Rosemary tried to shout something but the wind tore the words from her mouth.
Now he sensed there was more than the wind tearing through the kitchen. That force he’d sensed earlier seemed to run through the very fabric of the walls, floor, worktops, cookers and refrigerators. He was beginning to see …
No. He closed his eyes. He knew he wasn’t really seeing this; it was some kind of illusion transmitted by Amy’s sleeping mind.
When he next opened his eyes, he tried to ignore what he thought he saw.
As cupboard doors swung open so fiercely that hinges tore, woodwork splintered, he saw the … no, he told himself, I’m not seeing them. They’re not real.
But he found himself recalling pictures of totem poles. And now in that kitchen in Darlington House, it seemed he saw those same totem-pole faces with hooked beaks and over-large eyes. And those totem-pole faces stared at him from every cupboard, every refrigerator as the doors tore open one after another. He shook his head – an illusion, he told himself, desperately … nothing but a damn’ illusion.
But the faces wouldn’t go away.
The kitchen wall glowed more brightly. He couldn’t see the wall tiles now, only the milky light and flash of rainbow colours shimmering outward from its centre.
And then he sensed that something moved just beyond the wall. Something shadowy and huge and very, very dangerous.
He sensed it wanted to come into the kitchen.
It wanted to join them.
Richard felt a huge jolt of fear.
He sensed … no, he didn’t … he knew; he knew: like it was absolute fact; like he knew he had two arms, two legs; he knew that the shadow-thing beyond the wall wanted to come through to their world.
It paced: backwards, forwards, backwards, forwards …
And all the time Richard knew it stared in at them; its eyes (and there were oh-so-many eyes) fixed on the little people in that kitchen; it found them fascinating.
And Richard felt its want; its hunger; its need to join them there.
When the gunshot came it sounded strangely flat, as if the shotgun had been fired outside in the middle of a field.
Richard looked round, dazed by the ceaseless rush of totem face images and blasts of the hurricane.
Michael lay on his back on the floor: trying to aim the shotgun one-handed, while holding on to the table leg with the other, as if afraid of being carried away by the force of the gale.
Richard pulled Rosemary behind one of the huge stainless steel cookers as Michael fired the second shot. A light fitting shattered.
He looked over the top of the cooker. Michael aimed the shotgun again. But it was only a double-barrelled shotgun. He’d had two shots. Richard glanced back to where Rosemary crouched with the unconscious Amy, trying to protect her from the debris being whirled by the winds.
Richard looked back at Michael who was trying to fire the gun, but was either too dazed from Richard’s full-blooded punch or the effects of the whirlwind to understand why nothing happened when he pulled the trigger.
Richard moved on all fours towards Michael. He couldn’t stand. Potatoes and cabbages cracked against his arms and legs, driven before the blast of air.
He looked at Michael who was now looking at the floor for more ammo. Then Richard saw he’d seen the sub-machine-gun that had fallen to the floor. Michael, too, climbed on all fours and struggled across the floor towards it.
Richard tried to move faster: sometimes the wind caught him and tugged him backwards across the slippery tiles.
He shot a look over his shoulder. The wall glowed. The rainbow colours moved more quickly.
And so did the shadow behind it. It paced faster. Backwards-forwards-backwards-forwards …
As if growing more excited at the thought of breaking through.
… backwards-forwards-backwards …
Richard felt pure dread run through him. Was this the Beast itself?
Or perhaps, all along, the thing they thought was the Beast was only some part of the creature, reaching in from some alien dimension. Perhaps the part they’d encountered had been the equivalent of a boy’s finger as he experimentally probes beneath the surface of a pond, carelessly prodding his finger at tadpoles and water snails.
The main part of it was the huge and dreadful shadow that paced beyond the wall. Wanting … needing … lusting to come inside.
Faster now, he scrambled after Michael who clawed his way towards the machine-gun.
The cupboard doors crashed open; bags of sugar cascaded onto the floor, bursting; the hurricane caught the sugar, whipping it up to turn the air white. The crystals driven by the force of compressed air stung Richard’s face; he inhaled, tasting sweetness.
Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stand and leap forward as Michael’s hand stretched out towards the machine-gun. Richard landed on the back of the other man’s legs. Hooking his hand inside Michael’s shirt collar, Richard tried to pull him back from the gun.
The wind blasted; sugar swirled in the air; potatoes and cabbages rolled by in a lunatic race.
Richard pulled as hard as he could, trying to drag Michael back. Now Richard found it hard to breathe. He was weakening, and he realized this mad tug-of-war would only end when Richard had managed to haul Michael away from the gun. Or when Michael’s outstretched hand reached the gun.
And, all the time, Richard sensed the shadow moving faster and faster behind the wall, ready for the second the barrier between this world and its own came tumbling down.
Chapter 90
Beastworld
Rosemary Snow opened her eyes to see the life-and-death struggle taking place at the far side of the kitchen: Michael trying to stretch out his arm and reach the gun, Richard trying to pull him back. The gale shrieked, whipping the mist of sugar hanging in the air into swirling whirlpools like dwarf tornadoes.
‘What’s all that noise for?’
She looked down at Amy in her arms. Amy’s eyes opened sleepily.
‘Don’t worry, Amy. You’re safe.’
‘But it’s frightening my puppy.’
Rosemary glanced round at the vegetables skittering across the floor. ‘What puppy, Amy?’
‘Puppy Michael gave me. Here.’ She held out her cupped hands. ‘Puppy’s in there. He’s frightened.’
Rosemary nodded, understanding. ‘He’s a lovely puppy, Amy. Can I hold him?’
‘OK.’
Rosemary took a deep breath. She realized that Michael had somehow made Amy see the Beast as something non-threatening, as a puppy, so that she wouldn’t be frightened.
‘Amy, you have to give the puppy to me.’
Amy looked puzzled for a moment. ‘But he’s frightened. Maybe I should keep holding him.’
‘I know he’s yours, Amy,’ said Rosemary gently. ‘But it’s tiring holding him all the time, isn’t it?’
Amy nodded sleepily.
‘Give me the puppy … just for a moment. There. I’ve got him.’
Instantly Rosemary felt a crushing weight in the base of her skull; pains shot down her neck. She gasped.
As gently as she could, she sat Amy down on the floor. Then she pulled herself to her feet.
God, this is killing me … I can’t do it …
The pain in her head and neck was more than she could endure.
The weight was settling on her chest; she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t carry this thing any more. She’d have to let it go.
But if she did that she knew it would crush them all.
Through the mist of swirling sugar she could see Michael reaching forward for the gun. He’d caused all this. He’d caused all those deaths, he was to blame …
Sheer hatred for the man erupted inside her, filling her from heart to fingertips with an incandescent rage.
Suddenly she could breathe again; the weight on her chest lightened.
In an instant, that fire of hate for the man forced her mind into focus: a hard brilliant focus she’d never
experienced before.
‘MICHAEL!’
Her voice shocked her; it thundered through her lips, deep, almost masculine.
Michael heard it and turned back, his eyes wide with shock.
The wind died in that moment. The vegetables stopped their mad rolling. In the kitchen all was still and quiet. Behind the wall that glowed white as milk the shadow moved faster; backwards-forwards …
‘MICHAEL.’
And then, from the look on Michael’s face, she realized he now understood what had happened to her.
‘Rosemary. I knew you could do it.’ His voice sounded small. ‘I knew … you’re beautiful … beautiful. Rosemary, come back with me. We can make the world —’
As a glassy calm crept over Rosemary her lips and neck began to tingle. She looked Michael full in the face. And whether she spoke the words or just thought them she didn’t know:
I KNOW YOU, MICHAEL. YOU WERE A LONER AT SCHOOL. YOU TRIED TO IMPRESS THE CHILDREN BY INVENTING WAYS TO BE CRUEL TO ANIMALS. REMEMBER THE KITTEN AND THE FIREWORKS, MICHAEL? REMEMBER THE DUCKLINGS AND THE LIGHTER FUEL? HOW YOU LAUGHED. BUT EVEN THE TOUGHEST KIDS WERE SICKENED.
SO YOU CHANGED.
NOW YOU WERE KIND TO ANIMALS. AS LONG AS THEY SEEMED GRATEFUL. IF THEY STOPPED BEING GRATEFUL, YOU STOPPED BEING NICE.
‘Stop it, Rosemary.’ Michael begged.
THEN YOU FOUND THAT POWER IN TURKEY. BOY-OH-BOY, YOU DISCOVERED YOU COULD MAKE PEOPLE LIKE YOU. YOU’D GOT POWER, YOU’D GOT ALL THAT SEXY POWER. YOU COULD HURT PEOPLE AS MUCH AS YOU LIKED UNTIL THEY CRIED TEARS OF BLOOD BUT THEY’D STILL BEG FOR MORE BECAUSE YOU TOLD THEM TO. AND THEN YOU DREAMED ABOUT MAKING THE WORLD A HAPPY PLACE.
ON ONE CONDITION.
WE’D ALL HAVE TO BE GRATEFUL ALL OF THE TIME.
YOU WANT THAT POWER SO MUCH, DON’T YOU, MICHAEL?
SO I’M GOING TO LET YOU HAVE SOME OF IT. A NICE BIG PIECE THAT WILL KEEP YOU GOING FOR EVER.
‘No. Rosemary. You can’t do this to me! Rosemary …’
IT’S WHAT YOU WANTED, ISN’T IT? YOU AND THAT THING YOU FOUND? TO BE REUNITED.
‘No!’
GET READY, MICHAEL. HERE COMES THE POWER. HERE IT COMES.
NOW.
MICHAEL. LISTEN TO ME. YOU FEEL THE POWER RUN INTO YOUR BODY, INTO YOUR LEGS. NOW YOU HAVE THE POWER TO RUN FOR EVER ON LEGS THAT WILL NEVER TIRE, NEVER WEAKEN. YOU’LL NEVER STUMBLE. LEGS LIKE A MACHINE. LEGS THAT WILL NEVER DIE.
NOW ON THE WORD GO YOU WILL RUN —
‘No, Rosemary! Don’t! You don’t know what you’re doing to me. I can’t —’
… YOU WILL RUN FOR EVER MICHAEL. THROUGH THERE.
She pointed at the glowing wall where the shadow paced.
IT’S TIME, MICHAEL. READY. STEADY. GO!
Richard watched Michael’s face. The eyes were huge and terrified. The man’s face ran with sweat, muscles in his throat and face convulsed.
‘Nooooo …’
The word became a howl.
Then Michael looked at his legs as if they’d burst into flames; a mixture of shock and agony.
He moved in one convulsive lurch to his feet.
And then he ran.
Richard watched him run straight for the wall of white light. He hit it at a run. And he disappeared.
Richard didn’t know how long they sat there. There was no strength left in his arms and legs. He couldn’t move.
The light had gone from the wall. Now, it was just a kitchen wall again, like the rest, with blank white tiles.
At one point he heard Rosemary talking to Amy in a low gentle voice.
‘Where’s the puppy, Amy?’
‘I’ve taken him back. I wanted to hold him.’
‘Amy, do you know something?’
‘What?’
‘Michael took that puppy away from its home. He shouldn’t have done that because it made the puppy sad and lonely.’
‘Where does he live, then?’
‘A long way away.’
‘Can’t I keep him?’
‘It wouldn’t be nice for the puppy, would it?’
‘Suppose not. How can we take him home?’
Rosemary said gently. ‘He’s a magic puppy. Just tell him to go home.’
‘And he will?’
‘Yes, Amy. He will.’
‘OK, puppy. Home you go.’
Richard, exhausted, opened his eyes. There was a sudden swirl of displaced air. Then nothing. Apart from, that is, a sense of emptiness, as if some great presence had departed. Everything in the kitchen was still … quiet. Then he noticed that, falling from the ceiling, were specks of white. They drifted slowly down on to his hands and face.
He heard Amy’s delighted voice calling him. ‘Daddy. Look! It’s snowing! It’s snowing.’
Amy, arms straight out, turned around and around, catching those impossible snowflakes on her tongue. Despite Richard’s exhaustion, a warm bubble of happiness rose up inside of him. Smiling wearily, he heard Amy singing over and over, ‘It’s snowing, it’s snowing, it’s snowing …’
And Richard knew it was all over.
Chapter 91
Sunrise
Friday
Rosemary Snow stepped down from the train in her home town.
The town seemed different now. The buildings didn’t look so ugly, or so intimidating. In fact, the town didn’t look that bad after all. She slipped the strap of the bag over her shoulder and walked confidently along the platform. She looked forward to going home. There was nothing to fear there. She smiled to herself. She was the strong one now.
Rosemary Snow left the station, joined the shoppers thronging in the streets, and allowed herself to be carried away into the heart of a town she’d be content to call home.
Saturday
Mark Young ran up the drive, the rucksack swinging on his back. He unlocked the door and pushed it open with his foot.
‘Anyone home?’ he called, his voice echoing from the hall walls. He dropped the rucksack and pushed open the kitchen door.
‘Hall-lo! I’m back! Anyone home?’
He shoved open the living-room door. It was empty.
He went back to the kitchen, opened the back door and crossed the sunlit lawn to the patio. Then, as he’d seen his father do in the past, he stood on the brick walls of the barbecue and used it as a look-out.
Beyond the hedge lay Sunnyfields. There, in the sunlight, he saw his mother and father and Amy; a blanket spread out on the grass. They were eating sandwiches and drinking orange juice.
Happy to be home, Mark pushed his hands into his pockets, then, whistling in a carefree kind of way, he headed for the gate, ready to tell them all about the adventures he’d had on his week away from home.
Chapter 92
Forever Darker
Michael. You run beneath a black sky that has never known a single star.
You run across a plain; grey dust beneath your feet.
You can never stop.
Because close behind something pursues you; you can’t see it, but you sense its dark and pounding presence.
Michael, you run by clumps of willow trees. They shiver as you pass; the leaves hiss coldly.
As you run you are clear-headed, you are aware of your surroundings. As you are aware of your breath jolting in-out, in-out through your arid lips.
Your legs hurt; the pain bites deep.
You must run.
You can never stop.
Feel it, Michael. It is close behind you … darkly pounding.
You thirst. But how can you ever stop to drink?
Never stop, Michael. Never stop.
So you run on across the talcum-dry plain that stretches into forever. The monotony of dust and willows excruciating.
Michael, you grow hungry, brutally hungry. You scream in pain.
Now your mouth is dry; your belly swollen.
Thirst and hunger. Twin suns burning in your screaming sky.
But still you run.
And run.
A
nd your eyes still see this world of dust and willows. And you feel the agony gnaw your legs. As if they have been dipped in petrol and set on fire.
And you know that, even though you began this endless race through the arid dreamscape a man, what runs through it now is a man no longer.
YOU KNOW: That the arid air blows through your ribs; that the skin has peeled from your skull; that your heart is dry as a stone; that two plump eyes stare whitely out from the sockets.
And, Michael, you know: That you will run on … and on …
FOREVER DARKER.
THE END
A Note on the Author
Simon Clark is a prolific horror and speculative fiction writer. His short stories have appeared in several magazines and anthologies and he has been nominated for the Bram Stoker Award for Best First Novel and World Fantasy Award for Best Novella. In 2002 he was awarded the British Fantasy Award for The Night of the Triffids.
Simon Clark lives with his wife and children in Doncaster, South Yorkshire.
Discover books by Simon Clark published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/SimonClark
Blood Crazy
Darker
Nailed by the Heart
For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain references to missing images.
This electronic edition published in 2014 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP
First published in Great Britain in 2002 by Hodder and Stoughton
Copyright © 2002 Simon Clark
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