Chapter Thirty-Three
Before he'd had a chance to finish his sentence, a woman sitting behind him made a screeching sound, as if she had a chicken bone stuck in the back of her throat. She then burst into a fit of hysterics and ran sobbing from the cafe. Others jumped up from their tables, sending cups, plates, knives, and forks clattering to the floor. They ran from the cafe, weeping and moaning.
The old man wheeled around at Shane, and with their faces just inches apart, he hissed, "If you're not going to stop for refreshments, get out!"
Shane's face drained of all colour, and his heart began to thump in his chest, but still he persisted. "Have you seen him? That's all I want to know and then I will be gone. "
The villagers continued to brush past Shane as they headed towards the door and fled into the storm, and he couldn't understand why. The old man fixed his milky-looking eyes on Shane's.
"Okay, mister," he sneered. "I'll tell you all about Jon Cooke. He came into town about three months ago, and just as you say, he carried a duffle bag over his shoulder. But he had something else. A flute. It was the strangest thing I had ever seen. Not like your everyday flute. This was black and looked as if it was made of some kinda ancient ivory. He took to standing on the street corners, playing his flute. Didn't matter what the weather - he was always there, that flute between his lips. The music that came from it was like nothing I'd heard before - it sounded like a thousand children crying. The children would gather around him - as if they were in a trance. Us adults didn't like it one little bit, so we told him to clear out of town. He did, but he returned, several nights later," the old man explained, and as he did, his voice no longer sounded angry, but full of despair.
"Jon Cooke," he continued, with tears beginning to well in his eyes, "hidden by the night and the shadows of the trees, played his flute while the adults slept. But the music stirred the children from their sleep. Like zombies, they crept from their beds and followed Cooke across the fields and up into the hills. They haven't been seen again, not one of them. "
The old man stopped, pulled a snot-ridden hanky from his pocket, and wiped his lips, then brow. "The following day, the men from the village, me included, set off in pursuit of Cooke. We found him, but none of the children he had led away into the night. We punished him for what he had done - we punished him real bad - so he could never steal another child again. We hurt him so bad that you couldn't have seen him today - that would be impossible," he whispered, then broke into a sinister cackle of laughter. Then, sounding as if had phlegm wrapped around his tonsils, he leaned over the counter and hissed, "Now get out. "
Feeling so confused by what he had just heard, Shane wanted to question the old man further. But before he'd had the chance to saying at all, the owner had gone to the door, opened it and turned the sign over to CLOSED. Knowing that his presence was no longer wanted, if it ever had been, Shane left the cafe and headed back to his truck.
Once inside and away from the cafe and its odd owner and customers, gooseflesh crawled up Shane's back and made the hairs at the nape of his neck prickle. No longer interested in ever seeing his coat again, he started up his truck and raced back up the road and out of town. As Paisley End disappeared behind him, Shane slowed the truck down. Then, as he neared the edge of town and the welcome sign, he slammed on the brakes. Shane lurched forward in his seat and stared out into the dark and rain; there was something caught in the glare of his headlights. With his mouth open and his heart struggling to find a beat, Shane slowly opened the truck door and stepped out. He climbed over a low stone wall and into a field and looked up at the tree which sat alone, away from the others. It was leafless and its black branches reached up into the sky like deformed limbs. Its trunk was thick and gnarled-looking, and tied to it with rope, was Jon Cooke.
Unable to draw breath, Shane stumbled over the uneven ground as he made his way towards the tree. Standing before it, he could see that the body of Jon Cooke had already started to decompose, as if he had been left there to rot for several weeks already. Crows squawked and beat their ragged wings as they fluttered away from the branches overhead. Shane looked at the body of Jon Cooke and gagged at the sight of the maggots which crawled from his empty eye sockets. One eye hung from its socket on a sinewy cord, looking like a yo-yo made of red flesh. His tongue hung like a giant black worm from a jagged tear in his cheek. His mouth was open in an insane looking grin, and his teeth glistened in the light from the truck's headlights.
But it wasn't the sight of Jon Cooke's decomposed body which made Shane's blood feel like ice in his veins. It was the fact that Jon Cooke was wearing his coat. Daring to step closer to the body, Shane noticed something black and pointed sticking out from his coat pocket. Reaching out, Shane plucked the odd-looking flute from his coat. It felt weightless in his hands. Then, as if unable to resist the urge, he placed the flute to his lips and blew gently into it.
As Shane made his way back to his truck in that awful storm, playing the flute as he went, he knew that the old man from the cafe had been right, the music which came from it did sound like a thousand children crying.
A Story
Jim Chambers sat with his arse wedged into the narrow chair, striking the keys on the typewriter that squatted before him. The metal keys snapped back and forth, leaving their design behind on the crisp, white paper. His words and thoughts appeared in neat rows. The letter 'A' key was missing, snapped off years before so he would have to spend time hand writing in all the missing letter 'A's to his story once he had finished.
Beads of sweat lined Jim's young face as his tongue flicked from the corner of his mouth while he concentrated on his writing. He had to complete his story, not only for himself, but for her. His creative writing teacher's greed for his stories was unending. She would take each one in her gnarled hands and smile thankfully, like a drunk who is handed another drink. Jim was secretly pleased that someone relished his tales of horror and fantasy, where people lived shrouded in darkness, surviving the blood-foaming jaws of the creatures that he created. Sometimes they didn't always survive. He liked the power that gave him.
But Jim thought it strange that someone like his teacher should love his stories so much. He guessed that Ms. Mitchell was in her late sixties and was a dead ringer for Miss Marple. How could someone who shuffled around with a shawl thrown over her shoulders, and who had glasses hanging from the tip of her nose give a second thought to such revolting tales? But did it really matter? He was glad he had one fan, even if wasn't his girlfriend, Wendy. Wendy didn't care for his stories at all. So with his creative writing teacher at the forefront of his mind, he continued to tap out his story. . .
. . . the crackling noise which could be heard beneath the woman's blouse was sickening to hear. The folds of her blouse moved restlessly. She brought her worn hands to her blouse and ripped it in two, the buttons popping free and clinking onto the floor. Her saggy breasts writhed and twitched, becoming transparent, revealing the membranes that lay just beneath her aged skin. Blue veins circled her chest, the skin thinning out across her shoulders, up her neck and face.
Dark lines lay etched about the corners of her mouth. Her skin began to fade and her yellow-stained teeth and lolling tongue became visible through her cheek. Her forehead became a window, its view a pulsating brain. She unfastened her skirt and it whispered to the floor. She pulled at her black tights with pulsating hands until she was free of them. Her stomach and bowels could be seen through her invisible skin. The smell of rotting and undigested food was rich and pungent on the dry air.
The woman fell to the floor, landing on her hands and knees. The air began to fill with a ripping sound as her shoulder blades, spine, and hands began to stretch out of shape, giving her the appearance of a squat, four-legged animal. She began to crack and blister as stiff, black hair oozed out of her. Her bloodless lips stretched open as a twitching snout appeared. Twisted, blade-like teeth protruded through her swelling gums, sending blood forth in a black gu
sh which swung from her whiskered chin.
Her gnarled fingers buckled and became claws as her knuckles shattered. The woman's body was to undergo one final change before her metamorphosis was complete. The bottom of her raised spine exploded outwards. Through the gaping hole in her back appeared a slender pink tail which glistened and licked back and forth in the air, blind to what lay around it.
The huge black rat sprang off into the night on its strong back legs.
Jim snatched the sheet from his typewriter and reread his tale, the corners of his youthful mouth turning up in delight as he did so. He knew she would love this one.
He slouched like a drunk against the wall opposite his classroom. Some of Jim's classmates had already filed into the room, but he wasn't ready to start his first lesson of the day without first seeing Wendy. His bag lay at his feet and he regarded it carefully. Inside laid his latest story. His pallor was a washed-out grey, apart from the purple rings of tiredness that lay beneath his eyes. Jim had sat up late correcting his tale, hand-writing in all the missing 'A's and trying to get it perfect in every way before submitting it to Ms. Mitchell. He was pleased with the final result.
Jim glanced to his right and smiled at the sight of Wendy approaching from down the hall. She bobbed as she came, her shoes snapping off the tiled floor. Jim met her halfway and they kissed. Her hair was fair and it shone beneath the glare of the fluorescent lights. Her eyes were a warm hazel, her mouth a pink smile.
"You look like shit," she told him. "What time did you hit the sack last night?"
"Not until late, and thanks for the compliment," he half-smiled.
"You know what I mean," she said, and kissed him again on the cheek.
"I didn't get to bed until the early hours," he started, but before he could finish, Wendy was squeezing his side.
"I hope you were alone," she teased.
Jim chuckled and pulled away. "Well it was so hard to resist her, but she was. . . "
Wendy tweaked him again.
He threw his arms in the air and cried, "I give in. I was writing last night - honest. "
Wendy let him be and gave a satisfied smile. "I believe you. What were you writing? Something pleasant, I hope. "
"You know me better than that," and a fat grin spread across his face.
"I might have known. You and your ghouls," she laughed.
Then looking at her, Jim said, "Well you know who I base them on, don't you?" He spoke in a teasing way.
Wendy placed her hands on her hips and said, "If you mean me, Jim Chambers, then you're in trouble!"
"Now, I didn't say you - did I? But come to mention it," he winked at her and scratched his chin.
Wendy had started to tickle him again, when they were both interrupted.
"Excuse me, Chambers, but you do have a lesson to attend," a voice said from behind them.
They both froze, then turned their heads in the direction of the soft sounding voice. Jim didn't have to see her lined face, greying hair, and piercing eyes to know that it was Ms. Mitchell who had spoken. He stepped away from Wendy, blood burning in his cheeks.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Mitchell," he said, picking up his bag. As he thought of the story inside, he smiled.
"Don't be sorry," Ms. Mitchell said. "I can remember what it was like to be in love once. "
Both Jim and Wendy flushed scarlet again, wondering if Ms. Mitchell wasn't actually taking some pleasure in embarrassing them. The old woman stepped back into the classroom. Jim skipped quickly over to Wendy. They kissed, and Jim told her to wait for him on the yard after lesson. Wendy nodded, hoping that the time between now and then would pass quickly. She disappeared up the corridor and Jim turned and entered the classroom.
Ms. Mitchell smiled with pleasure as Jim laid the story in her liver-spotted hands. She took it gratefully. "Another tale. How exciting," she breathed and stroked the pages. "James, I'll read it this very lesson. Thank you. " She turned and moved slowly towards her desk, eyes fixed on his manuscript.
Jim went to his own seat, feeling pleased.
Ms. Mitchell set some work for the class, then buried her nose in the story she clutched in her hands. Her eyes rolled back and forth as they soaked up the words Jim had written. He sat and watched her read over the lip of his workbook. Jim liked to study her expressions which fell across her face as she read his stories. But today something was wrong. Ms. Mitchell didn't have a look of pleasure on her face, but a look of anger.
The lesson passed. The class milled from the room on her command and she requested that Jim should stay behind as he always did when she was in possession of one of his stories.
"Not you," she whispered, hooking one of her fingers and beckoning him forward.
Jim gathered his books together and strolled to the front of the classroom. "What did you think of my story, Ms. Mitchell?" He shifted from foot to foot.
"It was very good, as they always are," she said, her eyes fixed on his. "You have quite a talent. "
Ms. Mitchell moved to the classroom door, shut it tight, then turned the key in the lock. Taking hold of the key, she turned to look at Jim. She poked her grey-looking tongue out, placed the key on it, then swallowed. Jim watched the lines on her neck ripple as the key passed down her throat. With his stomach beginning to tighten and his heart racing, he watched his teacher shuffle back across the classroom towards him.
"Tell me, James," she whispered. "How did you know? How did you ever find out?"
"Find out about what?" Jim asked, he frowned with a nervous smile.
"Me," she suddenly snarled.
Jim stood gawping at her, his eyes fat and round with fear. The folds in her pastel blouse began to move as her flesh began to change shape beneath it. The change from woman to rat took just seconds. Before Jim had even had the chance to truly understand what had happened, a set of razor-sharp teeth were ripping at his throat.
Wendy stood on the yard, a chilly wind tugging at her hair, as she waited and waited and waited. . .
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