Night Terrors: An Uncanny Kingdom Urban Fantasy (Hexed Detective Book 3) Page 5

  ‘Another win for team dead and can’t smell,’ said Waterson, eyeing the terrible, putrid mountain.

  Rita rushed from the room, slamming the door behind her, and tried not to empty her stomach on the floor. The whole house stank, but that room was just a little too much. She composed herself, wiping the spittle from her lips using the sleeve of her coat.

  ‘They’re not here,’ she said. ‘No one’s here.’

  They checked the rest of the house just to be thorough, ducking and stepping over the vines that crept along every floor, every ceiling. If Cotton and Spike were behind the strange events of late—and Rita knew in her gut that they absolutely were—they were holed up elsewhere. Well, they could skulk where they wished, but she’d find them.

  She only hoped she might find Carlisle, too.

  Carlisle’s eyes flickered open.

  He’d been unconscious for a while, passed out from the pain. That was probably the only thing that had kept him from being dead already. Mr. Spike didn’t like playing with things that couldn’t feel fear, couldn’t acknowledge pain, so when Carlisle had passed out, he’d left him to go and find tastier treats.

  If Carlisle had passed out even a few seconds later, he would have died. Too much damage, too much pain; his body would have finally given in. Mr. Spike was unrivalled in his ability to keep his victims alive. To slowly tease out his tortures so that the poor person at his mercy would live as long as possible, and in acute agony. But even someone as hardy as Carlisle could only take so much. Sooner or later—likely very much sooner—Carlisle would perish.

  He glanced around, ears straining for any sound, for any evidence that either Cotton or Spike were present, that they would carry on the abuse once they saw him conscious again, but neither were there. It was just him, his body a battered, slashed, purple mess, and the Angel, still kneeling with Its head bowed in the centre of Its glass box.

  Carlisle grunted and pushed himself up, wincing as the glass shards that pinned him dug into the flesh. Slowly, agonisingly, he removed any glass and, his body complaining viciously, propped himself into a sitting position against a column and tried to catch his breath.

  He had one chance, and it wasn’t a favourable one. It would most likely lead to his death in another way, but at least it would not be directly at the hand of Mr. Spike or his rabbit mask-sporting, tap-dancing brother.

  He had to relinquish his physical body.

  Hopefully temporarily.

  He had to step into the astral plane to be able to bypass the lock they had placed upon him, and reach out for help.

  There were three problems with this last resort he now found himself embracing. Well, four.

  Firstly: he might not find anyone prepared to help him. Or capable even. Which would be annoying. Annoying and lethal.

  Secondly: a body left behind in this way would start to deteriorate. It would rot, physically and mentally, the longer it was abandoned. Even if he found help, Carlisle might return to his body to find it degraded beyond repair. He had no idea how long his body would allow him to step outside of it before it passed the point of no return.

  Thirdly: he had little experience of this sort of excursion. He had, briefly, stepped out of his body once before, but that had been a mistake. A spell gone wrong. He’d rather swiftly clambered back inside himself when he realised what had happened. The astral plane was not easy to traverse, so his lack of experience meant he might well be tossing himself into a blender. A leaf in a hurricane. No control, no sense of where he was, or where anything else was. His consciousness could drown in it.

  So far, so terrible; but those first three thumbs down weren’t even the thing he was most concerned about.

  There were… things that hunted for vacant bodies. For physical forms that had been left unprotected. Almost things that ached for true existence, for actual substance. Anyone travelling to the astral plane would first place themselves within a powerful spell of protection: shapes and words sketched on the ground that they would use to fortify their Earthly form. The almost things, the desperate creatures without form that searched for a body to call home, would be kept at bay by these protective spells. Without them, Carlisle would be erecting a giant neon AVAILABLE FOR OCCUPATION sign next to his battered and bruised body. The things were like sharks, they could smell an empty body from miles away. Would his otherworldly whereabouts help hide him? Carlisle hoped so, but he doubted it. Death was one thing, but the idea of something else using his body as their own offended him. Turned his stomach on a primal level.

  But he had no choice.

  He had been backed into a corner and he was going to have to take a leap of faith.

  ‘What’s life without a little risk?’ he muttered quietly to himself.

  He brushed down his coat, squared his shoulders, closed his eyes…

  ...and then he was gone.

  7

  Marie Dwyer had butterflies in her stomach.

  She clenched and unclenched her hands, her grey-painted nails digging into her palms, and hoped to God she wasn’t smiling too insanely.

  Marie was sat in The Grapes, a cosy pub a few streets away from Blackpool’s seafront, snuggled down a dead end street. An absurdly handsome man named Carl Cooper, with gorgeous green eyes and a jawline that made her knees weak, was sat opposite, telling Marie about his dream of setting up a chain of coffee shops. If she hadn’t been so madly hot for him she might have pointed out that the likes of Costa and Starbucks seemed to have the monopoly on coffee shop chains, but right now her heart and, well, her crotch, were doing the thinking, and both of those things were prepared to agree with anything the man had to say. Especially anything dirty.

  ‘I think, within five years, I could have a shop in Manchester, Birmingham, Carlisle, maybe even Newcastle.’

  Marie tucked her mousy brown hair behind her ears and carried on nodding.

  Carl Cooper ran a cute little coffee shop called Blaffee, which—Carl had excitedly explained—was a combination of the words ‘Blackpool’ and ‘Coffee’. It had come to him in a dream ten years previously. Marie had been visiting Blaffee on a twice-daily basis during the working week for the past six months. Every day, on her way into work, she would swing by for her morning Cappuccino, served with a smile that made Marie’s heart jump into her throat. In a good way.

  ‘Have I told you you’re my favourite customer?’ Carl Cooper would say each and every time. And, each and every time, Marie’s cheeks would flush red and she’d laugh, handing over her money and walking out of the shop, both elated at the interaction and crushed that he hadn’t asked her out.

  And so she would go back at lunch. Another coffee, this time with a slice of cake, perhaps, or one of the sandwiches Carl made with his own large, manly hands.

  So that was her routine, ever since she’d stumbled to work hungover one day and passed a shop she’d never noticed before. Ever since she’d shuffled inside to guzzle something that would fool her brain into thinking her body wasn’t collapsing like a failed soufflé.

  This twice-daily visit, angling for a date she was too nervous to initiate, had already cost Marie a fortune. Blaffee was ludicrously overpriced to the point that Marie had been forced to go to the cheap supermarket for her weekly shop, just so she could protect her Blaffee fund.

  And then it happened.

  Marie had gone to the counter with her empty coffee cup and placed it down.

  ‘Thanks. Thank you!’ she’d said, wearing a grin wider than her face.

  ‘Marie, I don’t suppose you’d like to―’

  ‘Yes I would, thank you! I mean… what were you going to ask?’

  And suddenly everything was roses and puppy dogs. Now here they were, sharing drinks and jokes and flirty smiles, and Marie was pretty sure they’d end up having at least two kids and a cottage somewhere green with a lake within walking distance. All she needed was to lock in a second date and perhaps a goodnight kiss.

  ‘Wow, I didn’t realise how late
it was,’ said Carl.

  ‘I know, it’s gone quick, hasn’t it?’ Marie replied.

  Carl Cooper handed Marie her coat, and they walked towards the exit, stepping out of the warm fug of the pub and into the crisp night air. The sky was clear above, and Marie pulled her coat tight as she looked up at the stars.

  ‘What a lovely night,’ she said, and Carl Cooper agreed.

  He turned to her. He was really close, and Marie could feel his breath on her skin. Could feel his heat.

  ‘So, I’ve really enjoyed tonight,’ he said.

  ‘Me too. A lot.’

  ‘Will I see you in the morning for your coffee?’

  Marie smiled and nodded and smiled some more.

  There was a held-breath pause and the stars shone brighter. Eyes darted to mouths, and then Carl Cooper leaned in and pressed his lips against Marie’s. The kiss lasted all of three seconds, but Marie was pretty sure she was now fully pregnant.

  ‘Can I take you out again?’ asked Carl Cooper.

  Marie nodded and said yes and reminded him that he had her number and he should very definitely call.

  As they parted, walking in opposite directions, Marie could still feel Carl Cooper’s lips on hers. A phantom kiss. She squealed, punched the air, and did a brief funky chicken dance. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was love.

  She turned to a shop window to see how happy her face looked. She saw two faces looking back. One her own, framed by its long, straight, brown hair, the other a stranger. At least, she assumed it was a stranger, as the face was hidden by a tatty old rabbit mask.

  She turned to see who the person was, but found herself alone in the street. Confused, she looked back at her reflection, but this time only saw her own face.

  Unease began to chase the butterflies from Marie’s stomach.

  She shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat and resumed walking.

  She only made it another few steps.

  There was a girl standing half in and half out of an alleyway. The girl was young, around six years old, and, like Marie, had long, straight, mousy brown hair. Her eyes were small but her smile was big.

  Marie recognised the girl. She looked just like she had the last time she’d seen her, twenty years ago.

  ‘Laura?’ said Marie, in a voice that sounded like someone speaking from behind a locked door.

  The girl giggled and stepped into the alley, disappearing from view.

  Marie looked up and down the empty street, the stars silently looking down from above, and knew she should turn around and walk the long way home.

  She walked towards the alley.

  Laura was stood waiting for her, a couple of metres into the alleyway, partially shrouded in gloom, her face invisible.

  ‘Laura?’ Marie asked once again.

  Laura giggled.

  ’You’re dead,’ said Marie.

  Laura had been Marie’s sister, younger than her by a year. They’d been on a family holiday to Devon and the two of them had been splashing around in the sea while their parents lay stretched out on towels, eyes closed, slowly crisping under the summer sun.

  It all went wrong so fast. As though death had only needed a split-second, a single moment of distraction, to reach out and sink its bony fingers into life. The waves had been surging towards them, and Marie and her sister had been screaming and laughing and jumping over them. Only, one time, Laura didn’t come up from beneath the salty water, ready to jump the next wave. Marie had ducked under trying to see where Laura was hiding, but couldn’t see her. She’d ducked under again and again, confused, scared.

  Mum had screamed and Dad had sprinted into the water, sunglasses flying off his head as he ran splashing past Marie, diving and swimming towards the face-down body floating on the surface.

  Marie hadn’t stepped into the sea since her little sister had died. Hadn’t even gone to a beach. And now here she was. Her dead little sister, looking just as she had before she drowned, stood in an alleyway, waving Marie forward.

  Marie didn’t believe in ghosts, but maybe ghosts didn’t care if you believed in them or not.

  ‘Help me, Muzzy,’ said Laura, using Marie’s pet name.

  ‘Laura, you’re dead.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Laura, as though this was the first she’d heard about it. ‘Step in the alleyway, Muzzy, and give me a hug.’

  Marie shivered as the shock began to recede, replaced by fear, by the certainty that she should start running. Unfortunately, the realisation came too late.

  Laura laughed as limbs shot from her body and wrapped around Marie, pulling her off her feet and into the alleyway.

  The street was empty, but the stars saw it all.

  Tap-Tap-Tap.

  Liam sighed.

  Tap-Tap-Tap.

  He was going to try and ignore it this time. Ignore the stupid tree branch slapping his window and ignore the image of his dead uncle’s empty corpse that had decided night time was the right time to pay Liam a house call.

  Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap.

  Liam got out of bed and made his way to the curtains.

  He’d asked his dad about cutting the branch off, but his dad looked tired, his eyes dark, cheeks unshaven. Mum had been looking frazzled recently, too. They weren’t alone, of course. Everyone seemed on edge these days. Tired and ready to jump at the slightest noise.

  Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap.

  Liam lifted the curtain. The corpse of his dead Uncle Waterson leered at him through the window. Liam yelped and stumbled backwards, the curtain dropping down to hide the ghastly sight.

  ‘Are you afraid?’ asked a voice.

  Liam turned to see who was talking, but couldn’t find the source. ‘Where are you?’ he asked. It had not been his dead uncle’s voice. Was this another ghost come to haunt him?

  His blankets began to pull back, then a white-gloved hand reached up from behind the bed and waved at him.

  Liam ran to his bedroom door and flung it open, only to find his dad stood waiting outside.

  ‘Do you want to feed my birds now?’ asked Not Dad, holding out a clump of mud squirming with fat worms. Not Dad no longer had eyes, and snapping bird beaks thrust out of the empty sockets.

  Liam moved back as Not Dad stepped into his bedroom.

  ‘I’m not scared,’ said Liam.

  ‘Oh?’ said the voice from behind. ‘That will not do at all.’

  Liam’s heart beat-beat-beat as two large rabbit ears rose into view from behind his bed.

  ‘Oh, it’s Mr. Cotton,’ said Not Dad. ‘He told me I’d see much better without my eyes, so he tore them from my head with a corkscrew. Now I see the dark much more clearly.’

  Not Dad lifted a worm to one of the vicious beaks, and it ripped it hungrily from his hand and pulled it back inside Not Dad’s skull.

  Marie sat up.

  She was not in the alleyway, she was on a sandy, golden beach, the sun beating down on her sweating brow.

  She struggled to her feet, brushing the sand from her clothes, trying to work out what in the hell was going on. She was asleep, that must be it. She didn’t actually remember getting home from her date with Carl Cooper. Getting into bed and closing her eyes, any of that. But she must have done, because all of this, and seeing her dead little sister in the street, that wasn’t normal. None of this was possible, it all seemed like a nightmare, so that’s what it must be.

  Marie felt almost happy for a moment as she convinced herself that she’d cracked it. If she just ignored the fact that she was sure she never got home and never went to bed, then she didn’t have to be scared anymore, and everything made sense.

  There were bodies in the sea. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Little corpses of little girls, face-down, bobbing on the tide as the lazy waves rolled towards shore.

  ‘It’s okay, I’m just having a nightmare, that’s all. I’m fast asleep and in the morning I’ll think about that kiss and I’ll see Chris Cooper on my way to work when I
go into Blaffee for my morning pick-me-up.’

  As each dead Laura was washed on to the sand it slowly rose to its feet. It looked at Marie and giggled. Giggled and walked towards her.

  ‘I know this is a nightmare, and I’d like to wake up now.’

  ‘Your fault,’ said the dead Laura’s. ‘Let me die, your fault your fault your fault your—’

  Marie turned away. Her dad was stood before her. She was grown up but her dad towered over her like he had when she was little. He grabbed her arm painfully.

  ‘How could you let that happen to your little sister?’ he yelled through rabid dog teeth. ‘Your fault! Your fault!’

  Marie screamed and pulled her arm free. She ran from the beach, through the scrub of grass, and the dead Laura’s ran at her heels, laughing and screaming and accusing and begging.

  ‘Wake up!’ said Marie, eyes almost blind with tears. ‘Wake up, wake up, wake up!’

  She ran into something solid and landed hard on the ground. She looked around wildly, wiping tears from her eyes. She was no longer on that beach in Devon, and the many dead Laura’s were nowhere to be seen. She was back on the street in Blackpool she had been on before she stepped into the alley. She looked behind her, at the alleyway’s black maw, and shivered.

  ‘Are you quite all right?’ asked the person Marie had run into.

  ‘I’m not sleeping, am I?’ Marie asked as she looked up.

  The blank glass eyes of a rabbit mask looked down at her. Marie stood up, trembling.

  ‘My name is Mr. Cotton, and that is my fine brother, Mr. Spike.’ He pointed a white-gloved hand behind her, and Marie turned to see a second figure dressed in an old-fashioned suit, its material dusty, faded, frayed. Marie could hear Mr. Spike’s breath rasping against the inside of his hedgehog mask.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Connoisseurs of terror,’ replied Mr. Cotton, and the rabbit mask smiled, though of course it did not as it was just a mask.