Tales From The Wyrd Museum 1: The Woven Path (15 page)

Unperturbed, the woman resumed her journey—there were many sounds in the night. When she had first slept in the Anderson she had been alarmed how noisy the garden was under cover of dark. If it had not been for the company of her dachshund she. . .

This time the sound was closer. It was a guttural, burbling grunt and Doris Meacham whisked round a second time.

“Who is that?’ she demanded nervously. ‘Show yourself, what do you want?’

Again, she could see only empty darkness and, walking more briskly, she hastened down the street.

Across the road the unseen shape scampered, its claws scraping over the tarmac in its fiendish hurry to overtake the solitary woman. With its eyes fixed solely upon her and its nostrils thrilling with the scent of her life, it sped onwards, then turned about and waited—its mouth watering in gruesome expectation.

Straining to catch the slightest sound, Doris stumbled fearfully along. Perhaps a wild animal was loose—when the war had started, most of the dangerous creatures in the zoos had either been put down or evacuated, but what if one of them had escaped? A lion or leopard might be prowling after her and she pressed her lips together to stop herself crying-out at this awful prospect.

‘Don't be foolish!’ she tried to tell herself. ‘Be rational, it couldn't have survived this long without someone spotting it. Really, Doris, you're like a child sometimes.’

Then she saw them, two fiery slivers of brilliant red shining malevolently in the darkness before her, and the blood froze in the woman's veins.

A snorting, repulsive laugh issued hungrily from the invisible creature's gullet but that was immediately drowned out by Mrs Meacham's screams.

Screeching in panic, she fled back the way she had come—her sensible shoes pounding over the pavement. The small torch was still gripped firmly in her hand but so desperate was her terror that she plunged through the blackout not heeding where she was going. To get away from those ghastly eyes was her sole intention, and blindly she stumbled, her arms thrashing the night to ward off the evil that menaced her.

Now the rasping gurgle growled to the right of her and Mrs Meacham shrieked all the louder—blundering down a narrow alleyway, calling for someone to save her.

Without warning, a blank wall reared from the darkness in front and she struck her hands upon the coarse brick, scraping the skin from her palms. Flashing the trembling torchlight around, she realised too late that she had taken the wrong turning and staggered into a dead end.

With her heart in her mouth, she whirled around to escape into the main street—but it was too late.

From the entrance, those narrow eyes gleamed at her, burning with unhallowed hatred.

A vile laugh mocked her as the shape advanced and finally the pale beam of her torch fell upon it.

Mrs Meacham's mind recoiled from the repellent sight and the torch dropped from her hands. Her jaw lolled open but now she was too petrified to scream.

With its lobster-red hide glistening in the feeble light, the horrendous, malformed creature crawled forward, thrilling to the tantalising fear that flowed from its victim in an endless, overpowering stream.

Six gangly limbs sprouted from the leathery flesh of its repugnant, segmented body—each ending in two barbed claws that scratched and scrabbled over the ground as it dragged itself closer.

Trailing behind its unclean torso, the monster lashed a three-pronged tail that scored fierce scars in the bricks of the enclosing walls and arched high above its head like the sting of a scorpion.

Yet it was the face of this nightmare that was branded upon the brain of Doris Meacham. Though her torch now lay beyond her reach—and even as she stared with wide, paralysed eyes, the creature hauled its sagging belly over the glimmering bulb, obliterating the light and throwing itself into stark silhouette—she could not forget what she had seen.

Mounted above the ugly ridges of the misshapen thorax and crowned by a pair of twisting horns, the face of the apparition was unmistakable. Shielded from behind by a steel-strong shell was a mass of pale, rancid flesh that rippled and bulged to form foul parodies of all-too-familiar features.

A wide gash sliced open to create a grisly mouth, behind whose bloodless lips were row upon row of razor-sharp teeth that chattered and gnashed at the cold air, dribbling a river of saliva down the knobbly chin. Swiftly, a piggish nose pushed itself from the flabby, wrinkled skin above and tufts of coarse, black, bristling hair snaked out below it. With an insidious cackle, the fiery eyes grew round and insane and a clammy forehead quivered into place as more clumps of hair flicked out, forming a sweeping fringe.

The undulating flesh of the hateful face pulsed and throbbed before the stricken woman as it tried to control and retain the ghastly shape it had chosen. Then, as a finishing touch, a bloom of reviled markings abruptly peppered and crept over the crimson hide.

The grotesque travesty of a real, animated squander bug burned into Doris Meacham's fainting soul as the loathsome semblance of the Fuhrer's face taunted and mocked her. Beneath the wiry moustache its white lips curled back over pale gums and a bloodcurdling growl rose from its black throat.

Like a cornered mouse, Mrs Meacham pressed herself into the walls, hiding her face in her hands.

Then it sprang.

With its limbs flailing wildly, the squander bug pounced on her, hurling the woman to the ground whilst it laughed demonically. Doris Meacham's struggles were brief, the light from her torch threw the desperate contest against the wall as she screeched in torment. But the sound was lost as the tremendous blare of the air-raid siren suddenly warbled through the streets.

Reaching upwards, the evil, distorted cockroach gave a gruesome chuckle. Snapping and crunching, the claw that curled from one of its spindly legs began to stretch and straighten as the skin flaked away to reveal a gleaming spear of burnished metal.

Where its talon had been, there was now a huge sewing needle that winked and flashed in the torch beam. For a moment it continued to glitter, then its rapier point came knifing down.

In the narrow alleyway, Mrs Meacham's terrified screams abruptly ceased.

Gurgling with delight, the squander bug scuttled over the body of its slaughtered prey and lowered its already blurring face.

A vile lapping sound drifted out into the jet black night and then there was silence. Belial had claimed his first victim.

Jean Evans sat at the small table and shuffled along the seat as Angelo came to join her.

‘You dead beat already?’ he asked.

‘I'm not really in the mood for dancing,’ she replied.

Sitting at the edge of the dance floor, they watched as other couples gracefully sailed by in time to the lilting strains of the dance band. Somewhere amongst the milling throng, Kath and Frank were holding each other close, but it was impossible to see them.

The dance hall was full tonight and not one person had bothered to leave when the siren sounded. GIs, glamorous and debonair in their pink and green uniforms, already outnumbered the few local boys who stood together in a resentful group, unable to compete with the allure and dash of the Americans.

It was baking in the packed hall and the tropical air was misty with cigarette smoke. In spite of the soothing music, there was a tenseness in the air, the atmosphere was charged and electric, at any moment it seemed as if tempers would erupt.

Feeling edgy and uncomfortable, Jean looked at Angelo. ‘Don't you ever take that flying jacket off?’ she finally asked him. ‘I should think you must be done by now.’

Angelo slicked back his hair and shook his head. 'I'd take a shower in this, baby, if I could,’ he told her, ‘it's my protection see—nothing can happen to me whilst I got it on. It's one of my lucky pieces.’

‘Superstitious, are you?’

‘Hell, every airman is—though not as much as me, mebbe. I got enough charms to open a store.’

Shifting in the seat, he turned away from her so that she could see the design painted on the back.

Jean studied the colourful and highly exaggerated figure of a beautiful woman reclining in a provocative pose and arched her eyebrows.

‘A friend of yours, is she?’

‘She better be,’ he replied. 'That there is Lady Luck. Hey, read what it says underneath.’

‘The Kismet,’’
she said aloud.

That's the name of our bomber,’ Angelo told her, quickly turning round once more, ‘as in Fate—you know, hocus-pocus. The guys let me christen her, she's a beauty—you ever seen a B-17?’

‘No.’

‘Ah, everyone should see one of them honeys in flight, they got a grace about ‘em, even when they ditch there's a spooky kinda elegance—like a ballet. Unnerstand what I'm sayin’?’

‘Not really.’

Angelo shrugged, then snapped his fingers. ‘You wanna see some magic?’ he asked, taking a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. ‘Here, duchess, put your kisser on there.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I want your lipstick on the paper, trick won't work otherwise.’

Jean complied and along the side of the cigarette was a perfect print of her lips.

‘Ahh,’ Angelo cooed, ‘that's one lucky smoke. Now, watch—this is so great.’

From his wallet he took a one pound note and rolled the cigarette inside it.

‘OK, sweetlips, you ready? Here she goes.’

Flicking open his lighter he thrust the paper tube into the flame and the money fizzled between his fingers.

Angelo dropped it into the ashtray and waited until there was nothing left but ash.

‘Now!’ he cried, reaching behind the woman's ear and pulling out a cigarette. ‘Hey presto! Look see, it's the same one, there's your lips—ain't it a scream?’

Jean looked down at the ashtray then glared at him angrily. ‘Do you know just how much money people earn a week?’ she snapped. ‘Have you any idea what I could have bought for Daniel with that?’

Taken aback by the ferocity of her outburst, Angelo fished out his wallet again.

‘Don't you dare offer me money!’ Jean raged at him. ‘What do you think I am? Do you have to keep showing off and throwing your weight about?’

Angela rammed the wallet back into his jacket and threw his hands into the air in defeat.

‘I give in!’ he cried. ‘Maybe I'm losin’ it. You done nothin’ but gripe and drag that long face round with you ever since we met. I can't do anythin’ right, an’ God knows I tried, lady. What you doin’ here anyways? I thought you changed your mind ‘bout me when I saw you'd come out tonight.’

Jean folded her arms stiffly and gazed at the passing dancers. ‘I only came ‘cos Kath kept on at me all day to keep her company,’ she said, ‘certainly wasn't to see you again.’

‘Oh, gee babe, thanks a bundle!’ the American muttered, rising from the table and sulkily pushing his way through the couples.

Jean watched as the painted figure on the back of the flying jacket disappeared in the crowd and a wave of guilt flowed over her.

'That was a cruel thing to do, Jean Evans,’ she scolded herself, ‘you've really hurt his feelings now, he was only trying to be friendly.’

Springing out of her seat, she hurriedly chased after him, hoping that he hadn't already left.

Outside the dance hall, Angelo leaned against the wall and lifted a cigarette to his mouth, then realising it was the one marked with her lipstick, he scrunched it up and cast it to the ground.

Lighting a second, he took a deep lungful of smoke and blew a continuous stream from his lips.

It had turned into a beautiful night. The obscuring clouds that made the blackout so bleak and impenetrable had cleared to reveal a radiant, full moon and London was dipped in a pool of silver.

Inside the building, the band began to play ‘Stairway to the Stars’ and Angelo raised his eyes to gaze at the glimmering lamps of heaven above.

‘Penny for them?’ a voice said behind him.

Angelo drew on the cigarette. ‘I'm not gonna take your money either,’ he answered but there was a lightness in his tone that showed he didn't bear any grudges.

‘If I stay in there a minute longer, I'll punch someone,’ she confessed, shaking off the tension.

‘You got a pretty sky here,’ he marvelled as Jean came to stand beside him.

‘No sign of the planes yet, then?’ she asked, scanning the night. ‘Maybe it was a false alarm.’

Angelo smiled. ‘Didn't mean it that way,’ he said gently, ‘can't see stars like that in Brooklyn—sets you thinkin’, a sky like that. Would ya just look at that old moon blazin so cold an’ frosty up there?’

‘I hate the moon,’ the woman bluntly replied. ‘I dread nights when it's full. It makes it easier for the Germans to drop their bombs.’

The American lowered his eyes for a moment. ‘Yeah,’ he slowly agreed, ‘it does.’

‘What's it like?’ she asked.

‘What’s what like?’

‘Dropping bombs on people.’

Angelo stared at the glowing end of his cigarette as he considered her question and his face lost its natural impudence.

‘Weird,’ he answered. “We hurl ourselves into the backyard of heaven, hoping all the while that whoever's up there can hear us. ‘Cos we're all prayin’ like crazy, and you know—I get to thinkin’, what makes our prayers better'n those of Jerry? I don't know how many civilians our bombs have killed. Not every German's a Nazi, an’ that's somethin’ that'll hit me when all this craziness is over. Don't reckon them faceless people'll ever leave me—I gotta carry them round till I buy mine, an’ then what?’

Jean shivered staring up at the brilliant, swollen disc. ‘I don't know what it is,’ she said, ‘but for some reason it seems worse tonight—as though there's something out there—prowling under that bright moon. It's horrible that something so lovely could be the cause of so many deaths.’

‘Hey,’ Angelo murmured, ‘if you really think that, then there's no point fighting this war. What victory would there be if beauty's gonna be feared and cursed? I wouldn't wanna live in a world like that, would you?’

‘I think I already am,’ she breathed.

‘No crime in havin’ fun, Jean,’ he told her. ‘You scared you might like it?’

‘You called me Jean,’ she said in surprise, ‘not babe or honey.’

‘Mebbe I decided I like Jean better.’

Within the dance hall the band began to play ‘Moonlight Serenade’ and the woman laughed, finally dispelling all traces of her earlier stress and unease.

‘You wanna go back inside?’ Angelo asked. ‘It's mighty cold out here an’ my footwork ain't as bad as my personality.’

Jean shook her head. ‘No,’ she replied, ‘dance with me out here, just once—under that bright moon, then maybe I won't hate it no more.’

*

‘Yer wasting your time, kid,’ Ted had said, back in the box room of number twenty-three. Won't do you no good goin’ to that museum—not in this time. It's just a heap o’ bricks, all it ever had goin’ for it was me.’

‘You mean you won't come with me?’ Neil asked. ‘Mr Stokes is taking me to the wardens’ hut tonight—we can slip away dead easy when he goes out.’

The bear shook his head and primped the red ribbon about his neck. ‘Snoopin’ round that place is the last thing I wanna do right now. I told ya, we got three more days till the gateway appears an’ you meet up with Joshy again. Goin’ to that museum is just a waste of time—’sides, I gotta stay in to see the look on that lieutenant's face when Jean snubs him. Right now, they've got a truce goin’ but it won't last long an’ the schmuck'll step outta line pretty soon. I gotta stick around to see that.’

‘I’ll go on my own then,’ Neil decided.

Ted eyed him cautiously. ‘You just be careful if you're really gonna do that. You oughta know by now, that museum ain't no amusement park. It might not take kindly to any intruders—there's a helluva lot you don't know and can't guess about it. That building ain't no ordinary place, you musta figured that out by now.’

‘I've got to go,’ the boy answered. ‘Apart from you, it's the only link to my real time and Josh. I've got to feel as though I'm doing something—I wish you'd come with me.’

The bear rubbed his furry chin. ‘I can't,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘Just believe me—I got a reason to be here tonight, it ain't just to see the lovebirds when they come back—really. Oh, kid, I don't want you wanderin’ round that kooky museum on your own but believe me my place is here tonight. I'm sorry.’

With this exchange ringing in his ears, and determined to visit the Wyrd Museum that very night. Neil had left the Stokes and accompanied Peter to the wardens’ post.

In the sandbagged hut, Peter gave the boy a copy of the
Magnet—
a comic for boys, to keep him occupied whilst he was on his patrol.

As soon as he was alone, Neil waited a further ten minutes then darted from the post and into the moonlit night.

To avoid bumping into another warden, he had decided to cut through the bomb sites and in a matter of minutes was standing at the edge of the large expanse of ruined houses and wasteland.

Before crossing over the rubble-strewn threshold into that eerie devastation, Neil held his breath. It was not the most inviting place in the world. The baleful moonglow cast great gulfs of shadow below the irregular broken walls that jutted from the landscape and these tapering black chasms were pointing at him like accusing fingers.

There's nothing to be scared of,’ he whispered, ‘it's not as bad as when I followed Josh up to The Separate Collection. That really was creepy.’

Heartened by this recollection, the boy clambered over a mound of bricks and passed into the bomb site.

Bathed in a ghostly radiance, the desolation was a startling environment—as though an avenging spirit of destruction had stormed over the land, leaving nothing but decay in its wake.

Yet this strange, barren country was starkly beautiful. A dusting of frost sparkled over the wreckage of a hundred homes and a profound, graveyard silence lay heavily over all.

Scrambling over the uneven ground, warily keeping a sharp eye where he trod, Neil made slow progress and he began to wish he had kept to the roads.

Into the hollow between the burned-out husks of two houses he went, swallowing nervously as he ventured through their deep shadows.

‘It's like walking in a city of the dead,’ he reflected grimly, and at once regretted giving voice to the macabre thought. ‘Brilliant,’ he muttered with a frown, ‘that's just the right frame of mind to be in—well done. I'll be seeing bogey men in every shadow now.’

The sooner he left the ravaged area behind the better—he could already see the dark perimeter of the bomb site where it butted on to a row of terraces and he knew that the preternaturally strange Wyrd Museum lay in that direction.

Moving as quickly as he could, he journeyed deeper into the cold heart of the demolished realm—and then the voices began.

At first they were indistinguishable from the slight breeze that blew icily into his ears; but it was not long before he could discern actual words floating through the night and, as the hairs on his neck prickled, the boy stopped dead in his tracks.

‘Boy!’
a plaintive, melancholy voice whispered,
‘Boy!’

Neil cast around to see who had spoken but could see no one. Surrounded as he was by the ramshackle remains of blasted buildings, the countless shadows provided innumerable places to lurk unseen—the boy longed to be back in the wardens’ hut.

Then the voice spoke again.
‘Come to us,’
it called softly.
‘Be with us.’

In the gloom the darkness was stirring, writhing with dim shapes that stealthily crept out into the deathly moonlight.