Darkness Demands

  When she opened her eyes, she found herself standing by a grave with a statue of a weeping boy. Her breath came in ragged sobs.

  The white-faced girl bent down to pick up one of the chocolate bars that lay there. She didn't seem to hold it in her hands… instead, she gripped it between two strangely bunched fists. "Here's a beautiful bar of chocolate, Elizabeth. Here. Hold it tight."

  "I-I want to go home."

  "But you are home, Elizabeth, dear."

  "I'm dreaming… I'm dreaming…"

  "If you wish."

  "Please, I want to wake up."

  "No! You're coming with me." The hand gripped Elizabeth's wrist. A grip so crushing that Elizabeth cried out. Then she was being dragged forward. She lost her balance. The stone slab of Jess Bowen's grave rushed up at her. She flinched, expecting a blow against her face.

  But there was no blow. Even though she fell onto the slab she did not strike it. In fact, she did not stop-she fell right through.

  And still the hand pulled her cruelly down. Now she fell through the earth as if she'd fallen into a lake. Its surface crust rose above her head. Everywhere the roots of trees snaked through the soil like arteries through flesh. Meanwhile, the soil formed a pale brown mist all around her. She was floating through it, being dragged by the white-faced girl.

  They were divers swimming through a subterranean ocean. While at either side of them, hanging like some grim-looking fruit in Jell-O, were narrow boxes.

  Some were intact. Some were so rotted they collapsed under the weight of dirt bearing down from above. From one, a skeleton hand had forced its way through a gap between lid and coffin. He'd been buried alive a hundred years ago to scream and claw at his tiny wooden prison before he choked on his own poison air. Now, eyeless bone stared from the crevice as she passed by.

  Then came multiple family burials; coffin stood on coffin until they formed weird underground totems that towered gloomily in brown mist.

  "Welcome to my home, Elizabeth."

  "Let me go!"

  At the sound of her cry, bones in their coffins stirred restlessly. From infant burials came the wail of babies, left neglected in the cold and dark for all these years. Hungry, pitiful cries sent cataracts of ice water flooding her veins.

  Suddenly a thunderous pounding came from a coffin bound in chains.

  "OUT! LET ME OUT!"

  Elizabeth's heart rolled in horror. From everywhere came the sound of bone pounding on wood, as skeleton fists fought their way out.

  "Please! I want to go home!"

  "Calm down, Elizabeth." Words oozed from the slit in the white face. "You'll drop the chocolate."

  "I don't want the chocolate. I want to go home!"

  "Elizabeth, stay near to me. It's not safe to go too close to them. They get angry… Elizabeth, keep away from them!"

  Elizabeth managed to slip from the girl's crushing grip. She swam through the brown, swirling mist, trying to escape. And as she struggled back toward the crust of the surface that sprouted a fuzz of grass and nettle roots she blundered against a great block of a coffin that rested like a fallen monolith on the shattered bones of pauper burials.

  With a roar the lid opened, the sound crashing against her head. Two pus-wet eyes glared into hers from the darkness within the tomb. Then arms swam at her from the gloom, fingers clenching like the mouths of serpents eager to bite the life out of her.

  Screaming, she tried to pull away.

  It did no good. Hands gripped her by the shoulders.

  The white-faced girl sounded far away now. "I warned you… I told you not to get too close!"

  Elizabeth screamed again. The grip on her shoulders was agonizing. She felt herself being drawn toward the rupture in the coffin. Inside was an abyss as dark as the far side of the moon. Still she struggled, pleading for help. But there was no help to be had. She looked down to see a forehead of broad bones that had all the hard white gleam of dinner plates. Now the blazing eyes had become part of a face.

  Or what passed for a face after years underground… Teeth swathed in sick looking moss. A mouth running with worms slowly opening. Within that a black tongue, rotted and slippery as leech flesh.

  She wanted to close her eyes… she wanted to die right then… die and see nothing more… but her eyes had locked wide… they fixed onto the eyes in front of hers that blazed with a cold and dreadful triumph. She could no longer scream. But she would feel everything that happened next.

  Cold hands drew her into the coffin. It engulfed her like a cave. And at last she was alone with its occupant.

  6

  "Christ, Elizabeth. What're you making that noise for?"

  She squinted up against the light. Paul stood looking down at her. He shook his head. "I can even hear you in my bedroom."

  She sat up with a stuttering kind of cry. Her heart thudded.

  "Elizabeth? Are you all right? Do you feel sick?"

  Now her brother's face changed from irritation at being wakened, at what to him must have been an ungodly hour, to one of concern.

  She was shaking. When she did try to speak her throat felt as if it had wound itself up into knots.

  "Hey, Lizzie." Her brother's voice was gentle. "Take it easy." He rubbed her back through her pajamas. "You've had a bad dream, haven't you?"

  The words still refused to pass through her throat. All she managed was a nod.

  "I'll get you a drink of water," he told her, smiling. "You lay back and relax. Big bro's taking care of business now."

  She managed a smile in return. What's more, the knots were leaving her throat.

  His smile broadened. "And don't worry about bad dreams. They can't hurt you-remember that."

  Paul had started to walk away when he noticed something by the bed. He picked it up. "Hey, Liz, you don't want to go leaving this on the floor, otherwise Sam'll end up having it." He held up a dark slab and whistled. "Now that's a formidable looking bar of chocolate, Elizabeth. Where did you get it from?"

  CHAPTER 13

  1

  "I need green."

  "Uh…"

  "I want to finish a picture for Sam's birthday card and I haven't got a green for the grass. Paul?"

  "Hmm?"

  "Wake up. I want a green. Can I get one?"

  "Uh… what ever."

  Paul lay with the sheet over his head. He'd returned to bed after being wakened early by his sister's cry. Luckily he'd gone straight back to sleep and had dreamt about Miranda… Jesus H., would he ever be able to get the girl out of his head? It was as if her face had been tattooed in fire across his brain. All he could do was think about her. Now she'd be in the car with her family. Heading south for London. She'd have risen early to shower… oh, Christ… Elizabeth, get out of my bedroom… I want to imagine Miranda Bloom working away at that smooth skin with the soap…

  "Which compartment are your pens in?"

  "I don't know, Elizabeth," he murmured, not wanting to be fully awake. "Just look. You'll find them."

  "Have you got a green one?"

  "Yes."

  "I can't find them… are you sure they're in here? What's this, then? Bubble gum?"

  "God knows, Elizabeth… it's early… I wanna sleep."

  "I've not seen any gum like this before."

  Find the pen and go. Miranda's in the shower… it's just getting interesting.

  "Can I have a piece?"

  "Piece of what?"

  "Gum."

  "I haven't got any."

  "What's this, then?"

  Hell.

  He exploded from the bedclothes to grab the packet of condoms from Elizabeth as she tried to tear open the cellophane with her teeth.

  "Ouch, Paul! Don't snatch."

  "It's not yours, Elizabeth."

  Oh my God, he thought, his face burning, can you imagine what his parents would say if Elizabeth had gone downstairs with those in her hands?

  "I only wanted one piece." She scowled. "Greedy guts."

  "It isn
't gum." Sweating hard, he rolled out of bed and slid the condom packet high on a shelf where Elizabeth couldn't reach.

  She went to bounce on his bed, her hair flying up and down. "What were they then? Cigarettes?"

  "No. You know they weren't cigarettes."

  "Might be little ones."

  "Why aren't you out playing?"

  "I'm going to help make breakfast. What's in the packet?"

  "Nosey."

  "I'll tell Dad."

  "They're just staples for the stapler. I've run out."

  "Why have you gone so red?" She licked her finger and held it out as if touching hot metal. "Sss!" she hissed. "I know what they are." A grin spread across her face. "You bought them from the drugstore."

  This time his entire body blazed hotly. "It's just a pack of staples."

  "I don't believe you. You've got a girlfriend."

  The heat spread through every vein of his body. She was sure to snitch.

  "You went to the drugstore because you've got a girlfriend."

  "Elizabeth-"

  "You've gone and got some cream for your zits, haven't you?"

  "I haven't got any zits, Elizabeth. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to get dressed."

  Elizabeth gave the shelf where he'd left the condoms an appraising look, then before she grudgingly left the room she said, "I'd buy another packet." She grinned. "You're going to need lots and lots now you've got a girlfriend."

  "Like I'm going to be covered with a million zits. Yeah, whatever, Elizabeth. Whatever."

  Giving a knowing smile, she echoed. "Yeah, whatever, Paul. Whatever."

  Once she'd left the room he quickly moved the condoms from the shelf to a box beneath his bed.

  The next time he met Miranda those little beauties would be in his pocket.

  2

  Reading the letter wasn't easy. With it being Saturday morning Val, Paul and Elizabeth were at home. Short of sneaking the letter into the bathroom to read it as if it was from a secret lover John Newton realized it might be some time before he could be alone.

  By nine the day was already warm enough to sit out on the patio for breakfast. Sam showed no sign of his scare from the night before. He lay in the shade only glancing up as Elizabeth then Paul came out to join them for toast and fruit juice. The meal was relaxed. Everyone seemed to be in good spirits. John did, however, find his eyes drawn to where the letter had made its mysterious appearance beneath the fragment of headstone. For some reason he expected there to be a stain or something on the stone slab where the letter had rested. Of course, that didn't make a lot of sense, John told himself. But there was some quality about the letter… as if it swarmed with bacteria or some unidentifiable contamination. Touching the letter with his bare fingers made him uneasy.

  Again he found himself asking who would go to the trouble of finding sheets of antique paper-blank antique paper at that-then writing a message in it in a Gothic hand? And why had the hoaxer sent letters to such a disparate bunch of people? As far as John knew the recipients had been himself, a writer. Keith Haslem the lawyer. And Stan Price, an elderly and senile man. If it was someone's idea of a joke then it wasn't a particularly hilarious one.

  A thought struck John all of a sudden. It was an uncomfortable thought at that. Maybe this was some perverse experiment? Maybe the letter sender intended to study the recipients' reactions. That put a different spin on things. He found himself scanning the hedges, then the meadows beyond, for a staring face, or the flash of reflected sunlight on a telescope lens. Was his family being watched as they sat out here eating toast?

  Hell, now he did feel vulnerable. And all too exposed. After all, last night a man or woman had left the letter on that very paving slab in front of him. If nothing else, weren't they guilty of trespass? Come to that, they could easily have slipped into the house through the back door as he walked up by the lake with Sam. What might they have done then?

  "Anything on your mind, John?" Val looked at him over the rim of her orange juice glass.

  "Nothing much." He smiled. "I wondered if we had enough pork chops for the barbecue."

  "There's a full bag in the freezer. We could do with more mayonnaise though."

  "I'm going down to the supermarket later. I'll grab some then."

  "Don't forget the beer."

  He grinned. "Don't worry. I won't."

  Paul heaped marmalade onto his toast. "Bud for me, Dad. And plenty of it."

  "John have you been giving our son beer again?" Val pretended disapproval but she couldn't help but smile.

  "Just the occasional one." John returned the smile. "To educate him as a responsible social drinker."

  "I'll wash the car for you this morning, Mum," Paul said quickly.

  "Why thank you very much," she said, surprised. "It could certainly do with it."

  "White shows dirt," Elizabeth told her. "You should have a black one… Emm's Dad's got two black cars. One has a roof that comes right down."

  "BMW's," Paul added. "Top of the range. Her dad's got a Harley as well. Goes like a bat out of hell."

  Val smiled at John. "Maybe we should have inherited rich grandparents."

  "Oh, hon. Think of the satisfaction we get slaving away all week for our crust of bread at the weekend."

  "Hmm, John, I always guessed you had a puritanical streak running through you."

  "Just a good honest work ethic."

  "All right, dear heart, you might as well exercise it right now by making me a cup of coffee."

  "I'll do it," Paul said.

  "Then one for me as well, please," John said, surprised.

  After he'd gone Val said, "Something tells me that Paul will be asking for a favor before long."

  ***

  After breakfast the family went their separate ways for a while. Paul finished a homework assignment. Elizabeth threw a ball for Sam. Val caught up with telephone calls to friends. John grabbed the opportunity. He went to his study where he pulled the letter from his back pocket. Maybe I should have worn latex gloves… there's something about the feel of the paper… like skin… Cold, dead skin…

  Holding the letter to the light that fell through the window he read it in full.

  Dear Messr. John Newt'n,

  I should wish that yew pore a pinte of porter onto the grief stowne of Jess Bowen by the Sabbath night. Yew will be very sorry if yew do not.

  Immediately he went cold. He shivered, dropping the letter onto the desk as he did so.

  Straight away he felt ashamed of his reaction to the letter. Come on, Newton, it's just a letter. A sick letter from some sick bozo. Did it chill him so much that the letter writer knew his name (and probably a damn sight more about him)? Was it because he sensed he was under surveillance? That some stranger watched him? They knew his movements. They'd sneaked onto his property to leave the letter there.

  He had to nail the bastard who was doing this…

  He found himself seething with anger. This was nothing less than an invasion. An invasion of property. An invasion of his life. An invasion of his right to privacy. Fists clenched, he glared at the letter.

  Pore a pinte of porter onto the grief stowne…

  For one thing, what the hell was a pint of porter? He all but snatched the dictionary from its shelf. "Porter, porter, porter," he growled under his breath. Finger stabbing down on the page, he scanned down the list of words.

  Portage.

  Portal.

  Portend (despite himself a little of the definition leapt at him. Portend: an omen, especially of evil). Oh no you don't, he told his insidious imagination.

  Porter: door or gatekeeper.

  No, not that one. He skipped to the next definition. Porter: one employed to carry baggage. No. Next. Porter: a dark brown, bitter beer.

  A pint of porter? So that's what the letter writer wanted. A pint of beer. Why not a gallon? A bucket full? Or a whole hogshead? Why just a miserly little pint?

  "And why use the old name for beer, you pretent
ious little jerk?"

  He picked up the letter again, his eyes burning at the handwriting. It didn't flow in the elegant style he would have associated with an archaic style. There was something spiky about it. A neurotic's hand writing he decided. Someone with a monkey on his back… someone eaten up with…

  "Yo, Dad! Can you move the cars?"

  "What?"

  "Sorry, Dad."

  "Paul," he snapped. "Jesus, don't you ever think to knock!"

  "Dad, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were working."

  Shit. This letter was poison. He was brooding so much over it he'd wound up biting his son's head off. The thing was sending him cranky as hell.

  "Don't worry, Dad, I'll ask my mother."

  "Paul… Paul?"

  But Paul had gone. John sighed. He felt a real mean son-of-a-bitch now. Paul didn't deserve that. He picked up the letter and glared at it. "This is your fault, you little bastard." Anger burned in his voice. "You're not getting anything out of me. Nothing."

  3

  Paul scrubbed the white paintwork of Val's car hard. After that, he hurled bucket after bucket of cold water to shift the foam. Then he went to work with the wash leather.

  Val looked up from her newspaper as John crossed the patio. He saw her knowing smile.

  "Mystery solved," she said.

  "Pardon?"

  She knew about the letter?

  "Mystery solved," she said again, nodding toward Paul, who was attacking the car's lights with what to John looked like sublimated fury. No doubt he was still angry at John's chewing out a few minutes ago.

  "Paul?" The cogs inside John's head whirled furiously, trying to engage. Val knew about the letters? She was saying that Paul was responsible? He gave a puzzled shake of his head.