Night Terrors_An Uncanny Kingdom Urban Fantasy Page 8

  Perhaps it was lucky then that, not having mastered the knack, Carlisle found himself not within L’Merrier’s shop of Uncanny antiquities, and instead sat in a booth at London’s Beehive Pub, a bar for Uncanny types, sat opposite a ghost that he did not recognise.

  ‘You are not Giles L’Merrier,’ said Carlisle. His words sounded muffled, like they were coming from behind a closed door.

  The ghost, handsome, dressed in slightly dishevelled black suit, blinked and rubbed his eyes. ‘Where did you come from, mate?’ he asked, squinting at the vague approximation of a man that had appeared at his table.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Carlisle.

  The ghost scratched the bristles on his chin. ‘Name’s Jake Fletcher, what’s it to you?’

  ‘You are dead,’ said Carlisle.

  ‘Oh, is that what happened? I wondered why I didn’t get any Happy Birthday messages this year.’

  Carlisle didn’t smile at the ghost’s witticism. Instead, he concentrated on remaining where he was as the material plane did its best to reject his astral form.

  ‘How did you come a cropper then?’ the ghost asked.

  ‘I’m not dead,’ replied Carlisle. ‘Not yet anyway.’

  ‘You sure? You look proper ghosty to me. And pale. You’re paler than an Irish shut-in’s rear end, mate.’

  Carlisle wished very much that his physical form were with him so he could reach over and squeeze this person’s soul until his eyes bulged.

  ‘I need help,’ said Carlisle. Perhaps the astral realm had somehow read his needs and delivered him to a person able to assist him.

  ‘That right?’ said the ghost. ‘Well, you’re in luck, pal, you’ve found the Spectral Detective. So what do you need doing?’

  ‘I require—’

  ‘How do you like Spectral Detective, by the way?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Spectral Detective. Trying to brand myself. It’s all about branding these days.’

  ‘Please stop.’

  ‘I thought Ghost Detective at first, straight to the point, no messing around, but Spectral Detective has a little extra oomph to it, am I right? A little more poetry, maybe. Less on the nose.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Dead Detective, that was the next one. My mate Jazz Hands offered that up. I liked the alliteration, but it sounded a bit morbid to me. A bit defeatist.’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Carlisle. ‘I don’t care how dire my situation is, nothing is worth this torment.’

  Spectral Detective Jake Fletcher blinked, and the pale stranger was gone. ‘Rude,’ he muttered, then licked his lips and gestured to the landlord for a fresh pint.

  Carlisle’s world was shifting colour and sounds again: disparate places, smashed together, piled high, overlapping impossibly. He hadn’t intended to leave the ghost quite so swiftly—perhaps he could have helped in some small way—but Carlisle’s astral form refused to linger any longer, and he found the phantom too aggravating to fight the irresistible pull.

  Carlisle reached out again. Concentrated on a person and imagined arriving wherever they might be. He knew of an angel named Vizael who might be able to lend a hand. Carlisle had never had any direct dealings with the angel—and by all accounts he was not just ancient but beginning to lose his marbles—but an angel was an angel.

  He pictured the old man and reached out, the astral winds shoving him this way and that. He opened his eyes. He was sat on the slope of a hill covered in blood red grass. He had arrived in the wrong place once again. Carlisle sighed and looked up at the sky, which swam with rolling waves of fire. He had passed into a new realm, attached to but not part of the everyday.

  ‘The Dark Lakes,’ he sighed.

  Carlisle had never been to the Dark Lakes, but he recognised the place from the Uncanny texts he had read over the centuries. It was a realm that housed an army of the dead awaiting a beast known as the Magic Eater to lead them into battle. Or so the story went. Carlisle was not sure how much of that he believed himself. People were prone to exaggeration in the name of a good yarn.

  ‘All true,’ said a small voice at Carlisle’s side. He looked down to see a short figure had joined him on the red hill’s slope. It was a fox, stood upon its hind legs like a person. A Roman helmet was perched on its head, and in one paw it gripped a small axe.

  ‘I do not appreciate my thoughts being read, fox,’ said Carlisle.

  ‘Oh, weren’t you speaking out loud? Or in my little head?’ said the fox, tapping his helmet with the hilt of his axe. ‘I cannot read minds, not me. I am just a humble fox. But I know the Dark Lakes and I know the Magic Eater, too. The Red Woman rules this land and desires his hand.’

  ‘Well that is fascinating, but I am not here to learn the local history.’

  ‘Why then?’

  ‘I require help.’

  ‘I help. I help a lot, ask Joseph.’

  ‘I do not know who that is.’

  ‘I do. I know what his face looks like and everything.’

  Carlisle longed to lift the fox and kick it so hard it would sail up and into the sky of fire.

  ‘I am trapped,’ he said, ‘beyond the reach of most, at the mercy of things born from the nightmare realm.’

  ‘Oh,’ replied the fox. ‘Not nice.’

  ‘No. I seem to have found myself here, which means, I hope, that perhaps you might be of some assistance. In return I will give you a promise, to use when and as you please.’

  ‘Ooh, that is a pretty price indeed,’ replied the fox, grinning, its little sharp teeth gleaming.

  ‘So, can you assist me or not?’

  ‘Maybe. Might be able to. I know people and things and hidden stuff, too.’

  ‘Then take me to someone who can help and the promise is yours.’

  ‘No need to offer a promise, I’m a good fox.’ He grinned again and then began making his way down the hill towards the black lake that sat at the bottom. Carlisle followed.

  ‘Where are we going and who shall we meet there, fox?’

  The fox waved Carlisle forward with his axe, his white-tipped, red bushy tail bobbing along behind him. ‘Follow me, see-through person, I know where the Yellow Man rests.’

  Carlisle stopped for a moment. ‘The demon?’

  ‘Big demon. Very big and bad. I know lots of people, you see, some are bad but they can still help if the price is fair.’

  ‘I understood the Yellow Man had fallen.’

  The fox snorted. ‘Nothing so old can be wiped away for long. Specially not a high demon like him.’

  They reached the edge of the lake and the fox pointed at the water.

  ‘There is no boat,’ said Carlisle.

  ‘Need to walk in. Get wet. Get wet and count to five, and the Yellow Man shall arrive.’

  ‘Thank you, fox.’

  The fox grinned and walked away, whistling.

  Carlisle looked out at the lake, then began to drift into the water. He could not feel the cool of the water, and it did not cling to him, making him damp, as there was nothing to make wet. He moved forward, eyes closed, and counted out loud, ‘1-2-3-4-5.’

  He opened his eyes.

  He was no longer stood in the water, and he was sure he was also no longer in the Dark Lakes. He was in another realm altogether. At first it was dark, so Carlisle was patient, allowed his eyes to adjust. Gradually, his surroundings began to fade into view. He was in a cave. Thick tree roots snaked their way down from above, clinging to the damp walls. The ground was wet. He crouched to look closer and found that the cave had an inch-thick carpet of blood. He wondered if that was what the tree was feeding upon.

  He moved forward, his astral form passing above the blood, drifting deeper into the dark.

  The Yellow Man was waiting for him.

  ‘Here at last? The cave told me you’d turn up one of these days, Carlisle.’

  He was, as his name suggested, yellow-skinned. From toe to hair, he looked as though he had been fashioned from gold. Two entirely b
lack eyes watched Carlisle, an easy smile upon his face. From the top of his head, two large antlers twisted. He was naked and draped over a throne that appeared to be alive. Pieces of flesh, of bone, sewn together. It twitched beneath him, emitting dull cries of pain.

  ‘That does not look very comfortable.’

  The Yellow Man laughed. ‘The pain of others is always comforting,’ he replied with a voice as smooth as velvet. Carlisle was already wondering if this visit had been the best of ideas. That was the last time he’d take advice from a fox.

  ‘Oh, he’s a good fox,’ said the Yellow Man, ‘and he has brought you to somebody who can indeed help you squirm free of your situation.’

  ‘You can?’

  ‘I am the Yellow Man. A high demon. I have met the Beast and tamed it.’

  ‘For a while,’ replied Carlisle.

  The cave grew darker, just for a moment, as the Yellow Man’s face twisted into a snarl. As quickly as it appeared, it was gone, and the easy smile was back. ‘You know, I’m quite the fan of Mr. Cotton and Mr. Spike’s work. They do fashion such delightful nightmares.’

  ‘Yes, a great couple of lads,’ replied Carlisle. ‘Why would you help me?’

  ‘I have heard your offer. It is very attractive.’

  ‘What would a high demon need of a promise from me?’

  The Yellow Man clicked his fingers, his throne of pain thrashing in fear beneath him. Hands began to reach out of the cave walls, each of them clutching a jar with a screw-top lid. Inside each jar—and there were hundreds of them—was a swirl of light.

  ‘You want me to promise you my soul?’ asked Carlisle.

  ‘By jove, I think he’s got it! It really would be a treat to add you to my collection. Oh, the other demons would be green with envy. Apart from those that are already green, of course. I wonder what colour they would turn?’

  ‘So you help me and I spend eternity in a jar? A tempting offer.’

  ‘I would let you out from time to time. You are special, I would have other uses for you. You are not like these ordinary souls. You are a thing of the dark, like me.’

  ‘I am not evil. Well, as such.’

  ‘You are on our side.’

  ‘I prefer not to join teams.’

  The Yellow Man inspected his cuticles. ‘Make your choice, Carlisle. You can accept my help or you can die.’

  Carlisle began to back away. ‘I believe I shall explore alternatives.’

  ‘Oh, there are none. I’ll be seeing you very soon.’

  The Yellow Man clapped his hands together and the cave was torn from view, sending Carlisle spinning into a whirl of nothing.

  11

  Alison Parks’ corpse lay naked on an autopsy table in Blackpool Hospital’s morgue.

  Rita frowned. It had only been a few hours since Formby passed on information from Alison about the web of nightmares Cotton and Spike were weaving across Blackpool, and now here she was, dead. The idea that it could be a coincidence was difficult to swallow. Now, as she and Waterson looked down on her dead body, it was clear it was not.

  Alison’s eyes were wide and terrified. Red tracks trailed down from them and across her cheeks; tears of blood. Rita had tried to close Alison’s eyes, but they sprang back open each time. Her jaw hung wide, unhinged in a silent scream. A piece of glass had been used to carve a rabbit into her chest.

  Whenever Rita found herself stood beside a dead body—which, due to her chosen profession, was often—she would flash back to her first. His name was Gavin Dylan. There had been many since him, some murder victims, some suicides, some accidents. As the deaths piled up the names and faces had drifted further and further from reach, but not Gavin Dylan’s. He had been found abandoned in an alleyway.

  He’d been rake thin, mid-length, dark brown hair that stuck slick to his head and face. He wore a pair of faded jeans that were too big for him, a Metallica hoodie swamping his top half. His eyes had been half-open, and he’d almost bitten his own tongue in half. His neck had been slashed three times.

  His was the first murder victim case Rita had been assigned to, and she had never found the person responsible. Ever since that day, she made sure she remembered Gavin Dylan and how she’d failed him. It kept the fire in her alive, pushed her on to make sure she would never let any other victim down. Never again.

  ‘How do we find them?’ asked Waterson, a hard edge to his voice. ‘Cotton and Spike.’

  Joan Barnett and now Alison Parks; two deaths in quick succession. Rita knew in her gut that it was just the start. Every day that passed with Cotton and Spike out in the wild would lead to more bodies. They weren’t content with giving people sleepless nights anymore, they wanted to push people until their bodies gave out in fright.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Rita, trying to push Gavin Dylan aside.

  ‘Perhaps they shall find you,’ said Alison Parks.

  Rita and Waterson lurched back as Alison sat up and turned her head to look at them, her hands toying with the bunny-shaped wound in her chest.

  Rita pulled the axe from her belt and gripped it in both hands. ‘Get out of her!’

  ‘She wanted to scream, you know,’ said Alison. ‘We would not let her. As my brother showed her his true face, she opened her mouth wide and wide and wide, and yet nothing came out. I took each scream when it was still deep in her throat and I claimed them as my own. I placed them between my teeth and chewed and swallowed, and now her screams live in my stomach. Yummy.’

  ‘Use your bloody axe and burn that thing up!’ cried Waterson.

  Rita wanted to, her body was willing her to. She could feel the magic surging into the axe-head, begging to be used, but if she did what she had done at Waterson’s funeral they’d still be no closer to trapping Cotton and Spike. They’d slip away again and she’d have learned nothing.

  ‘Why don’t you stop hiding and face me properly?’ said Rita. ‘Or are you too chicken shit after I kicked your dusty arses last time?’

  The body of Alison Parks stepped off of the autopsy table. She plucked a scalpel from a nearby trolley and slashed at the flesh of her belly. Then again.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Waterson, as blood began to flood from each fresh wound. Each new cut brought a new waterfall of red, an unnatural amount of blood, washing down her body, flooding the tiled floor as she shuffled forwards.

  ‘Are you afraid?’ asked Alison Parks.

  ‘Fuck you,’ replied Rita.

  Waterson wasn’t quite sure what happened next. He certainly did not remember them concluding their business at the morgue. One moment he had been backing away as the possessed, self-harming corpse of a psychiatrist walked towards them, and then…

  ...well…

  ...then what?

  He looked around.

  He was in his mother’s house.

  The one she’d lived in for the last fifteen years, ever since his dad had passed away. They’d had a large, four-bedroom detached place when he was growing up. Two whole spare bedrooms. One his dad used as a study, the other he had been allowed to use as he pleased. He’d been sad when she sold the house.

  ‘It’s just me rattling around in there on my own. It’s too big for me.’

  And there was the unspoken truth. The house was haunted. Not by spirits, but by memories. Every room, every corridor, every nook and cranny held a thousand different memories. A step creaking on the stairs could throw her back to a different time. Some find that sort of thing comforting at that stage of life, he knew it caused his mum nothing put pain. It was just a brick box reminding her of what she had lost and what could never be again.

  So she sold it, downsized, enjoyed the extra money she made in the sale. Even started going on little holidays by herself, something he never thought she’d have the nerve to do.

  Wait, wasn’t he just in the morgue? He’d got lost in memories there for a moment, forgotten that something was up. Something was wrong.

  ‘Hello, Daniel.’

  He turned to see his mo
ther. She was dressed like she had been at his funeral: black dress, red heels.

  ‘Mum, you can see me?’ Waterson’s heart beat hard in his chest, but he was dead and had no heart to beat. What was going on?

  ‘Thought I’d seen the last of you,’ she said, dismissively.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘All I ever wanted was to be alone. I was glad of it, when your dad finally popped his clogs. I’d been fattening him up for years, praying for that pig’s heart to finally give up the ghost.’

  ‘You loved Dad.’

  ‘Puh. Then there was you. You were his idea, you know. Never forgave the pig for that. I never wanted no brat.’

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Every moment you were inside me, growing. A tumour I couldn’t get ripped out. Every time you moved in my womb I thought I was going to be sick.’

  Had his mum always had rabbit ears?

  ‘Shut up. Just shut up, that’s not true!’

  ‘Listen to you, wailing and stamping your feet. Just like when you were little. Needy little waste of skin. Well, you’re dead now, too, thank the Lord. Look, I bought new shoes specially, do you like them? Red, like the blood that magician made you spill when he stuck you like a pig. You’re a pig, your dad a pig; a pair of piggy bastards.’

  Waterson couldn’t take it anymore. He ran from his mum, from the house.

  Rita wasn’t sure what had happened.

  She was in a corridor and it was dark, too dark to make out much in the way of detail, but detail wasn’t needed. She knew where she was. She felt it on her skin, she smelled it in the air.

  Moorsgate Children’s Home.

  The building she’d called home as a kid.

  ‘But that’s..’

  Impossible.

  It was impossible.

  Moorsgate burned to the ground when she was just fourteen years old. She’d seen it happen. No, no, she’d made it happen. It was being fumigated and all the kids and the staff were being housed in local bed and breakfasts, and that’s when she’d taken her chance. A box of matches, a couple of cans of paint thinner. She knew which window had the latch and could easily be forced. They never fixed stuff like that at Moorsgate. It wasn’t a place where things got fixed, it was a place things were allowed to break down and degrade.