the notebook.

“
This
is garbage. No mention of the good stuff like the murders, or the
dude who ate all those kids. Maybe I should tear this up and you can
start again, eh geek?”

Panic
flashed over Steve’s eyes, and I saw that Denton meant to do
it.

“
Hey,
Denton, leave him be. He’s not bothering anyone,” I said,
giving him my best stern look. I knew he could probably take me in a
fight, if it came to it, but I was good at bluffing. Denton did back
down, tossing the notepad to the porch where it raised a puff of
dust.

“
I
was just fuckin’ with him. Relax.”

There
was an awkward silence as we stood there, nobody quite sure what to
do next. It was Snoddy who made the first move. He hopped up the
three porch steps to the door and tried the handle.

“
Fucker’s
locked,” he said, pulling his cigarettes out of his pocket and
offering one to Denton, who took the offering wordlessly. The pair
lit up, then Denton regarded the door.

“
Course
it’s locked. It’s hardly going to be open, is it? Too
many crack heads and winos around. Let me try.”

Denton
puffed his chest out and brushed past Steve, who flinched
involuntarily. Denton rattled the door, and even tried breaking it
open with his shoulder, but as old and tired as the door looked, it
wouldn’t budge.

“
What
about the windows,” I said, half hoping there would be no way
in and we could give up on the entire thing. I had a horrible feeling
in my gut, not quite déjà vu, but that light, giddy
feeling that sometimes comes with knowing something isn’t quite
right. Snoddy gave the windows a quick once over, and tugged at the
boards.

“
No
chance, those fuckers are solid,” he said as he joined Denton
in sitting on the porch.

“
That’s
that then,” I said, hoping I sounded casual.

“
Suppose
so,” said Denton, glaring at Steve as if it was somehow his
fault.

We
would have left then, and none of what came later would have
happened, if Steve hadn’t spoken up. I think maybe he was
trying to win us over, maybe make some friends. Whatever the reason,
he pushed his glasses up his sweaty face and said he knew a way in.

“
Go on then. Don’t leave us hanging. Tell
us,” ordered Denton.

He
did.

Ten
minutes later, we had squeezed our way through one of the kitchen
windows at the back where a board had been partially pulled away.
Steve was with us, although he hadn’t wanted to come. It was
written all over his face, but Denton had insisted. So the four of us
stood breathless in the gloomy dilapidated kitchen. The inside of the
house was bare, and sunlight diffused dust motes hung heavy, making
it hard to breathe. Graffiti covered the walls, some of it colorful,
some vile. Hundreds of orange-tipped drug needles littered the floor,
and the air was acrid with the stench of rot and urine.

“
Watch
your step,” Denton said as we made our way through the kitchen.

“
Fuckin’
smack needles everywhere,” Snoddy muttered under his breath.

“
You
think there’s anybody here?” Denton asked with a huge
Cheshire grin.

“
Could
be. Hell, we got in easy enough,” I said, still unable to shake
the horrible feeling in my stomach.

We
came into the living room. There was a huge graffiti mural on the
wall of a woman being raped by a multi-headed snake, and more
evidence of drug use. Several empty beer cans were stacked in a neat
pyramid in the corner, and there was an old rolled up sleeping bag
covered in a thin layer of black mold, which spread like spider webs
across the corners of the walls.