Night Terrors: An Uncanny Kingdom Urban Fantasy (Hexed Detective Book 3) Page 3

  ‘Back in the room, Carlisle?’ asked Mr. Cotton, stepping into view, hands behind his back.

  Carlisle glanced over to the glass box containing the Angel of Blackpool. It was on Its knees in the centre of the prison, hands resting on Its thighs, head bowed, hair hanging down. Its brilliant white robes pooled around It like a puddle of milk.

  Carlisle could see black fingers of smoke weaving through weaknesses in the glass, reaching across the chamber, winding around Mr. Cotton. Cotton reached up a white-gloved hand and toyed with the Angel’s power. Power that he and his brother-in-anguish were now feasting upon. Using. Unleashing.

  Both the Angel and Carlisle had been taken for fools. He had to applaud Cotton and Spike for that. At least, he would have applauded if it didn’t hurt quite so much to move, and if his right hand wasn’t pinned to the ground by a shard of glass.

  ‘Can you feel the fear?’ asked Mr. Cotton.

  ‘I fear nothing,’ growled Carlisle.

  ‘Not your own fear, dear one, you keep that locked in tight, but fret not, my brother and I shall unlock it in time. No, no, I refer to the fear of the town beyond. Of Blackpool. How wonderful a tool this Angel has proven. We plug in and are amplified. Day or night, the people of Blackpool are now our buffet.’

  Mr. Cotton began to tap dance, causing the sound to rattle in Carlisle’s ear, which was still pressed to the ground. He let out a weary groan as he rolled on to his back and looked up to the ceiling, half-hidden in the gloom.

  The nightmare brothers had not returned to assist the Angel of Blackpool. They had decided they were done waiting for It to give them what was promised. Carlisle had gone to the City of the Dead looking for a weapon to use against the Angel, only it was Cotton and Spike that had found one. A set of words. A sentence that allowed them to leech the Angel’s celestial magic and amplify their own particular set of skills.

  Now they would not need to focus on just one person at a time. One dream turned nightmarish. Now they could keep a whole town in their thrall. No doubt if the Angel was not trapped within Its glass box It would put a stop to this, to being used and ignored and double-crossed, but trapped It was. Carlisle was unsure—despite the rather dicey situation he found himself in—whether doing as the Angel asked and helping It was altogether the best idea. Even if he could have done such a thing.

  The damp rasp of Mr. Spike’s breath against the inside of his hedgehog mask let Carlisle know that the torture was about to begin again.

  ‘You… you know… that breath of yours is… is torture enough…’

  Mr. Spike giggled as he oh so slowly slid a new piece of glass into Carlisle’s side. His screams echoed around the marble chamber, and Mr. Cotton danced in time to the music of pain.

  5

  Ben Turner scratched at the beard he’d started growing since becoming a fugitive. He wasn’t sure that it suited him; the beard or being on the lam. But then it wasn’t as though he’d had much of a choice in the matter, and being a fugitive was certainly more appealing than the alternative. Ben was pretty sure he wouldn’t flourish in a prison environment.

  A cheer went up from the second bowling lane in Big Pins—the main hangout for Uncanny folk in Blackpool—momentarily nudging Ben out of his self pity. A woman who Ben had it on good authority was a six-hundred year-old vampire was high fiving a three-foot goblin. Perhaps low fiving would be more accurate.

  Vampires and goblins, and more besides. Ghosts! Ben had seen them all in the last week, ever since he’d been taken under Rita Hobbes’ wing. Each new addition to the Uncanny roster should have been cause for alarm, but since he himself had been turned into a werewolf, it was easier to just accept the monsters and move on.

  At times like this, when Ben was sat alone, three or four drinks deep, his mind would start to wonder how many people he’d murdered. How many had died between his teeth since Magda had turned him into one of her pets? Since she’d afflicted him with this curse. He knew of one for sure, Alan Crowther, the front desk security guard at Ben’s old office. He didn’t remember the actual murder, he had little to no memories of being in his wolf form, but he knew that he had been the one to end Alan’s life.

  So how many more?

  He’d turned more than once, and other bodies had been discovered in the wake of Magda’s reign of terror. Other people had been turned by Magda, so perhaps the additional deaths had been at their claws, but Ben didn’t know that for sure. Perhaps his tally of the dead lay north of one.

  It was very strange, knowing you were a murderer, whilst also knowing that it was completely out of your hands. Knowing that the you who had done the biting, the ripping, the gouging, wasn’t really you at all.

  Rita had told him more than once that he shouldn’t feel any responsibility for what he had done when he was under the control of the lycanthropy magic, and he knew that she was right. She was right, and beautiful, with really great hair. She was right. And yet Ben couldn’t shake the guilt that rested its rotten hands upon his sagging shoulders.

  He wondered where Rita was right now. He pulled out the new phone she’d given him and started writing out a text, then deleted it and pocketed the thing. He was being needy. He had to start pulling himself out of this rolling funk. Still, it would’ve been nice to have seen Rita’s face right about then. To see her smile, and the way she would tease at the ends of her thick red hair as she spoke to him.

  A giant hand placed a fresh pint of beer on the table in front of Ben. Linton stood there, a hulking tree of a man with almost grey skin and a face that wasn’t prone to anything so everyday as expressions.

  ‘Thank you, Linton,’ Ben told the owner of Big Pins.

  ‘Welcome,’ Linton replied.

  ‘Just thinking about how many people I might have murdered again,’ said Ben, in as cheery a manner as possible.

  ‘Hm. More that you didn’t kill than you did.’

  ‘Well, true. I definitely didn’t kill more than I did. Never looked at it like that before.’

  Linton nodded, then turned and made his way back to the bar, where the vampire lady was impatiently waiting to be served.

  Rita had already been using Big Pins as her home, and had now persuaded Linton to let Ben use the basement as a place to sleep. The same basement he’d previously been locked inside of so when the full moon rose and he changed, he’d be safely stashed away.

  He didn’t have any memories from the times he’d turned, apart from one. A memory of being in that basement, a raging beast, looking up to see the door open and finding Magda framed there, a paternal smile on her face, brilliant blue eyes sparkling, reaching a hand towards him.

  Just that one memory.

  Ben shook his head and finished off his previous drink, pushing the empty glass aside and reaching for the new pint.

  Okay, thought Ben, got to think of something else. Something other than guilt and murder and Magda.

  He wasn’t entirely certain why Linton had been so open to him staying under his roof. He certainly didn’t have any money to pay him. Rita had waggled her eyebrows and said she could be persuasive. Ben had asked if that meant she was sleeping with Linton. The dead arm she gave him convinced Ben that he was mistaken.

  ‘He’s open to my whims, Benny. There’s a magic dampening bubble protecting this place,’ Rita had said. ‘But still, you get a lot of bad sorts wanting to cause trouble. It doesn’t hurt to have a bad-ass like me waving an axe about. Also, beneath that gruff exterior, Linton is a big old soft touch.’

  Ben smiled, began to drink his fresh pint, and thought about texting Rita a funny cat video he’d seen online.

  Rita was about to knock on the door of a basement flat when her phone chimed.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Waterson.

  Rita sniggered, then put the phone away. ‘Ben. Ha, how is that whole kitty fitting in a jam jar?’

  ‘Aw, isn’t that sweet?’ said Waterson, batting his eyelashes.

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘You lurve him.�
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  ‘He does look hot with that beard.’

  ‘Roughs him up a bit.’

  ‘Keep your ghostly fingers to yourself, Waters.’

  Waterson rolled his eyes as Rita began knocking at the weathered door. He eyed the mounds of rotting rubbish piled high in the narrow gap between the flat and the wall that reached up to street level. He was sure if he had a solid foot to nudge it with, a hundred fat, greasy rats would explode from within.

  ‘This place is disgusting,’ he said.

  ‘Wait until you see inside. Bob is not exactly the house proud sort.’

  ‘Seeing as you’ve been knocking for almost a minute, I think he’s also not the in-at-the-moment sort.’

  ‘Have a look.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You’re a ghost. You can, you know, walk through shit. Walls and stuff. Just walk in and have a nosey.’

  Waterson made to complain, then wondered what it was he was complaining about and stopped. He certainly felt offended in some way that made no sense. He frowned and stepped through the door.

  ‘Is he in?’ Rita asked through the letter box.

  ‘Give me a bloody second, will you, you annoying woman.’

  ‘All right. Sexist.’

  Waterson sighed and looked around at the crack den he had wandered into. The wallpaper of the corridor was missing in great, torn patches. The carpet was a disaster. Waterson was, for the first time, glad he was a ghost and lacking the necessary nose to smell the place.

  He took the first door and found himself in the front room of Bob’s flat, which was even more foul than the corridor. Mounds of takeaway cartons and wrappers were everywhere, many with maggots squirming around in the leftovers. Numerous plastic bottles lay strewn about, full of what looked suspiciously like piss. It wouldn’t be how he would decorate a living area himself, but then to each their own.

  A man, who Waterson assumed was Bob, the rancid inhabitant of this armpit of a flat, was asleep on an old armchair, the room’s only item of furniture. Bob was overweight, with greasy hair plastered to his fat egg of a head. He wore a pair of trousers that may once, many moons ago, have belonged to a smart suit, and a t-shirt with a picture of Hellboy on it.

  There was a crash in the corridor and Rita joined him.

  She looked at Waterson’s raised eyebrow and shrugged. ‘Got tired of waiting. You found him then?’

  ‘Well, I found the king of all the tramps here, who I’m really hoping isn’t the man you brought me to see. The man you said might be able to help me.’

  ‘Yup, that’s Bob the Uncanny Exorcist.’

  Waterson sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Fuck my afterlife.’

  Rita liked to think she was a good friend. Well, sometimes. It depended on the situation. She knew Waterson was having trouble with his situation. She knew, because he never stopped harping on about it. She’d promised to try and help him, to at least get him the best information she could about what might be in store for him. When he might be finally called to Heaven, or how he could, perhaps, speed the process up. Bob the slobby Exorcist here had been trained at the Vatican. It seemed to Rita that he might be as good a person as any to ask about such things.

  She wasn’t happy about it though.

  Since being hexed, Rita’s whole life had been taken from her, her existence wiped away like words on a blackboard. It was all gone, and no one, friend, lover, or vague acquaintance, had any memory of Rita Hobbes having ever existed.

  And then Dan Waterson had appeared, her best friend and partner on the force, and he’d remembered. Yes, he’d been murdered and was now a ghost trapped in this earthly realm—bummer—but she’d got her friend back. A piece of her old life. No wonder she wasn’t exactly filled with giddy joy at the prospect of losing him.

  But still.

  He was her best friend, and Rita was, mostly, a good friend. So here they were. She would help him and try and bite her tongue.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ asked Waterson, breaking Rita’s train of thought.

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘Is he drawing in his sleep?’

  Rita looked down at Bob, whose left arm was twitching. A small pad was sat on his lap, a pencil clenched in his hand, jerkily moving across the page.

  ‘Well, that’s weird,’ said Rita.

  ‘What isn’t weird these days?’

  Rita looked at the pages. Bob wasn’t just thrashing out random squiggles, there were clear, legible words there. Pictures too.

  Fear. Fear. Fear.

  Hungry. Will eat. Eat and. Will. Feast. The dark dark dark.

  Bob’s hand dropped and Rita could see now what he had been sketching. She stepped back and shivered.

  Rabbit ears.

  The tension was broken as Bob spluttered awake, coughing and wheezing and reaching into his trouser pocket to pull out a crumpled packet of cigarettes. As he lit one and drew deeply on it, his cough slowly abated. He waved at Rita and Waterson, apparently not at all perturbed to wake up and find two people had let themselves into his home.

  ‘Did you break my door again?’ Bob asked around the cigarette clamped between his thin lips.

  ‘Yeah. Sorry about that. But if you don’t answer, what do you expect me to do?’

  ‘I can’t see any holes in that logic,’ he replied, causing Waterson to snort out of his nose. ‘I see you brought a ghost with you this time, then.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Waterson. ‘Yes, I am her dead friend. You keep a lovely home.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I died and didn’t, you know... ascend. To Heaven.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘You’re connected to all this God stuff,’ said Rita, ‘do you have any idea how long it might take for Waters to be called up?’

  ‘Or if there’s any way to jump the line,’ added Waterson.

  Bob scratched absent-mindedly at the worn crotch of his trousers. It was not pleasant.

  ‘Murdered, were you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Killer been caught?’

  ‘Yup,’ replied Rita.

  ‘That should be that then.’

  ‘Well, it clearly isn’t, because,’ Waterson waved at Bob.

  ‘Ever heard the phrase, “God moves in mysterious ways”? Well, it’s true. Another, less known phrase is, “God is a forgetful son of a bitch”. You’ll get the go-ahead at some point – trying to force it will only slow things down. Probably.’

  Waterson sighed and turned away. Rita was glad he did as she was, briefly, unable to keep the smile from her face. Okay. So. He would leave her at some point, but not yet. For now, she had her friend.

  ‘How long can “at some point” take?’ asked Waterson.

  ‘A week.’

  ‘Oh, okay. Not too bad.’

  ‘A month.’

  ‘A month?’

  ‘A decade, a century; can’t really put a timeframe on it.’

  ‘Awesome.’

  Bob stubbed his cigarette out on the tatty arm of his chair and flicked it into a darkened corner of the room before reaching into his pocket to fish out a new one. As he did so, the pad of paper on his lap was dislodged and slipped to the floor. Rita bent down to retrieve it.

  ‘What were you doing? When you were asleep?’ she asked.

  ‘Sleeping, mostly,’ replied Bob, sparking up his fresh smoke.

  ‘You were writing while you were conked out. In this pad. Drawing too.’

  ‘Oh, that’s just some automatic writing. It’s a thing. Sometimes it’s good to know what your unconscious mind is preoccupied by.’

  Rita turned the pad to him. ‘Fear.’

  Bob frowned, ‘Huh. Not that surprising. Been having a lot of bad dreams the past week. Shit your bed sort of dreams.’

  ‘Nice,’ said Waterson.

  Rita pointed at the rabbit ears sketch. ‘What about this?’

  Bob squinted at the drawing and shrugged. ‘Maybe a mutant rabbit was chasing me. I don’t remember the
details of my dreams that well, as a rule.’

  ‘Are we done here?’ asked Waterson. ‘I like to spend as little time in places that horrify me as possible.’

  Rita nodded but didn’t take her eyes off the rabbit ears sketch.

  6

  Liam wasn’t the least bit surprised to see the ghost of his Uncle Waterson at the funeral. He’d seen plenty of ghosts before, and he thought if he were ever to turn into one, he too would visit his own funeral. He felt as though he had recognised the woman with him, too—the one with the red hair—though he wasn’t sure why, as he knew for a fact he’d never seen her before.

  He hadn’t seen too much of what had happened to Uncle Waterson’s body. Not after the coffin had fallen and the body had rolled out. They’d rushed him out of the church and hadn’t been that keen on discussing it further with him. All they’d said was that the coffin had obviously not been set down correctly. Somehow.

  Liam had felt weird looking at the dead body as it had spilled out of the coffin. It sort of looked like his Uncle, and also didn’t. Like it was missing some of him. Maybe that’s what the ghost was. The missing bit that made the body look weird without it.

  It was almost half-twelve, and Liam was sat in class, third row back, his table right next to the window looking out on to the playing field. It was maths, which meant Liam would usually be bored.

  Today he wasn’t bored.

  School had been weird.

  He’d felt it as soon as he’d stepped through the gates two days previously, and the feeling had only got heavier with each passing day.

  Nervous. Tired. That’s how everything felt. Each day more peoples’ eyes—kids and teachers—started to get a distant look to them.

  Today Miss Hethers, his maths teacher, had it.

  She was trying to talk to them about something boring, most probably fractions, but she kept stumbling over her words, forgetting what she was saying, her hands twitching on top of her desk like she was playing an invisible piano.

  Liam looked at the girl who was sat at the desk next to his. Her name was Molly. She had dark skin and an explosion of hair upon her head. She was scribbling something in her workbook over and over. Liam couldn’t quite make out her doodles as she was bent over her book, her left arm shielding it from curious eyes.