For Those Who Dream Monsters (16 page)

Jack lived a stone’s throw from the rear gate of the cemetery, so it made
perfect sense for him to cut through the vast necropolis to get to the tube.
Jack wasn’t particularly fond of cemeteries – not like those people who took
photos of derelict graveyards or paid good money to visit burial grounds with
famous residents. He’d certainly never planned to live near one, but when his
childless aunt died and left him her house, he wasn’t going to look the
proverbial gift horse in the mouth. And the walk through the cemetery wasn’t
altogether unpleasant. So the fifteen minutes cut from Jack’s commute to work –
and another fifteen minutes from his trek back again – made it worth having to
walk past all those dead people, and occasional living ones too. The worst was
when there was a funeral on. Jack hated that. It made him feel like an
interloper – intruding on people’s private grief. So whenever he saw a priest
and a group of mourners at a freshly dug grave, he would slope past and out of
the cemetery even quicker than usual.

Today
was no exception. As Jack hurried along the central avenue to the main gate at
the far end, he saw a coffin some way away from the path he was traversing. A
furtive glance told him that, although the coffin was positioned next to a
freshly dug grave, there were no mourners or gravediggers nearby. Strange for a
coffin to be left unattended like that. Perhaps the mourners had already left
and the gravediggers hadn’t arrived yet. Jack hastened through the cemetery,
out the main gate and across the road to the underground station. From there
the tube ferried him – with two changes along the way – to the offices of
Lidell and Lidell, where he worked as an administrator.

Jack forgot all about the coffin – until, that is, he was on his way home and
striding through the cemetery once more. This time he could afford a more
leisurely pace. The sun was beginning to set, but the cemetery wouldn’t close
for at least another hour. Jack relished the last of the day’s sunshine; the
air had a pleasant temperature despite the days already getting shorter. Then
something caught his eye: something glinting in the setting sun. It stood on
the edge of the grass verge, almost spilling out onto the central avenue.
Whatever it was, it stood between Jack and the rear gate, and, unless he took a
detour, which would involve weaving in and out of the tombstones and crosses,
he would have to walk right past it. Jack slowed down and squinted myopically
in the direction of the large, pallid object. As he got closer, he wondered why
it had taken him so long to recognise the elongated hexagonal form. It was a
coffin, carved in a pale wood, which just now glowed as it caught the sun’s
last rays. Then it was plunged into a dim half-light, as dusk fell quickly.

A
coffin in a cemetery – not really a combination to be wondered at, and yet
something about the casket made Jack nervous. Not only was it placed far too
close to the path – almost pushing out onto it – but, Jack finally realised, it
was the same coffin he’d seen earlier in the day. Still unattended, but in a
different position than when he’d been rushing to work. Weird. But not weird
enough to make him turn back and take the long way home. Jack decided not to
take a detour along a different path through the cemetery either, but scurried
on, as far from the casket as the wide central avenue would allow, eyes fixed
firmly on the path ahead.

As
he scuttled past the coffin and on towards the exit gate, Jack became aware of
his own heartbeat. Once he estimated that he was past the offending container,
he released the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. After twenty more
metres or so, Jack slowed down. He planned to reach the exit gate without
looking back, but then decided that he was being stupid. Aiming to put his mind
at ease, he paused and turned around, nearly jumping out of his skin at what he
saw. The coffin was no longer at the edge of the central avenue: it was right
in the middle of it, and only ten metres or so from where Jack was standing. It
was a trick of the light – he thought; a case of false perspective. There was
no one around to move the coffin and therefore the coffin could not have moved.

But
as Jack set off rapidly for the exit once more, he cast another glance behind
him. And this time there was no mistaking it: the distance between him and the
pale-coloured casket had shrunk by at least a couple of metres.

Jack
ran for the gate, his heart pounding fiercely in his chest. He never saw the
coffin move, but each time he glanced over his shoulder, the horrid object had
gained a little more ground. Finally Jack was nearing the exit gate, but as it
came into full view his prayers that the caretaker hadn’t locked it early
dwindled to a hoarse whimper: the gate was shut.

“Oh
God!” Jack threw himself at the gate and rattled it vigorously. It swung open.
“Thank you!” Not locked; just closed – probably by some overzealous visitor on
his or her way out. Without looking back, Jack slammed the gate shut behind him
and darted for the safety of his front door, all the while telling himself that
he hadn’t just heard the scrape of wood on paving stone.

A couple of large vodkas and several cautious glances out of the window later,
Jack managed to convince himself that he’d imagined the entire coffin episode.
After all, with the audit and everything else that was going on at work, he
hadn’t been sleeping at all well lately. And everyone knows that the mind plays
tricks – especially on the sleep-deprived and in that strange half-light
between day and dusk. Perhaps the shortcut through the graveyard was not such a
good idea after all. Maybe he should bite the bullet and start going the long
way around. Particularly now that darkness was falling earlier. Besides, the
extra walk would do him good. The paunch he was starting to grow didn’t hang
well on his otherwise skinny frame.

After
a microwave dinner and a couple of hours’ television, Jack drank a final shot
of vodka and called it a day. The alcohol knocked him out for an hour or two,
but then he woke with a start. Afraid for no apparent reason, he reached for
the bedside light, but a sudden noise at the far side of his room startled him
and he jerked his arm in alarm, knocking the flimsy lamp off the small cabinet.

“Shit!”
The crash as the lamp hit the floor told Jack that the bulb had probably
smashed, but in any case, he had no time to find out, as the shuffling,
scraping sound came again, this time closer than before. “Oh God!” Jack froze,
and just then the waxing moon emerged from behind a cloud, casting enough light
into the bedroom to propel Jack’s fear to a new level.

Incomprehension
and terror fought for control of Jack’s mind as he tried to make sense of what
he was seeing. It was standing at the foot of his bed, glimmering a pale
silvery blue in the moonlight. The bedroom door and window were closed. In any
case, the damned thing would not have fit through the window, and there was no
sign of broken glass.

Jack
had to get out of the bedroom. Out of the house. Without taking his eyes off
the casket, he tried to pull off his duvet and swing his legs out of bed, but
found himself no longer master of his own body. As he finally succeeded merely
in clenching his fists into tight, painful balls, the coffin at the foot of his
bed started to groan and creak in a most alarming way. The pallid wood
splintered and, as Jack watched, speechless, a clawed hand thrust its way
heavenward from the hideous box, followed by another, and then the planks of
the coffin were being pushed apart with inhuman strength, splinters raining down
and nails popping out like champagne corks on New Year’s Eve.

Jack
couldn’t move and he couldn’t look away from the abomination that pulled itself
nimbly out of the shattered wood and hissed at him through large yellow teeth
that tapered to razor-sharp points. Its bloodshot eyes bored into Jack’s,
rooting him to the spot like an animal caught in the headlights of an
approaching juggernaut. The cold metal slats of the headboard pressed into
Jack’s back as he pushed himself as far away as he could from the fetid,
hairless monstrosity that now lurched towards him.

And
as the fiend’s foul stench enveloped him, Jack finally managed to close his
eyes, the scream cut short in his throat as the creature’s fangs sank in.

Jack hadn’t missed a day’s work in nine years, so when he didn’t show up at the
office for three days or answer any phone calls, his concerned boss contacted
the police.

The
officers had never seen such a hideous expression of terror on anyone’s face.
There was an infected wound on the victim’s neck, and the body had been drained
of blood. Even before the police pathologist was called in, Inspector Dougall
knew that the case would never be solved. There were no signs of forced entry,
and nothing appeared to be out of place. Only a large pile of pale, splintered,
rotting wood at the foot of the hapless man’s bed.

Alice hurried through the forest, her basket filled with fresh herbs, and small
pots of strengthening tonics and soothing balms. She had worked all night,
crushing healing leaves and seeds, grinding nourishing roots and dried fungi;
mixing her concoctions so that she could bring relief to the sick and ailing as
soon as the sun was up.

Partially
hidden by trees and thicket, her little house was a good half-hour walk from
the village. It would have been easier if people came to her rather than her
having to go to them, but some of those she helped were old and frail, others
were very sick or busy looking after small children. Besides, the villagers
didn’t seem keen on walking through the forest, even during the day. This was
something Alice couldn’t understand. For her, the forest meant sanctuary and
nurture: it hid her from the madding crowd, and provided her with food and all
the plants she needed to mix her medicines and make a meagre living. And what
didn’t grow in the forest grew in the marshes and fields nearby.

Alice
hadn’t been blessed with attractive features or an easy life. Her father had
died when she was a little girl, and her mother had raised her alone. From an
early age, she had learnt how to heal, and how to survive by working hard and
keeping herself to herself. Alice’s mother had traded remedies for eggs, milk,
flour and the occasional piece of cloth to patch up clothes, and now Alice did
the same.

Going to the village had been a frightening experience even when her mother was
alive, but in the five years since her mother’s death it just seemed to get
harder. The villagers stared at her: adults whispered behind her back and
children called her names. Even the people whom she helped were uneasy around
her. They were grateful enough for the relief her remedies brought, but Alice
could sense that as soon as she’d applied the ointment they needed or handed
over their medicine, they didn’t like her hanging around.

The
only bearable part of going to the village was the walk through the forest. Of
course, Alice was in the forest practically every day collecting berries,
fungi, herbs or kindling for the fire, but she loved spending time in the woods
without having to ‘work’. When she was strolling among the ancient trees,
listening to the birds and the soft, startled noises of small creatures
scurrying away in the undergrowth, she felt something akin to contentment.

Today
was no different, except for the fact that Alice couldn’t take her time; she
needed to get to the village as soon as possible – Maggie Gray was counting on
her to help her ailing daughter. The toddler had been coughing for several days
now, and none of the usual mixtures of honey and herbs had worked. Alice had
had to resort to mixing a blend based heavily on coltsfoot, and that had to be
prepared in just the right way or it could poison the little girl rather than
heal her. The sooner she could administer the medicine, the greater the chance
that the child would recover. So Alice hurried along the path that wound its
way to the village.

It was early morning and the sunlight was just beginning to filter down through
the trees, but even at high noon the forest floor would be dark – the tall and
leafy trees casting a permanent shadow. At her brisk pace Alice couldn’t hear
the birdsong that she usually enjoyed. Today her footsteps accompanied her, and
the occasional flurry of wings as a bird fled its nest in alarm.

As
Alice burst out into the clearing not far from her home, she came face to face
with a young deer. Alice froze, her face breaking into a smile, and gazed at
the creature in wonder. No matter how many times she came across deer in the
forest, their regal grace never failed to bring her joy.

The
animal held Alice’s gaze, its mouth moving impassively as it chewed its morning
meal. Then a loud creaking sound rang out behind Alice. The deer bolted in
fright, disappearing into the undergrowth, and Alice spun round, but saw
nothing. She stood very still, her heartbeat hard and fast. The sound came
again: the wrenching, squealing, rasping sound of wood being stretched and
distorted. Again and again the creaking resounded, as if a tree were being
pummelled and bent by a strong wind, yet not the slightest hint of a breeze
stirred in the forest. Alice wanted to run, but her legs refused to oblige.
Instead, she peered into the trees, trying to see what was causing the heavy,
rhythmic creak. It sounded like something was exerting a considerable amount of
pressure on a large branch, but Alice saw nothing. Struggling to conquer her
fear, she placed her basket on the ground and took a step towards the sound. As
she did so, the sound stopped. Alice moved forward a few paces, and the sound
came again – this time right above her head. Alice screamed. She grabbed her
basket and ran.

Alice
kept running until her strength ran out, then stopped and looked fearfully
behind her. Of course there was nothing there; what could there possibly be? As
her breath slowed and her heart stilled enough for her to hear the forest
around her, Alice strained her ears for the horrible sound. She heard only the
wind in the trees and bushes, and the stirring of the wildlife around her, and
yet the grating, jarring creaking reverberated in her head. She knew
instinctively that nothing would be capable of wiping that sound from her mind.
The trees and bushes around her appeared darker; the soft, familiar sounds of
creatures moving through the undergrowth seemed sinister, unnerving. For the
first time in her life, the forest was no longer a haven, no longer a friend;
it was something to be feared. Alice realised that her fear was out of all
proportion to what had happened, and yet it persisted.

That day, Alice spent as little time in the village as she could, explaining to
people how to use the tinctures, balsams and poultices she had prepared for
them, rather than staying to administer them. She even turned down Maggie
Gray’s offer of a meal, although she did stay long enough to show the mother
how to dose the cough mixture for her little girl. Instead, Alice packed away
the food and other items that the villagers gave her in return for her
services, and hurried home, going out of her way to avoid the clearing with the
large creaking tree at its edge. She made sure that she gathered everything she
needed for the next day long before darkness fell, then locked herself away in
her house. But try as she might, she couldn’t get the creaking out of her head.

That
night Alice dreamt that she was running through the forest. It was dark, and
something blacker than the night was chasing her. As she ran, nettles stung
her, thorns scratched her, and roots tried to trip her up and send her
sprawling. Alice ran blindly on and unexpectedly found herself bursting out
into the clearing. She came to an abrupt halt, shocked at finding herself
exposed and vulnerable to the dark malignant presence that pursued her. She
moved swiftly, but silently back into the trees and listened for any sound of
her pursuer. And that’s when it came: the bloodcurdling screech of bending wood
– the creaking that turned the sweat on Alice’s back to ice. She spun round,
looking up into the large tree above her. Was that a black shape – a shadow
crouching in the branches? Alice screamed and woke up.

For
the next few days Alice continued to avoid the clearing and the tree, but her
unease didn’t lessen. If anything, it grew. She gathered what plants she needed
for her medicines without straying any further from her house than she had to,
she did her rounds in the village and hurried back home. At night she dreamt
about the darkness that pursued her through the forest, and the creaking. Then
one day when she got to the village, she found the villagers in a tense and
morose mood. The Tyrell boy had gone missing. His abusive and permanently angry
father had last seen him the night before. Old man Tyrell had been drinking in
the kitchen with his friends when the boy came in to say goodnight.

“Fuck
off to bed, you little shit!” Tyrell’s response elicited peals of laughter from
his drunken cronies.

The
boy had scuttled off to bed, and that was the last anyone had seen of him. Old
man Tyrell had woken up at lunchtime and gone round the house, looking for
someone to vent his hangover on. He couldn’t find his twelve-year-old son, so
he clouted his wife, and demanded to be fed. Mrs Tyrell had gone out into the
yard to call Tommy in for lunch, assuming that he’d got up early, made his own
breakfast and gone to play with friends. But her son was nowhere to be seen.

“I
can’t find Tommy,” she told her husband as she fearfully set his plate of food
down in front of him.

“I’ll
kill the little shit when he gets back,” he had replied.

Tyrell
spent the afternoon drinking, only pausing between drinks to repeat his threat,
but by the time it got dark and his wife had unsuccessfully scoured the village
for the boy, his protestations had decreased somewhat in their vehemence, if
not frequency. A brief torch-lit search of the village and its immediate
surroundings was organised, but Tommy wasn’t found.

The
villagers quickly did what villagers often do in times of perceived threat:
they became suspicious and mistrustful of outsiders. It was into this
atmosphere that Alice arrived the next morning. She checked in on the little
Gray girl and gave Maggie a fresh pot of medicine for her. The toddler’s cough
had lessened.

“She’s
getting better,” Alice smiled shyly at Maggie Gray.

“Yes.”
Maggie pulled her daughter towards herself, away from Alice, then got a hold of
herself and added without much enthusiasm, “Thank you, Alice.” There was an
uncomfortable silence.

“I’ll
be going then,” offered Alice, adding nervously, “Mrs Pratt is waiting for her
bunion ointment.” Maggie got up silently and fetched a dozen eggs from the back
of the house.

Mrs Pratt was in a talkative mood. Alice was hardly through the door, when the
old woman told her how Tommy had disappeared the day before and how a search of
the village had turned up no sign of him.

“Poor
Betty Tyrell is hysterical,” Mrs Pratt said with barely concealed delight, “and
even old man Tyrell has been out looking for the boy.”

“That’s
terrible,” responded Alice. “I hope they find him.

Tommy had risen early the day before, grabbed a slice of bread and a piece of
cheese, and crept out of the house without waking his parents. He’d decided on
the previous night that he would visit his cousin in the neighbouring village.
There was no point asking his parents, as his mother would defer to his father,
and his father would hit him with the buckle of his belt. If he slipped out
early, he could get back by teatime. His father would be too hung-over in the
morning and too drunk in the afternoon to notice that he was gone, and he would
be home for supper.

The
boy set out across the cornfields just as dawn broke, and was at his cousin’s
in time for breakfast. Charlie was thrilled to see him, and his aunt and uncle
made a fuss of him.

“Your
parents do know you’re here?” questioned his aunt.

Tommy
nodded, “Uh-huh.”

“And
they let you come all the way here on your own?”

“Uh-huh.”
Tommy smiled at his uncle and aunt. He was jealous of Charlie. Charlie’s dad
never hit him or shouted at his mother. Charlie’s mum was pretty and always
smiling; not like Tommy’s mother, who had frown lines and puffy tear-stained
eyes, and was always sad.

Charlie’s
father helped the boys to make fishing rods, whilst his mother made them a
hamper with bread, cheese, ham and milk, and then the two cousins set out for
the river. The day was warm and sultry; the boys fished and chatted, ate and
eventually dozed off in a haystack, waking up when the sun started going down
and a chill crept into the air. By the time they got back to Charlie’s house,
there was less than an hour of daylight left. As Tommy had a two-hour walk to
get home, his uncle and aunt offered to let him stay the night, provided his
parents wouldn’t be worried. Tommy told them that his parents had said he could
stay over if it got late and could come home on Sunday. He would get a hiding
one way or another, so he figured he might as well delay the inevitable.

When
Tommy got home, his mother ran to him and hugged him, tears of relief staining
her face. “Where have you been?”

Tommy’s
father was sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by his drinking cronies,
who were helping him drown his sorrows and work out where to look for his boy.
Before Tommy had time to answer his mother, his father got up from the table
and lumbered towards him.

“I’m
gonna kill you, you little shit!” Tommy didn’t know whether to stay or run.
He’d rarely seen his father quite so angry. “Where the devil have you been, you
little shit?” Tommy cowered back as his father approached, pulling off his belt
and brandishing the buckle end at his son. “Go on, tell me! Where have you
been, you little shit?” The belt whistled through the air and hit the boy on
the side, knocking him off his feet. His mother screamed and ran to defend her
son, but Tyrell pushed her out of the way and went to take another swing at the
boy. There must have been a particularly homicidal look on old man Tyrell’s
face, as his companions stopped laughing, and one of them decided to intervene.
Jim pulled himself up drunkenly from the kitchen table, and staggered up
between Tyrell and his son.