Tar: An apocalyptic horror novella (13 page)

A
mber’s feet
struggled to gain purchase on the stony track, but it wasn’t far from the main road and she scrambled there fairly quickly, adrenaline coursing through her body helping her get there. She couldn’t hear any noise behind her but dared not look round for the fear it may cause her to stumble. Sports had never been Amber’s forte and at this very moment she regretted it. That couldn’t be helped now. She had to do her best.

Better than that,
she thought,
this is life or death
.

Running down the hill almost caused Amber to stumble, her legs trying to go faster than her body would allow. Breathing was getting tougher by the second and the beginning of a cramp started to run up her side. Reaching the bottom of the incline she decided to chance a look behind her.

Nothing.

She slowed to a stop to try and catch her breath and couldn’t help but flick the torch back and forth in a frenzy. Still she couldn’t spot the hideous thing, and that unnerved her rather than comforted her. There was no noise either though, which puzzled her more than anything. On a quiet night like tonight she expected to be able to hear it moving, even slowly. Her breath was still fast and in the silence, for a second, she wondered if she had imagined the terrifying apparition that had appeared before her.

No, definitely not.

If she managed to survive this night then the image would be ingrained in her memory for the rest of her days.

Home wasn’t far away now; she had made it to the corner of the road at the bottom of the hill. On both sides of the road stood dark bushes, and now that the adrenaline seemed to be disappearing Amber didn’t fancy running for home. The fear of making too much noise was firmly in her head so she decided to move gradually, placing each step carefully in front of her.

The breeze had picked up, hardly noticeable at first, but the rustling of the leaves startled her each time she heard it.

Nearly there now. Nearly there.

Amber could barely contain her excitement as she got nearer the driveway. The pillars at the end of the drive came into view first then increasingly the road leading up to the house. The security light came on as she stepped foot onto the driveway, illuminating her in the darkness.

The bright light dazzled her as she stared at it. It was such a contrast to the darkness that had surrounded her during the night. Standing in the light she was conscious of still being out in the open and, unsure where the creature was, she made her way towards the safety of her home.

Amber decided to head round to the back door in case the creature was somewhere out front, somehow assuming the back was safer. In a rush to go and find Steven she forgot to switch the kitchen light off which, in her current situation, was a blessing in disguise as it illuminated a portion of the garden.

Removing the key from her pocket she tried her best to insert the key into the lock with her shaking hands. Turning the key, she couldn’t understand why it wouldn’t turn all the way. It dawned on her when she decided to try the handle and the door swung open. As well as leaving the light on she had also forgotten to lock the door.

“Broxy, it’s me!” Amber shouted in the hope that the dog had moved and would come through. He never came though. She assumed he was still behind the sofa.

Removing the mobile from her pocket she checked the signal.

Two bars.

“Thank god,” Amber sighed.

Quickly tapping in the three nines and hitting the “Dial” button, Amber put the phone to her ear and waited impatiently for the line to be answered. Whilst listening to the ringing tone, she moved towards the door to lock it.

“Emergency Services. Which service do you require? Fire, Police or Ambulance?” a voice said, startling Amber nearly causing her to drop the phone.

“Erm, y-yes, Police please,” Amber replied.

“One moment please….” The line made a funny noise as if being connected

“Hello, where are you calling from?”

Amber gave her address as quick as she could.

“You need to send help now, there are some people dead and something is after me…..”

“Calm down ma’am – can you repeat that please?”

Just before Amber had the chance to answer, a low growling sound caught her attention. The colour drained from her face and as she turned to see where it was coming from, Broxy stuck his head round the corner of the wall with his teeth showing and hackles raised.

“Broxy?”

The dog seemed to be looking through Amber which unsettled her.

“Ma’am, are you there? Ma’am?”

Amber ignored the voice on the phone and slowly turned to see what Broxy was looking at.

Facing the glass window of the door, she strained her eyes to see past the reflection of herself in the glass but couldn’t see anything. Edging closer to the door, a shape began to materialise. Amber froze.

No! No! No!

Before she had a chance to voice her fear, the shape pounced towards the door.

SMASH!

Hundreds of jagged bits of glass covered Amber and before she had time to react, a dark shape was before her and a sharp pain shot through her. She dropped the phone and fell to the ground. The monster was on her, tearing and biting and she knew this was the end. No-one was going to save her. Thoughts of Steven and how happy they had been when they moved here filled her head.

“Ma’am? Hello? What’s happening?”

An ear-piercing, inhumane scream filled the earpiece.

F
riday 25th Sept. 2015

M
YSTERY AS BODIES FOUND

By Matt Smyth
– The Daily Standard

P
olice were called
to a property on the edge of town this week only to discover the body of a young woman and, what appeared to be, her dog. Police have declined to give a full statement but did say it looked like an animal attack.

The property is not far from the notorious Dobson Farm, which has been plagued by stories and myths over the years. Sightings of strange creatures roaming the countryside have been rife in the town.

None of which have been confirmed.

M
y new home
. Patrick, my cabby, peeped his horn as he drove off and I gave a smile and a wave before turning back to take it all in. Absolutely classic: thatched roof, white walls with the chimney stack on the outside, little square windows, brush leading up to trees on the hill and Muckross Lake in the background.

'The Land of Heart's Desire.' Okay, so Yeats wasn't talking about this place but surely he of all people would understand poetic licence. I got my map out. His quote was for Sligo. Couldn't be much further away on this tiny island if you call that distance. I don't see how they can call a place so small a country being just an eighth the size of Texas. Never liked Texas mind; not many New Yorker's do. Anyway, all of that is far away. It's time to immerse myself in my roots.  

The skies didn't look quite so beautiful and I thought it might be best to get my bags moved in. The door wasn't locked and when I entered I saw why; pretty basic. Just the one room to live in with a rough stone floor and a huge blackened hearth. I guessed why the bed was set against the wall closest to the fire and that would be useful; it was still pretty chilly these March nights and no central heating here. But the desk was perfect, set in front of a window looking out onto the lake. I picked up a note left for me.

'Welcome to your holiday home, Mr Devlin. You'll have read all the essential information I sent you about how to get on. I'm afraid the generator is acting up and I've asked my son, Conall, to pop over and have a look at it. He's a good lad, but a bit forgetful.

Someone will help you from the village if he's tardy. I hope you'll have a pleasant stay. 

Mrs McGuire.'

The windows didn't let in much light and the sun would be down soon enough. I tried the old brown Bakelite light switch, following the line of the wires running up the wall to the bulb hanging bare in the centre of the ceiling. It gave a flickering tease, just to give me hope, then failed.

I sighed instinctively, but actually, that's just fine; it'll all add to the atmosphere. I had to duck down to go through the doorway into the kitchen. The small extra area was tacked on to the side of the house and I wondered how long the original builders had taken to think of that good idea. It had a bench with a camping stove and gas canister, a metal sink which had seen better days, and a shelf with a couple of pans, plates and bowls. I'd memorised Mrs McGuire's inventory, sitting in my apartment in Manhattan, excited about my trip, so I knew there were candles in the draw and oil lamps in the cupboard. Something told me the generator behaviour might not have been unexpected.

By the time the light had faded I had strategic lighting in place and the great satisfaction of smoke rising from the pile of wood and paper in the fireplace after the challenge of the damp matches. I took out my notebook and wrote 'matches' at the top of my shopping list. I'd take a trek to the village in the morning. Two miles is not a stroll for a city boy. I'd persuaded myself not to get a hire car as the temptation to go sightseeing would be great and that wasn't the goal. The pen in my hand had reminded me. Writing.

Okay, so I'm no Martin Amis, but I have my dreams. I'd a couple of respectable competition near misses on my author C.V. and maybe that short story wasn't a dead duck. Just unlucky to choose seventeen foolish publishers in a row. I carried a lantern over to the desk and got out my beautiful new, leather bound writing book, fountain pen and ink. I sat up straight in the seat and looked out the window. Pitch black, overcast night. I opened the cover of the book to a pristine white page and looked at it. I unscrewed the end of the fountain pen and checked the ink. All good. I looked at the page again. I got out my rough notes and flicked through some of the ramblings I'd scribbled on the plane. I looked out of the window at the blackness. I looked at the clean, blank page. Maybe it was time for dinner.

T
he morning was cold
. I pulled the woollen blanket up over my head and wondered how long I would be able to ignore the call of nature that had woken me. It had to be faced. I jumped out of the bed and grabbed my coat. I shivered as I pulled on my boots. A couple lessons learned for my next night: bank up the fire before dropping off and see if I can find a suitable container to act as an indoor toilet. This morning, since I was up, it would be the outdoor option. Full bladder and brisk though it was, I had to stop and gaze out over the lake. No wonder so many poets came from Ireland.

I felt truly alive when I got back to the cottage. First order was to rekindle the fire, but my new skill was well in hand and it took no time. I was inspired. I forsook the beautiful view from the window to take seat beside the hearth, not even bothering to dress. Notebook and pen in hand, I was ready to begin.

“Maidin!” The shout from somewhere out front made me jump.

"That's morning in Irish by the way," said the man, not much younger than me. He didn’t look up as I opened the door, remaining bent over a little shed outside which I presumed must contain the malfunctioning generator.

“It's Conall, isn't it?” I asked.

“That's me alright.” He stood, wiping his hands with an oily rag. “Did ye sleep okay then?”

“Very well, thanks.”

“That's great. Personally, I don't understand anyone who'd want to shack themselves up in these little hovels, but we ain't complainin' about taking your cash and it takes all sorts. You're from the Big Apple I hear?”

I smiled. “Yes.”

“Well, you listen to me. This ain't your city. You best be safe indoors of a night. You hear?”

“It's dangerous? Animals?”

“Ah, all sorts of things in this old land. We grow up here and we know the nature of things. That's all I have to say.”

I didn't know how to respond, but Conall didn't appear to want one.

“You'll be wanting a ride into the village now, so I suggest you put on some of your fancy clothes. It just our way, not wearing pyjamas in public. We're old fashioned sorts.”

“Err... Yes, of course.”

He was in his Land Rover with the engine started by the time I returned. I would have been more than happy to watch out of the windows at the countryside passing by as he drove, but what he'd said played on my mind.

“Conall. Do you mind, but what exactly did you mean earlier?”

“Ah, I can't kid around with you now, ye seem like a straight up fella. What's yer name?”

“Michael.”

“Well, Michael, it's our way with new sorts around and I'm sort of obliged. Okay, we might take a little pleasure in pulling yer leg to hear the bells ringing, but this land is built on our stories and there's a bit of pride in the colour they bring. Myself, I've not seen ought, but I'm not saying they're all bog mist mind. Plenty say's they have and some of them are too big for me to take the Mickey. So you pay no heed, but play safe and no midnight roaming, okay?”

“Okay.” I didn't feel I was going to get any sense out of this conversation and went back to my sightseeing.

He dropped me in the town centre. Apart from being old and quaint, it had the touches of the modern world: A branded coffee house, a thrift store. I'd built up a few more items for my list during the previous evening which were easily satisfied by the variety of shops. What did catch my eye was as old bookshop that couldn't be missed.

A bell rang as I pushed open the door, not electronic, but clapper striking metal. Perfect. The shelves were in disarray, books of all shapes and sizes making a colourful mosaic. They didn't seem to be categorised either: I found The Odyssey sandwiched between a sea food cookery book and Hoyle's Rules of Games.

“What you want?” I couldn't see the owner of the voice until I turned the corner of a ceiling height bookshelf. An old man wearing a black Trilby and a raincoat sat at a small desk.

“Hello. Your shop is wonderful. I'm visiting from the States and when I noticed your place I had to come in. I'm a writer you see and...”

“Do you want to buy a book or not?”

“Oh. Yes, of course.”

He picked up the nearest book to him and held it out: a children's story book.

“Here,” he said. “One pound.”

I took it from him to be polite and flicked through the pages, even though I had no interest in it. I handed it back.

“Delightful, but not what I was looking for.”

“What were you looking for then?”

“Oh, I'm not sure.”

He picked up the next nearest book and held it out: How to stop smoking.

“One pound.” I hadn't smoked since I was a teenager. I shook my head.

“I'm sorry, I'm not being very helpful.”

“That's right,” he replied.

“Okay. How about something local?” I thought of the conversation with Conall. “Local stories?” I added.

He coughed as he took pains to rise. His coat was stained and an unpleasant, stale smell wafted over. He searched across the binders of the books on a shelf to his right, drew one and plonked in on the table.

“One pound?” I asked.

“Two pound”, he said, returning heavily to his seat.

“Have a nice day,” I said as I put the money on the desk, picked up my purchase and left.

I
was soaked
when I got back to the cottage; the rain on the walk home had been heavy and persistent. I rekindled the remains of the fire and hung my clothes around it to dry, leaving me back in my dressing gown. I'd bought some fresh veg and bread and went about making myself a broth. It felt cosy being inside with the downpour around my shelter. While the pot simmered I sat by the fire and flicked through my new book.

I'd only briefly looked at the title and cover in the book shop, so it was a surprise when I found it to be about local folklore. I preferred factual: history. There were the various fairy folk that everyone would recognise, creatures of the woods. There were some more interesting specific characters I hadn't heard of. The red haired man and the dark man who abduct people to the fairy realm. The grey man who creates fogs to crash ships. The man of hunger who blesses those that give alms. And the women. I'd always thought the Banshee a horrific character, but it seems she just announces a death with her wail. Teasing mermaids who become obedient wives when captured. And a beautiful muse, but it doesn't end well for those inspired, of course.

Being a bit of a pragmatist, I could see reasons for these tales. Some just entertain on a quiet night. Some to explain what they found unexplainable. Some to strike fear to manipulate behaviour or even to hide their misdeeds. There was a burning smell from the kitchen and I dropped the book to rush and save what I could of my lunch.

T
he skies had cleared
by the time dusk came and I sat admiring the view, back at the desk and in front of my blank page. I'd toyed around with some ideas of American history: the Wild West, New York during prohibition, but everything I thought of seemed to be a rehash of old movies I'd seen and I didn't have the resources to hand for any research. As I gazed out to the lake, I noticed a woman strolling across the stones. She had on a green coat with an ankle length white dress underneath. I didn't imagine that was very practical for her walk; the hem wouldn't stay white for long. She knelt to pick up stones, throwing them into the still waters, pausing until the ripples had faded before throwing another. Her hair was long, black and curled around her shoulders. Her repeated action made her progress towards the cottage slow and it was becoming harder to see in the fading light.

There weren't any other cottages near here for miles. If she'd come from the village, it would be a dark walk back. Who was she? A local girl, a wild spirit who walked alone, drawn to wander in the evenings by herself to feel the earth and air around her? A solitary creature, disconnected from society, woven into nature, the land and the waters. 

She turned to track back the way she came, and I stood up abruptly from my seat, leaning towards the window, my soul shouting 'No, please, come back'. I wanted to see her continue forward, come up the shingle to my little house. Have her disappear from view only for the moment it would take me to open the door and see her standing at the eaves, smiling in the light from the room. But it grew dark quickly, and she was gone. As I sat back in the seat, my mind was filled with images and stories of her. I was flooded with fantasies of her touch, her kiss, the overwhelming pleasure of our bodies entwined. I began to write furiously.

By the time morning light came I'd filled half of my book with hastily scribbled writing. The flow had stopped suddenly and nothing more would come. My eyes retreated into my skull at the golden sunrise. The fire had burned out long ago, and I hadn't realised how cold I'd become. I went over to the bed and curled myself beneath the blankets. I tried to think of her, imagine her in the bed with me, but I couldn't form even the vaguest image. I was tired. I slept.

It was late afternoon when I rose; too late to do anything with the remaining day. The previous night's events pushed their way back to my forming consciousness, and I rushed over to the book to see what I'd written. The light was dim, so I picked it up and walked to the light switch. A few clicks gave no result. I took it to the front door and opened it for the daylight, ignoring the cold. I turned over page after page. It was garbled nonsense; a cascade of words forming no rhyme or reason. I tried to picture the woman again, but the visions were pathetic inventions. Even the feelings that had obviously overwhelmed me were just echoes. I felt misery forming... but this wouldn't do. I was a practical sort and not one for flights of fancy. Last night was some sort of aberration because of the long journey and the strange surroundings. I put the book on the table, closing the cover on the event. I got my clothes together, brushed myself down. I'd fix myself a good meal and set off to the village before evening fell.

The pub was called 'The Black Cat', the swinging sign above the door showing a literal translation in its picture. It had a green painted double door which I could only just get through with one half opened. The smoke hit me. It was an avenue of stools in front of the bar, only room for small round tables against the wall. Signs advertised Murphy's and Guinness. The stools were all occupied with men, drinking and chatting. I stood at the bar for quite some time, holding out my money and trying to catch the landlord's eye. Nobody had paid any attention to my arrival.