Simon Clark
Darkness Demands
***
John Newton is a successful writer of true-life crime stories, specializing in unsolved murders from the past. He has a happy family life with his schoolteacher wife and two children. And he has a nice new home in the rural countryside. Life is good for John Newton.
Until the letters start arriving…
Dark, mysterious letters. Deadly letters with demands.
And then everything changes…
Until John Newton is faced with a seemingly insurmountable dilemma: he can choose between the survival of his daughter… or the rest of his family - not both.
With this, his eighth nerve-shattering novel of supernatural suspense, Simon Clark triumphantly confirms his reputation as "one of the most exciting British horror writers around."
***
From Publishers Weekly
A classic horror theme the unnatural survival in the present of an indescribably nasty bit of the past gets a routine treatment in this latest novel from British author Clark (The Judas Tree). Bestselling true crime writer John Newton has recently moved with his wife, teenage son Paul and young daughter Elizabeth to a stately house in Skelbrooke when he begins receiving anonymous notes, couched in archaic language, demanding offerings of inconsequential items mostly food and drink to be left on a grave in the Necropolis on the outskirts of town. Though John is merely puzzled, his neighbors, who receive the same notes, are horrified. Since Norman days, Skelbrooke has been periodically terrorized by a primitive entity dubbed "Baby Bones," and those who fail to satisfy its wishes meet with ghastly fates. Even readers not well versed in horror fiction will intuit what John will inevitably be asked to leave in the graveyard the moment Baby Bones's suggestive name is invoked. Clark sustains suspense as best he can, with a panoramic narrative that shows the tragic impact of the entity's demands on other lives, but several of the subplots Paul's romantic liaisons in the Necropolis and a senile town elder's repeated attempts to pass John important information on the town's history seem obvious padding. Though Clark credibly portrays John's gradual transformation from incredulous observer to desperate believer, his fans may find the eerie climax of this tale uncharacteristically contrived rather than earned.
***
"The hottest new purveyor of horrific thrills currently working on these shores."
-Big Issue
"What gives Clark his lever into your own fears is taking the mundane and making it menacing."
-SFX
***
H. (scanning) & P. (OCR, formatting & proofing) edition.
***
DEDICATION
For Helen Clark
A wonderful daughter and an amazing source of inspiration.
This one's for you, hon!
CHAPTER 1
1
One day you might disappear.
It might be just another every-day kind of morning. You get out of bed, you dress, you eat toast and drink some coffee. Then you leave the house.
And you never return. As simple as that. You vanish. You're history. No body is found. No clues. No nothing. Gone.
OK. So it might not happen this week, or this year, or even this decade. But it does happen, sometimes men and women vanish, never to be seen nor heard of again.
And, yes, you know only too well, it could happen to you. It could happen today.
"Dad, can I play out in the field?"
John Newton turned away from the words on the computer screen to see his nine-year-old daughter leaning in through the doorway.
"OK. But no going out of the field and no talking to strangers."
"All right, Dad. See you later."
John Newton gazed at the computer screen for a moment before hitting the keys again.
"Dad?"
"Yes, Elizabeth?"
His daughter swung on the doorknob again, the breeze wafting papers on his desk. He held them in place by slapping both palms down on them.
"Dad?"
"What is it, hon?"
"Can I go out on my bike?"
"Hmm?" His attention had drifted back to the screen again. Maybe that first sentence could be punchier: One day you might disappear.
"Can I take my bike to the field?"
"No."
"Why?"
"The grass is too long."
"I can manage."
"No. The grass gets all wound up round the cog. It'll make a mess."
She considered this as she swung back and forth on the door handle. Her long hair brushed the wall with a whispery sound.
Dreamily, still gazing at the words on the computer screen, John murmured, "Don't do that, hon, please. Dad's working."
"A new book?"
"Yes."
"What's it about?"
"It's about people who've disappeared." He smiled at her, wiggled his fingers and imitated a Vincent Price voice-badly. "People who have mysteriously vanished from the face of the earth."
"Oh. So it won't be about Sam, then?"
"No. I don't think I could write a whole book about our dog."
"How many pages?"
"Lots and lots."
"Have you nearly finished it?"
"No."
"Halfway?"
"No. I've just started the first page."
"Can I read it?"
"Not yet, hon." He shot her a smile. "Would you like to finish off what's left of the cake?"
She stopped swinging on the door handle. "All of it?"
"Go on, be a devil, there's only a couple of slices left."
"I'll take it into the field and have a picnic," she said before running away down the hallway.
John tore his gaze away long enough from the screen to call after her. "No leaving the field… no talking to strangers, remember? Elizabeth, do you hear?"
But she was already gone.
John straightened the papers that had wafted across the table before returning to the keyboard. A bang from the direction of the kitchen made him look up. It didn't sound like a splintering crash, so there was every chance nothing had broken (and he remembered the cake was on a plastic plate, so that was unbreakable anyway), and there was no scream from Elizabeth advertising disaster. He listened for a moment longer waiting for the call of "Dad… Dad… Dad!" It never came. So he guessed that Elizabeth had merely tossed her empty cup into the sink. Well, distracting, even mildly annoying; but no catastrophe. Not this time anyway. Back to the book.
Page 1. Chapter 1.
The new book.
An important book. If his publisher didn't give him a contract for this he was effectively out of a job. Until, that is, he found another publisher. Which wouldn't be easy, despite his track record of half a dozen successful books. Especially the latest, that had funded the move from their old home to this pretty water mill in a village that looked as if it had just jumped from an Agatha Christie movie.
There was plenty of hot competition out there in the world of books. Whole battalions of ambition-fuelled writers would happily write a book for no advance in the hope of simply becoming a published author.
This then, this screen full of words in front of him, was important. And it was important he got it right.
But it wasn't easy. Thursday looked as if it might be a total bust. Val had to leave early for work; his son, Paul, had decided to go swimming (which would have meant John being taxi driver for the morning); Paul had eventually been part persuaded, part bribed to take the bus into town to meet friends. But what the hell a bunch of seventeen-year-olds would do was anyone's guess. Then there was the home front. Elizabeth, even by mid-morning was at a loose end.
So this was the start of a new book. An important book. A book of towering, Empire State Building kind of
proportions in John Newton's life. He had to have the first chapter and outline at his agent's office by next week. His agent never liked going empty handed to a lunch with the publisher. With that all-important first chapter Tommy might clinch a new deal by the time the ice cream arrived.
Yet, today the world had started to conspire against him. Already unseen forces, it seemed, had launched their attack to prevent him writing that first page.
Like any writer he'd gone through the pre-first-line rituals: Made a jug full of strong coffee. Looked out through the window at the glorious summer's day before closing the blinds of his study (a room that everyone else insisted on calling 'the box room'); then switched on the computer.
First, the computer refused to come to life as it should. An on-screen message told him there was a fault, that there would not be enough memory to continue safely. Which was crap because the computer wasn't yet three months old.
He'd restarted the damn thing two or three times until the opening screen at last satisfyingly appeared as it should.
Second. His daughter wouldn't be able to entertain herself for more than ten minutes in a row.
Third. The dog had taken an insane dislike to a flowerpot on top of the wall. Now Sam was determinedly barking himself stupid. OK, so he could remove the flowerpot or shout at the dog-or both. Only he'd reached that magic moment when every nerve in his body urged him to sit at the computer and type and type and type until that first chapter was done. Then he'd be happy to play with Elizabeth and throw a ball for the dog.
But right at this moment he itched to wrench back the curtains, throw open the window and yell out at the world, "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore!"
He paused, smiling to himself. Even his own thoughts were distracting him from writing now.
"Come on, Newton," he told himself. "Work." He even raised his eyes to a strip of paper pasted to the top of the computer monitor.
WRITE, DAMN IT. WRITE. IT'S THE ONLY THING YOU'RE GOOD AT.
Maybe it wasn't kind, but there were times he needed every kind of encouragement, whether a carrot or stick to keep him sitting in front of the computer when sane people were taking trips to the coast or firing up a barbecue.
He rubbed his face with both hands. "Come on, Newton. You can do it." Then he typed: Where some people wind up, when they might disappear without trace, can be guessed. Bandsman Glen Miller probably vanished into the sea shortly after his plane took off in 1944 from-
But which airfield did the doomed Miller fly from? John returned to his research notes spread out like so many fallen leaves across the table. Elizabeth swinging the door had sent them fluttering out toward the wall. A couple had even escaped to the floor.
Swiveling round in his chair, he scooped them from the carpet. One of the pieces of paper didn't belong to his research notes. How it had got there he didn't know.
He looked at it. Straight away he was distracted from his golden mission of the day: to write that first all-important page of that all-important book. A book, that if bought by the publisher would meet mortgage repayments, keep the car in gasoline, and put meals on the table. But there was something about that piece of paper…
It was a page that looked as if it had been torn from an exercise book. The paper was heavy, silky to the touch. For some reason, and he didn't know why, he'd concluded the paper was very old-antique, if you can have such a thing as antique paper.
It had been stained from the dew on the patio where he'd found it two mornings ago. Weirdly it had been left beneath a fragment of gravestone. He'd laughed out loud when he first read what was written on the paper. Why someone should go to the trouble of writing such a letter to him seemed inexplicable.
Absently he sniffed the letter, as if it might contain a whiff of perfume, but there was no discernible smell.
"But it does reek of one thing… Mystery." He shook his head. "My God, you can never resist a melodramatic turn of phrase, can you, John Newton?"
The letter must have arrived beneath its stone weight in the dead of night, which added nicely to the mystery. While he'd every intention of simply dropping it into the trash there was something about it. Something compelling, that drew him back to read it again and again.
He turned it over to look at the words written in pencil. Dear Messr. John Newt'n…
"Oh no, you don't," he told himself. "No more distractions. Write, damn you, write."
At that moment the telephone rang. And that was probably the moment that it all began. Not with the call. But what he saw through the window.
2
The caller was his agent. He wanted to know how the first chapter of the book was going.
"No problems, Tom." John grimaced at the sound of the lie slipping so easily from his own lips. "You'll have the first chapter by Tuesday."
"I can't say I'm happy about this one, John."
"I know, but trust me, it'll turn out fine."
"It's just a bunch of stories where people disappear without trace. Where's the center to it? What's going to be so special about it that makes a publisher reach for the checkbook?"
"Don't worry, Tom. I've got something up my sleeve." Yeah, my arm. John nearly gagged on the dry riposte himself. He realized there was nothing Earth-shaking about his latest book. Unless inspiration came on swift wings it would be the kind of book that's sold off dirt-cheap in hardware stores.
Changing the subject he asked, "How did the book fair go? Any business?"
"Do you want the good news or the bad news first?"
"Bad."
"The Dutch people are only offering a five hundred dollar advance for the translation rights of Blast His Eyes."
"Jesus Christ. After Goldhall has taken his cut that leaves…" John tried to calculate the percentage.
"Yeah, I know-enough for a couple of ice creams."
"Don't keep me in suspense then. The good news?"
"Dellargo in New York are taking Blast His Eyes, after all."
"That's a certainty, Tom?"
"Consider it signed, sealed and delivered."
"Thank God for that."
"Just don't hold your breath for the advance check. These things take months to come through. Don't you love being a writer?"
John smiled. "Absolutely. Wouldn't change it for the world." He said it in a flippant way. But it was true. He did love being a writer. Seeing his book in print for the first time was still a hell of a thrill. Even the smell of new paper as he flicked through the pages of a virgin book sent him into a kind of gooey-eyed ecstasy. Val would smile as she watched him. "Why don't you wear that expression when you look at me, John?"
Tom continued, "Oh, John, I've got the sales figures through for Blast His Eyes. I was going to put them in the post but I thought you'd be like a cat on the proverbial hot tin roof waiting for them."
"Sure. Fire away, Tom."
"As you know Goldhall has reprinted five times now-so write me another Blast His Eyes, you idiot." Tom spoke with his voice liberally laced with good humor; but the challenge was there. John's latest book was a humdinger of a success. He couldn't follow it up with just a so-so potboiler.
As Tom ran through the sales figures-these included overseas sales, library sales, book club sales, high and low discount sales-the full schermozzle, Elizabeth came into the room and pressed a sticker onto the front of his T-shirt. John mimed he was busy talking on the phone. It was obvious that he was anyway but he hoped Elizabeth would take the hint and do something else until he'd finished.
He glanced down at the sticker. It showed two monkeys copulating. A caption ran: Monkey See, Monkey Screw.
He covered the mouthpiece and hissed, "Lizzie, where did you get the sticker?"
"Paul's room."
"You know you're not allowed in there."
"Can I get my bike out?"
"Lizzie. Can't you see? I'm on the-"
"Hello, John," came Tom's voice in his ear. "Are you still there?"
"Yeah, sorry, T
om. Just a little interference at this end."
Elizabeth persisted. "Dad. Can I take my bike out onto the lane?"
He held up a finger. Just give me a moment… PLEASE.
"I'll take that as a 'yes', then." She darted from the room before he had a chance to contradict her.
Meanwhile, Tom had wound up reading the list of sales figures to John. "Oh, before I go," Tom said. "Pat was telling me that you've been receiving some strange fan mail."
"Fan mail? Hardly that. It was more a demand with menaces kind of note."
"You've reported it to the police?"
"No."
"You should, you know. There's some strange people out there."
"As I told Pat, someone left a bizarre message in the garden."
"It was addressed to you personally?"
"Yes."
"So take it to the police. You can't be too careful with this kind of thing. I remember when a lunatic stalked one of my authors for months. It ended up with this nut trying to set fire to her house."
"Tom." John stood up to open the blind. He saw Elizabeth peddling like fury down the drive, her hair flying out. "Tom… it's just a prank by some kids."
"How do you know that? It could be a letter today; tomorrow it could be-"
"Waking up with a horse's head beside me?"
"You've got a beautiful family, John…"
"Tom. Listen." John smiled, amused that Tom could take the thing so seriously. "Listen. I'll read it to you." He picked up the sheet of paper. "Dear Messr. John Newton."
"What was that? Messer?"
"Yeah, it's an old-fashioned version of Mister. In fact a lot of the words are spelt in an archaic way; the sort of thing you'd see in an eighteenth century manuscript."
"Weird."
"I suppose it added to the fun for whoever wrote it."