Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set (185 page)

“Good riddance!” she said.

Steph put an arm around Jess.  “Come on, sweetheart.  We should get ourselves downstairs in front of the barrel fire now that we don’t have to worry about him.  The fire in here’s about to go out anyway and that broken window is going to freeze us to stone.”

Jess agreed.  “Plus, Old Graham will be wondering what’s going on.”

Steph’s eyes suddenly widened.  “I forgot all about Old Graham.  Hopefully he’s drunk enough to not have heard any of this.”

 ”We best get down there,” Jess said, turning with Steph, towards the bar.  She took two steps and then stopped.  “Shit!  Are you okay?”  Damien was doubled up against the bar, taking in long, laboured breaths.  “You’re still bleeding?”

He waved a hand dismissively and Jess saw that it was soaked with blood.  “Just a flesh wound,” he said and then laughed.  “I always wanted to say that.”

“It’s not a joke, Damien.  Are you okay?”

“I’ll live.  Just a bit sore.   The blood is probably to be expected after getting stabbed and everything.  Like I told you though, it isn’t deep.”

Steph didn’t seem convinced.  Jess wasn’t either, but what could they do?  Jess was thinking that maybe the wound was worse than he was letting on, but having never seen a stab wound before there was a chance she was just overreacting.  If Damien said he was fine then all they could do was believe him.  “Let’s go downstairs,” she said finally.

The three of them gathered candles from the bar and entered the rear corridor.  The air seemed no warmer inside, which was strange as earlier it had been filled with a warm air current flowing up from the stairs.  Now it felt as cold as the rest of the pub.  Steph took the staircase first; Jess and Damien followed.  When they reached the bottom together, darkness greeted them and Jess realised the fire had gone out.

“Oh no,” said Steph, lighting the room with her candle.  The image of Old Graham shone into view, still lying on the floor where they’d left him.  Even in the poor light, Jess could see the waxy blue tinge that travelled the lines of the old man’s face and, particularly, his lips.  Old Graham was dead. 

Steph leapt down onto her knees, dropping her candle on the cement floor where it quickly extinguished. In the darkness, Jess and Damien had no choice but to listen to her scream.

###

Outside it was as Harry had feared.  They were surrounded.  In all directions, the tall, hooded figures loomed over them, standing motionless, shoulder to shoulder, forming a wall of towering bodies.  In front of them the hounds sat obediently.

“What do we do?” asked Harry.

Lucas shoved him forward.  “Just swing for the first bugger that comes for you.  Kath and I will handle the hounds.”

Harry willed his legs to take him forward and after several false starts got himself moving.  The monsters remained in place but watched him with great interest.  Harry felt like a lowly ant beneath their stares.  A low growl emanated from the hounds but they made no attempts to attack, heeled to their hooded masters and waiting for commands.

Harry got closer and wondered what to do.  Did Lucas really expect to take on this army with just a broom and some salt shakers?  They were going to die; any other outcome seemed impossible.  Still, Harry wasn’t going down without a fight.  If they wanted him, they would have to take him down, biting and screaming.

Once he was within a dozen metres of the hooded figures, the hounds at their feet became agitated, hackles rising as they paced back and forth. 

“Ready with the salt?” asked Harry.

“Bring it on,” said Lucas, taking hold of Kath and bringing her forward.  Together, the two of them hurled salt into the air.  It caught on the wind and dispersed in a thousand directions, disappearing into the blizzard.

Harry watched and waited as nothing happened.  Then hounds began to squeal, their skin smoking and burning, dripping into the snow and turning it a dark, mottled brown.  The beasts began to edge away, colliding with their masters who were still unmoving.  After a few moments, the hounds managed to weave between the hooded figures and flee into the night.

Satisfied, Harry looked at Lucas, who nodded at the broom he was holding. 
Really?
  Should he really be so willing to trust his survival on a domestics implement?  Harry decided it was time to find out.  The three of them lined up and marched forward, meeting their attackers head on.

Harry raised the broom like a pike, images of naked women fluttering in the wind.  The hooded men remained motionless, their seven-foot frames like stone statues.  When one of them finally moved, Harry thought he was going to soil himself.

The tallest figure, at the centre of the wall, stepped forward and flung out a hand.  Harry curiously noticed that the creature’s outstretched arm was human, yet twisted and talon-like.  It pointed at Lucas as its owner hissed the word, ‘
WORMWOOD’.

Harry turned to Lucas who was grinning ear to ear, not out of good nature, but seemingly out of defiance.  Lucas winked at the figure addressing him.  “How you doing there, Mickey?  Been keeping well?”

“You know this…this thing?” asked Kath, the disgust in her voice not even slightly hidden.

“Aye, but now is not the time.”

“It never is with you,” said Harry.

“Harry,” Lucas whispered over his shoulder, “now would be a good time to sweep up the trash.”

Harry didn’t understand at first, until, finally, a light bulb went off in his head.  He rammed the broom forwards, aiming for the hooded man’s head.  The blow missed by a mile and that seemed impossible.  The intended victim had gone from motionless stone to dodging the blow in an unearthly blur of speed; a glowing wisp of light that didn’t actually seem to move so much as simply disappear and reappear somewhere else. 

Harry cursed out loud.  “Damn it!  I missed.”

“No, you didn’t,” said Lucas.  “Get your bloody arse moving.”

Harry realised that his attacker’s evasion had left a gap in the wall of hooded bodies.  The three of them ran, stumbling through the deep snow and almost having to claw themselves along.  Despite their early lack of movement, the hooded men were now giving chase, screeching and wailing as they did.  As one got close, Harry swung out with the broom.  It blinked out of existence and reappeared out of harm’s way just as his brethren had before.  Harry didn’t mind if the swings were making contact or not, they were warding off the danger regardless.

As he clambered through the snow, Harry came side by side with Lucas.  He turned and looked at him.  “What the hell are they, Lucas?”

Lucas looked back and smiled.  “Angels.”  He said it casually, as if the explanation was not completely insane.

Harry almost fell, just about managing to right himself with his next steps.  “Angels?”

“Like I said, Harry Boy.  Now’s not the time.”

The three of them continued making their way forward, not really knowing where they were heading other than away from danger.  As Harry looked back, he saw that they were no longer being pursued.  The ‘Angels’ were apparently in no rush to get their ‘sinner’.  But, despite the lack of pursuit coming from behind, Harry could clearly make out something ahead of him.”

“Something’s up ahead,” said Kath.

Harry nodded.  “I know, I can see.  Ready with the salt?”

“Yes.  Ready with broom?”

The three of them slowed down (not that they were making particularly great speed anyway).  The shape in the distance began to come clearer into view.  It was a person, heading towards them quickly.

Kath stated the obvious.  “They’re coming right at us.”

Harry focused as much as he was able to in the blustering snow.  “It’s…”

“Nigel!”  Kath shouted the word gleefully.  “Are we glad to see you!”

Nigel came up to them, huffing and puffing.  Harry noticed that the man had dried blood on his clothes as well as terrible burns on the left side of his face.  He looked like something out of a horror film. 

“Are you...okay?” Harry asked him.

Nigel looked feral, like an injured fox.  When he answered, his words were slurred.  “I’m fwine.  Jush hash an asshident.”

Lucas stepped forward placed a hand on the Nigel’s shoulder.  “You don’t look fine, fella.  In fact you sound worse than a chorus of drunks.  And that head wound don’t look none too pretty.  We should get you back to the pub.”

Nigel seemed dismayed by the suggestion and lashed out.  “Get sh’fush offsh me.”

Harry didn’t like the way Nigel was acting.  “What happened to you?  Is Steph okay?”

Nigel’s face scrunched up in a snarl at the mention of her name.  Harry tried to understand why.  Then he saw the bloody knife in the man’s hand and wondered why he hadn’t spotted it sooner.  Harry’s eyes widened.  “Did you hurt her?”  Harry went to approach Nigel, but the man raised the knife at him.

Lucas put his hands out in front of him placatingly.  “Whoa, whoa, there, fella.  We just want to know the lass is safe.”

Nigel spat blood into the snow and began backing away as he spoke.  “You tell that bitch, I’ll be back to finish what I started.  I’ll slice her fingers off and keep them in my truck with the other pathetic sluts I’ve killed.”

Harry’s entire body contorted with rage as he realised what the man’s words meant.  He began to wonder whether that knife in Nigel’s hand had been used on Steph, and if Damien had been innocent all along.  Harry found both questions too hard to think about.  “I’m going to kill you.”

Nigel continued backing away, holding the knife out in front of him in defence.  Harry went to get after him, but Lucas stopped him.  “No need, Harry Boy.  Look!”

Harry looked past Nigel and saw the shapes behind him.  Gathering in the distance was a group of hounds.  Nigel was walking directly at them.  Harry relaxed and waited for the inevitable to happen.

It took about three minutes for Nigel to realise he’d been surrounded.  The things attacked him as one, enveloping him as they had done Jerry.  Harry watched with grim satisfaction as Nigel swiped impotently with his flick knife, managing to take a chunk or two of flesh from one hound, but failing to keep away the other dozen.  Although it was hard to see past the writing bodies of fur, Harry could clearly make out Nigel’s intestines being fought over in a macabre tug of war.  But once the grim satisfaction begun to wane, the scene merely made Harry feel sick.  He turned away and continued on into the snow, back towards The Trumpet.

Back towards Steph.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Despite the three of them being huddled together, Jess felt no warmer.  Damien managed to get the fire going again by setting fire to some of the surplus duvets.  They wouldn’t burn for long, but they were better than nothing.  Now the three of them lay shivering beneath a dozen sheets and blankets, trying to hold on to as much warmth as possible.

“Poor Old Graham,” said Steph, still upset but past the worse of it.  She’d wailed for almost twenty minutes when she first discovered the old man had expired.  Jess knew that Steph felt responsible for it, but the truth of it was that it was all because of Nigel. 

Pervert.  Hope he’s frozen to death out there or being eaten alive by one of those monsters.

Jess thought about the things she’d seen outside with Jerry and found it hard to imagine them clearly.  With the hours that had passed it all seemed like some absurd hallucination.  Monsters under the bed did not exist, she’d told herself, but she could not deny the death and bloodshed that she had occurred tonight.  Ben.  Peter.  Old Graham.  They were all good guys.  She prayed that the others would make it back safely.  She’d do anything, right now, to sit and listen to Jerry’s inane pop culture references. 

“How long did you know Old Graham?” she asked Steph.

Steph let out a huff that was almost a laugh.  “Whole time I worked here.  Eighteen months, I guess.  He could bore you to death something awful, but he didn’t have a bad bone in his body.  Complained a lot; but never about anyone, or anything, in particular.  I think he was a lonely old man that just wanted to be around people.”

“Least he lived a long life,” Damien chimed in, his voice jittery from the chill that affected everyone’s lungs.

“He didn’t deserve to go like this though.  He survived a war and this is how he dies?  It’s such a waste.”

Jess squeezed Steph’s hand under the blankets.  “I think he went the way he would have liked.  Drunk as a skunk and the centre of attention.”

Steph and Damien laughed.

“So, Damien,” Jess moved on, “are you really as much of a hard-knock as you like to make people think?”

Damien was silent for a moment, but eventually answered.  “Who says I want people to think that?”

“Guess it’s just the impression you give off.  It confuses me though because, after tonight, I’m starting to think it’s all bull.”

Jess didn’t know why she felt the need to goad Damien, but she wanted a serious conversation to keep her mind occupied.  Plus, she was intrigued about the kind of person Damien
actually
was.

Damien cleared his throat.  “You reckon?”

“Yeah,” said Jess.  “I actually think you’re a nice guy.  You just don’t want people to know it.”

“I agree,” said Steph.

Damien was silent again for a moment.  Jess could feel him rustling beneath the sheets.  When he finally spoke up, he sounded tired.  “Maybe the only reason I’m not a nice guy is because people think bad of me no matter what I do.”

“But you make people think like that.  You chose to make people think you’re a thug.”

Damien laughed.  “You think I made people see me this way?  I had no chance of ever being anything
other
than a thug.”

Jess sighed.  “Is this the part where you say your daddy never hugged you enough?”

“No,” said Damien.  “This is the part when I tell you my dad had me selling drugs for him at eight years old.  No one would ever expect a kid, huh?  Or how about how my dad put a lad in a coma a couple years ago and made me take credit for it around the local estate.  ‘It will make people fear you’, he said.  You’re absolutely right; my dad never hugged me because that’s not what monsters like him do.”