Tales From the Graveyard Read online

  ‘Christ, he must’ve got in a bog!’ Charles started forward, broke into a shambling run. Panicking, premature grief because it was probably too late, the dog had been sucked down into some stinking mire and was already dead. Heedless of his own safety oblivious of his shooting partner. He caught his foot in a tangled root, fell, picked himself up. Blundering on, calling almost hysterically.

  Neither of them have been seen or heard since…

  Stupid old bugger, they should put him away! The hooded crow was croaking again, a different note this time, a kind of mocking call. We’ve got your dog, you’re next!

  A double shot, the two reports almost simultaneous so that they could have been mistaken for a single blast from a shotgun. Sod, Peter, the selfish bastard! Remus is lost, probably dead, and he’s still carrying on shooting. And then Charles heard Peter scream. Just once. He tried to tell himself that his companion had shouted for the dog, that the call had been warped out of all recognition by these high altitude acoustics.

  But however much he tried to lie to himself he knew that it had been a cry of mortal fear.

  And now there was only that awful silence left. You could feel it, hear it, the creeping stillness that came with the thickening mountain mist, touching you with its vile dead fingers, stroking you in readiness for…

  Charles turned a full circle, slowly, gun held in readiness, safety catch pushed forward, forefinger resting on the trigger. Ferguson and old Macgregor had a gun, too, hadn’t they? Fired before they screamed. And never been seen again, alive or dead. The waiting was the worst part, knowing that there was something out there in the mist. Something that saw you, watched you. Stalked you. It had got Peter, the dog too. And now silently and relentlessly, it was moving in for Charles.

  Suddenly, Charles saw it, thought at first that the head was that of a deer. A rogue Red perhaps, a giant beast that had no fear of man. But the horns were not antlers, and the body that slithered behind it was like that of some outsize black slug, grossly mutated so that it might have been the figment of a fevered nightmare. Yards of it uncoiling out of the foul opaqueness, glistening evilly in the greyness, stinking as it slimed its way towards him.

  He fired twice, blasted that grotesque head at point blank range, but the shot charges did not so much as score the reptilian features; did not slow the advance of the serpentine body. A mouth that stretched and elongated to unbelievable proportions as it fanned him with its putrid breath, sunk its jagged incisors into his fleshly throat before his own scream had even begun.

  Charles’s final thought was not of his own fate, nor that of his human and canine companions. But in his fear-crazed mind he heard again Stewart’s voice crackling on the phone.

  ‘If it wasnae for the mountains in the way, ye’d be able to see Loch Ness from the Moss!’

  The Ghouls

  (from Graveyard Rendezvous 2)

  Their trade was in fresh corpses from the graveyard.

  Granger opened his eyes, for the hundredth time, and then closed them again. It was useless peering, for there was nothing but total darkness all around him. He had not even brought a torch with him, for there is little to see when one is encased in a coffin which is a foot short in measurement anyway, and one is forced to draw one’s knees up and succumb to excruciating pain brought about by cramp. His left hand rested on the small oxygen cylinder at his side, the mask over his face was oppressive, almost frightening. Yet he knew that without it he would die of suffocation within a matter of minutes.

  Once again he nearly gave way to the feeling of blind panic, an instinct that urged him to scream, to beat his fists upon the tightly fastened lid above his head, and then to rip his fingers to shreds by clawing at the highly polished wood.

  Time meant nothing to him. He was unable to discern minutes from hours. That metal cylinder was his hourglass. When that ran out, then so would his life. He wondered again if he could trust Pieter, the callow youth who had sworn to return at dawn and feverishly dig down through six feet of fresh earth until he could raise the lid off the coffin. That was, unless the others came first. Granger had never been a religious man, but he prayed they would. His groping fingers now located something else by his side; something metal. Subconsciously he traced the outline of this object, from the tip of the short stubby barrel to the heel of the ivory butt. Yes, that .32 revolver certainly did something to boost his morale, he told himself. Again, he checked that it was loaded. When the time came for him to use it there must be no mistakes.

  After a while he dozed, a restless slumber in which he dreamed that his oxygen ran out and he was slowly suffocating, screaming in terror the whole while. Then he awoke, his whole body glistening with perspiration beneath the white shroud.

  Somewhere there was a scraping sound, the noise made by steel striking stone, and he felt his pulse quicken, his heart pounded even more wildly. He wished he knew what time it was. The noise was getting louder now, and he knew that the diggers were getting nearer. Was it Pieter, or was it them?

  A spade scraped the outside of the coffin, and then for the first time he caught the sound of human voices. They were muffled, indecipherable, but Granger knew that his vigil was over. He rested the revolver comfortably in the palm of his hand and thumbed back the safety catch.

  Next came a splintering sound which was almost deafening in the confined space. They were not even bothering to unscrew the lid. They were quite content to prise it off in their urgency to get at the body within.

  ‘That’s it!’ The voice was muffled, uncouth, and he knew that the lid was now partly removed. ‘Give us a hand an we’ll be away from here in no time at all.’

  Granger was glad that the only light outside came from the stars as they wrenched the lid away, splintering it in the process, for he would not need time to adjust his eyes. He could see them both now. Their features were in shadow, but they were large of build, both dressed in overalls, caps and mufflers, as they stood in the open grave, spades and pick-axes in their hands. Their breath came in short, wheezing gasps after the physical exertion which had been necessary in their task. They were pausing now, glad of their brief respite before they began hauling the “corpse” up on the small pulley which they had brought with them.

  The range was no more than a yard at the most as Granger pulled the trigger twice in quick succession, firing through the shroud. The reports boomed and reverberated in the grave, but he knew they would be virtually inaudible any distance way above ground. Both men slumped forward simultaneously, dead before they fell, and never knowing what had hit them.

  Granger struggled to his feet, pushing aside one of the bodies which was lying across him. It was all he could do to prevent himself from crying out as his circulation began flowing again, and it was fully ten minutes before he was able to haul himself up to the deserted cemetery above him by means of the pulley ropes which the men had brought with them.

  As he scrambled out of that deep oblong hole, a voice greeted him from behind a nearby tombstone. ‘Mister Granger, Mister Granger, Sir.’ There was fear in every syllable. ‘Are you alright, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Pieter,’ Granger was his cool self once more now that he had the open sky above him. ‘I’ll be alright, but we’ve got to work fast. I see the false dawn is already in the sky. Give me a hand.’

  From beneath some flowering rhododendron bushes the man and the boy heaved to lift the white shrouded figure which they had hidden there some hours earlier. Laboriously they struggled until they reached the graveside, where they were able to lower it into the open coffin, using the pulley again. This done, Granger climbed down and stood with his feet unceremoniously upon the two dead men.

  He could not resist pulling the shroud aside and taking one last look at the features which he had gazed upon in life for the last twenty years. He could not help thinking that even death had not robbed Marilyn of her beauty.

  Systematically, he secured the damaged lid of the coffin before clambering up to Pieter again, and helpi
ng him to shovel the earth back into the gaping hole. He regretted that the two body snatchers would have to share the same grave as his late wife but, alas, there was no other way if he was to remove all traces of his night’s work.

  Soon there was no evidence that the grave had been tampered with. The man and the boy leaned on their spades, each busy with his own thoughts, as the daylight became stronger every minute, destroying the black deeds of the night as though they had never been.

  ‘Was there no other way, Mister Granger?’ Pieter was the first to break the silence. ‘Could we not have hidden in the bushes and surprised them from above?’

  Granger shook his head ‘No, Pieter,’ he said, ‘There was no other way.’ He pushed some money into the boy’s hand and, buttoning up his overcoat, he strode away into the surrounding woodlands where his car was hidden, experiencing a combined sense of grief and the satisfaction of a job well done.

  Professor Granger felt at peace with the world at last. Admittedly, his source of fresh corpses at the research centre had now been exterminated but that mattered no longer to him. Nobody would ever miss the human ghouls whose lives he had snuffed out only an hour or so ago. Except, perhaps, his colleagues in the laboratory. They would never know how it all ended, and that was the best way if the whole team of scientists were to continue their work in harmony.

  The Lurkers

  (from Graveyard Rendezvous 4)

  They lurked in the shadows ready to murder.

  Carson had been to see me again. Not that I wasn’t expecting him because he came into my office most mornings these days. However, this time I'd felt ill at ease after he’d left, and for a long time I sat at my desk smoking one cigarette after another, staring up at the ceiling and wondering just what the hell I was going to do. I could just pack up, leave town, and lose myself someplace. Or could I? There were hundreds of places I could go, but nowhere was big enough to hide me.

  This time Carson hadn’t threatened me the way he’d done so often in the past. This worried me. He’d been charming, smiled and chatted about trivialities, and assured me that he meant no harm. I asked him if this applied also to the two not-so-tame ‘gorillas’ who had not let me out of their sight once for the past three months, guys who went around with loaded automatics in there hip-pockets and wouldn’t hesitate to use them. Of course, Carson assured me suavely, pausing to remove the ivory-cigarette holder from his mouth so that he could flash me one of those supposedly reassuring leers, they were only concerned for my safety. They were prepared to buy me out, a six-figure sum for the typewritten manuscript which they wanted so badly, the original notes to be included in the deal, of course.

  It was a tempting offer, and I would have parted with it but not for two reasons. First, what was going to happen to me once they had it in their possession? The contents were known only to me. Presumably they had already killed Lycett, the man who made the original rough notes in those two exercise books, so with me out of the way nobody else would know about the contents. How could they be sure that I wouldn’t sit down and rewrite the lot from memory? For all they knew I might already have taken a carbon copy. No, there was only one way they could be sure of eradicating the contents of that unpublished literary work forever!

  Secondly, I had a duty to the public. If I gave Carson the script I would become an accessory to the organisation of blackmail, drug trafficking, murder, and a whole empire of crime.

  I only ever saw Lycett, the author, once. He was a reporter on one of the smaller papers at the time, and it was six months earlier when he had called to see me, the month my grandmother died, in fact. He said he’d seen my articles in the press, and wondered if I’d care to undertake the writing of this particular work on his behalf. I said I’d look through the notes, every page of which was filled with barely legible handwriting. It took me a week to decipher it, and I came to the conclusion that it was the basis of a plot for a highly imaginative novel, compiled by a man who stretched one’s own credulity to its very limits. However, I hadn’t much work on hand at the time, which isn’t a good situation for any freelance journalist, so I worked on it night and day.

  Then, one day, I chanced upon a name towards the end of the manuscript which seemed to ring a bell somewhere in my memory. Purely out of curiosity I looked it up in my files, and it was then that I received the first shock in this chain of events which was only just the beginning. Feverishly I began to look up the other characters in this wildly improbable work. One by one I found them, prominent citizens, businessmen, landowners. Every one of them existed in real life. The book Lycett had asked me to write was fact, not fiction! And within its pages were exposed a ring of corruption so vast that the villains would fill one of our leading prisons.

  Needless to say, I rang Lycett at his apartment at once, but the call went unanswered. I rang again at intervals throughout the day, but still there was no reply. He could have just been out. I began to feel uneasy, and eventually I decided to go and call on him in person.

  It was nine o’clock when I stepped out of the elevator onto the lush carpeting of the floor where Lycett had his flat. As I approached the door I halted in my tracks, a feeling of despair creeping over me. I was almost unable to comprehend the wording of the notice pinned to the door - ‘VACANT. TO LET’. It was at this moment that I realised that I would never set eyes on Lycett again.

  The next few weeks found me in a state of acute indecision. What was I to do with the completed manuscript now in my possession? Common sense told me to destroy it, but a sense of loyalty to my fellow men urged me to hold on to it, to hide it. Then Carson approached me, the morning of my grandmother’s funeral, and as I joined the mourners my face was white and strained. I had already come to a decision. I knew what I had to do, to protect both myself and my folks, in a way it was a kind of compromise, an insurance of life and safety for us.

  Within a week my whole life had become one nightmare game of hide-and-seek. Carson now showed his true colours and threatened me with my life unless I handed the manuscript over to him, but I countered this with the ultimatum that if anything happened to me it would come to light, anyway. Whether or not he believed me, I don't know, but he wasn’t taking any chances and I was allowed to live. I also let him know that the death of either of my folks would mean an exposure of his corrupt organisation, too. I was buying time for all of us, as fast as I could, but one day it would run out.

  The weeks wore on, weeks of fear and foreboding for myself. My office was constantly under surveillance from the street below, and I knew that the cars which were parked overnight on the piece of waste ground opposite the house where I lived with my mother and father contained Carson’s hidden watchers. His Lurkers, the killers who remained under cover of darkness and shadows, waiting.

  Once I stood at the window of my bedroom with a loaded shotgun in my hands. The moon was full, and I could see the two men in the parked car clearly. They were less than thirty yards away, and I was tempted to discharge both barrels at them. However, I couldn’t have explained my actions to the law, so slowly I unloaded the gun and returned it to its resting place beneath the bed.

  In spite of everything I tried to lead a normal life. Five days of the week I went into the office, but mostly in the evenings I stayed indoors. I motored over to see my girl in the next town no more than twice a week, even then taking devious routes in order to throw off my pursuers. Once Carson found out about her it might present him with the opportunity he sought to bargain for the missing manuscript. Jeanette was pretty sore about these infrequent visits, but I couldn't tell her the real reason, and somehow I felt it might be for the best if she left me, distressing as it would be at first.

  On Sundays I always went to church, something which I have done throughout my life. I noticed that Carson’s henchmen had also joined the congregation, occupying a pew at the back. It amused me to think that I had brought his lurkers into a place of worship.

  After the services I made a point of tending to t
he family grave beneath the tall elm trees, in the furthermost corner of the overgrown courtyard. It was practically the only grave which was regularly looked after amidst this jungle of tall weeds, and I prided myself in its appearance. I washed the headstone with detergent in order to remove the bird-droppings, and cleared an area around it which I planted with lobelia and alyssum. Truly it was a colourful island in a sea of drab desolation. Below this patch of ground lay my grandparents and great-grandparents. My parents, myself, and any children which I might father will all join them in time, united in death as we have been in life.

  And so life went on, day after day, week after week, month after month, and still they watched me. Once they broke into my office, but nothing was taken. They did not find what they were looking for. Once they got their hands on that manuscript I was doomed. But someday it will be found. The death of either myself or my parents will bring it to light. Carson’s empire will be shattered. The opening of our family tomb will sweep a tidal wave of destruction over them, for there, resting in the coffin of my grandmother, will be found the wreath which I threw in that grey afternoon, only minutes before the discreetly waiting grave-diggers began filling in that gaping hole. The bunch of lilies will have long rotted away, but packed neatly inside the polythene wrappings at the base of the plastic covering which originally were flowers, will be discovered that manuscript which has been sought by Carson for so long. The fate of those men who have commanded public respect for so long lies below ground level in this neglected and peaceful churchyard. Carson and his men lurk in the shadows of my life, and I just wait.

  The Executioner

  (from Graveyard Rendezvous 6)