Hindered Souls: Dark Tales for Dark Nights, page 14
"We cannot rest." it said, "We cannot rest." Louder this time.
"What... what are you?" a terrified Rob wheezed.
"We are what remains. We have seen what you have done. How you treat us before the fire. It is not right. You defile the bodies. Playthings for your sick games."
Rob started to cry. He heard this before, at his sentencing. Maybe Mr. Charles would hear it at his one day.
"Your tears mean nothing. We cannot rest because we are not whole."
"Not whole?"
"The ashes. Your lack of respect. Burning bodies together. We are tethered to here. To you."
As the cloud spoke, its form fluctuated and transformed into the faces of those he had tormented. The people he had defiled. The ghosts of the already dead. Rob felt no real remorse, terrified as he was. He wanted to live. Maybe he could be different, maybe not. He stuttered out a few words,
"What can I do?"
"You can DIE!"
With those final three words, the incinerators roared to life; flames licking high up their internal walls. Rob's bodily functions let him down for the second time that night, not that it mattered. The ash cloud lost its form and spun, swirled and eddied in front of him. It whipped around the room faster and faster, forming an ash tornado. It approached Rob and sucked him into its maelstrom. Rob spun round and round. Images flashed in front of his eyes, none of them happy or pretty. The ash storm spat him out into the roaring furnace.
His screams were lost in the night.
Boufonoula
by DJ Tyrer
Jonathan had persuaded his parents to fund his trip to France on the grounds it would be educational, but it seemed the only things he had learnt so far was that the GCSE-level French he hadn’t thought about in a decade wasn’t sufficient preparation for actually speaking with a native, and that phrase books could only get you so far.
Right now, he was somewhere in south-central France. South-central was the best he could locate himself as he was completely lost. The rental car's satnav wasn't working and road signs and map reading most definitely hadn’t been on the GCSE test.
“I should’ve stayed in Paris,” he told the dashboard. At least in Paris you could find plenty of English speakers and a good time. Out here in the towns and villages, all he had managed to find so far were surly monoglots and suspicious gendarmes. Had he known which way to point his car, he would’ve turned around and gone back.
It was starting to get dark and, despite the signs apparently pointing to various villages with names that seemed unpronounceable even for France, Jonathan had just been driving down country lanes between fields and forests for the past few hours. If he couldn’t find a place to stay, he would have to park on the verge and sleep in the car. The darkness encroached relentlessly upon the countryside with only a sliver of moon to offset its grasp.
Then, down a narrow side-lane, he spotted a farmhouse.
It was a long shot, he knew: most of the provincial French people he had met so far seemed to loathe foreigners. If he were lucky, perhaps they would just gouge him on the price rather than turn him away.
He turned onto the farm track and drove carefully up to it, the branches of the trees either side scraping at the sides and roof of his car.
The beams of his headlights raking across the front of the farmhouse must have alerted whoever was inside to his arrival as, a moment later, the front door opened. A figure appeared in the orange rectangle of light and looked out towards him; a woman, going by the outline of a dress. At least he couldn’t see any sign of a shotgun in her hands.
A little nervously, Jonathan stepped out of the car.
In the darkness, something made a sound somewhere between a cough, a croak and a bark.
The Frenchwoman fired off a rapid string of sounds he couldn’t even comprehend as words, let alone translate.
“Uh, parlez-vous Anglais?” he asked, fumbling for his phrasebook in case he needed to ask for a room in French.
“Anglais? Oui – I mean, yes. I speak your language, even though it is as barbarous a tongue as Français.”
“Sorry?”
“This is Averoigne – long before the French came here, we spoke Averoinhat and, for some of us, it remains our cradle tongue.”
“Oh.”
“But, you didn’t drive out to discuss language and history, did you? How is it I may serve you?”
Jonathan barely managed to stifle a grin at the flowery language: although her face was shadowed and her mouth was seemingly wider than he liked, she appeared to be an attractive young woman, giving the offer quite the wrong connotations.
“Um, I wondered if you had a room I might rent? I need a place to stay tonight.”
“To rent? No. To stay in? Yes. It is not our custom to charge our guests for rent and it would be nice to have a guest here; this is a remote and lonely country and I am all on my own.” She twitched a smile that made him wonder if the wording of her previous offer had been deliberate. “Would you like to come in?”
“Yes, thank you.” He switched off the car engine, grabbed his backpack and followed her inside.
There was a faint smell of damp and age to the house, but otherwise it was a pleasant and welcoming place of dark beams and white-plastered walls with a blazing log fire in the stone-flagged kitchen into which she led him.
“Something to eat?” she asked him. “I have some soup and bread fresh baked today.”
“That would be great. Thank you.”
“Wine or coffee to drink?”
“Uh, coffee, please.”
The woman doled out the soup, buttered some bread and poured him a coffee and a cup for herself. Watching her, he decided she was attractive, despite her wide, thin-lipped mouth. Her hair was long and a shiny black as if she had just stepped out of the shower and was perfectly offset by her pale skin. She had on a simple tabard-style dress of eggshell blue.
“Mmm, this is good,” he said taking a bite of the bread dipped in the soup. “Thank you. Oh, my name’s Jonathan, by the way.”
“They call me Boufonoula,” she said, spelling it for him.
“That sounds more Irish than French to me.”
“It is Averoinhat.”
“What does it mean?”
She laughed pleasantly. “Oh, nothing special.”
He finished the meal while she sipped at her coffee and they chatted about all the inconsequential things, like the weather, that two strangers chat about when uncertain what to say.
“Now,” she said when they had finished their coffee, “I could show you to the guest bedroom. But, I would recommend the master bedroom: it is better appointed and I think you might find the company congenial.”
“Well, when you put the offer like that,” he grinned, “how could I refuse? I think I’ll opt for the master bedroom.”
She grinned in turn. “Very good. Follow me.”
Boufonoula took his hand and led him to a large bedroom dominated by a spacious four-poster bed.
Smiling her wide, thin smile, she slipped out of her dress with a litheness that made him think of a cat.
She slid her slim, pale body into the bed and beckoned him to join her. He needed no further persuasion.
****
The morning sun woke Jonathan with a pleasant caress. Half-opening his eyes, he yawned and stretched; he patted the space beside him, but Boufonoula wasn’t there. He opened his eyes and sat up. There was a white cat curled up at the end of the bed, but no sign of her.
Assuming she was making breakfast, he headed downstairs, but the kitchen was empty. But, there was a note and a pot of coffee. He poured himself a cup and sat down to read what she had written; absently, he patted the cat as he did so while it rubbed against his leg.
I’ll see you tonight, he read, should you choose to stay. If not, then farewell. Help yourself to whatever you want. I hope you choose to stay. B.
Jonathan rubbed his nose for a moment and the cat jumped up onto the table and meowed at him.
“I guess she has the farm to tend to,” he told it. “Well, I think I’ll stay for a while. What do you say?”
It meowed as if in approval and he laughed.
“Right, time for breakfast.”
****
When she reappeared that evening, Boufonoula smiled widely to see Jonathan had chosen to remain. Supper was provided and, then, they retreated upstairs to the four-poster bed and spent the night in one another’s arms.
But, come morning, she was gone by the time he was woken by the cat pacing about on the bed.
“Where does she go?” he asked it, scratching its ear.
Okay, so there was farm work to do, but did she never return to the farm during the day? And, yes, farm work started early and ended late, but no kiss goodbye? No mention in her note of what she was doing? There was nothing specific, but something about it all made him suspicious.
“I’m being silly, aren’t I?” he asked the cat and it meowed as if in agreement on the point. “But, still...”
Unlike the previous day, he chose not to lounge about, relaxing and doing nothing, but instead took a look around the farmhouse, the cat trailing after him. The building had two floors with a cellar and the occasional attic space accessed like cupboards high up the wall, but was long and low. There was barely a single straight surface in the place: the long dark beams were curved or undulating, as if they were branches that had barely been shaped, while the plaster walls seemed to bulge without consistency.
As she had said, she lived alone: the other three bedrooms were all dusty from disuse. The cellar was about an inch deep in water and things – frogs, perhaps – sploshed about in the darkness. Otherwise, the house was nothing special. To the front was a small gravel-strewn yard where his car was parked, with an empty stable block across from the house, while to the rear an herb garden was bounded by trees.
But, the library was special. Although his French was abysmal and his Latin almost non-existent, Jonathan could make out certain titles, such as ones that seemed to be The Discovery of Lycanthropy and Lycanthropy in Averoigne, and various words that seemed to imply demonology and witchcraft. Then, there were those antique tomes that seemed infused with import by their age and which had strange, potent-sounding titles such as Necronomicon and Krypticon.
At first sight, he thought they, like the furniture of the house, must pre-date Boufonoula, having been inherited with the in-built shelving that held them. Indeed, they probably were. Yet, like the furniture, it was clear that, inherited or not, she made use of them, for they were free of dust and, looking inside a couple, he saw they were annotated in what he recognised as her hand.
Certain vague, niggly thoughts suddenly coalesced under the influence of those titles and Jonathan found himself thinking something that just couldn’t be true.
He looked down at the cat. The cat looked up at him.
It couldn’t be true. It was madness. And, yet...
****
Just as he expected, that evening, the cat slipped away and, a short while later, Boufonoula appeared. He asked her about the animal.
“The cat? I suppose she goes out to hunt her prey. Speaking of which, supper...”
Then, sex. But, while she had been cooking, Jonathan had set the alarm on his phone so that he would wake before sunrise.
****
The vibration of the phone beneath his pillow woke him as planned and, through bleary eyes, he saw a figure slipping from the room. Jonathan quickly rose and dressed, then quietly descended the stairs.
There was no sign of her in the hall or in the kitchen, but, when he looked out the window, he spotted a figure at the far end of the herb garden disappearing down a trail between the trees.
Jonathan dashed outside and followed her.
The trail led through what seemed to be a forest, then reached a marshy clearing with a pond and a grotto. Several abnormally-large toads crept about the banks of the pond and seemed to eye him suspiciously.
There was no sign of Boufonoula, human or cat, but, then, he thought he saw movement in the darkness of the grotto and he called her name.
A figure emerged from the shadows, but it wasn’t her. Where Boufonoula had been young and attractive and slim, this woman was squat and broad, aged and ugly. Yet, there was a resemblance and, for a moment, he imagined it must be her mother. Except, she was wearing the same dress that Boufanoula always wore...
“You...” He couldn’t believe it. The transforming into a cat seemed scarcely more ridiculous.
She laughed, a sound that was like a horrible, phlegmy cough. “Oh dear, my secret’s out. Yes, this is me, my beloved...”
“It can’t be...”
“Oh, but it can. My mother was a witch and my father was a near-formless child of her master. They lay together here in this grotto in worship of my grandfather and here I was born. Six centuries have passed. Lovers come and go, but none can love me in this, my true form. Oh, they rut wildly with me by night, but when the light of day reveals me to them, their ardour sags...
“Do you still yearn for me, Jonathan?” She slipped off the dress to reveal her corpulent, grey-green form, like a toad stood upon its hind legs.
Jonathan was glad he hadn’t breakfasted as watery vomit filled his mouth. He spat it out.
“Apparently not.” She sighed, a horrible noise, then dropped to all fours, seeming to become more and more like a wide-mouthed, sleepy-eyed toad as he watched.
“I will have you in me,” she said, her voice barely human, “as lover or lunch.”
He turned and ran for the trail with the obscene thing that had once been his lover not far behind.
Jonathan had never believed in ghosts or witches or demons or werewolves, but he had seen plenty of horror movies and he was certain werewolves could be killed by silver bullets. Of course, they were supposed to change in moonlight, but surely a were-toad was much the same? And, the silver, it didn’t have to be a bullet, did it? They also used silver knives...
There was silver cutlery in the farmhouse kitchen.
He burst from the woods and trampled mint and thyme without regard. Running into the kitchen, he yanked a drawer out onto the floor, spilling its contents.
The toad-thing appeared in the doorway.
Jonathan seized a knife and backed away.
It lumbered up onto the kitchen table and leered at him.
He stabbed it with the knife.
“Aah!” it cried, then it laughed its horrible coughing laugh. “Foolish boy: silver is of the moon and night time and the night is my grandfather’s province. Now, gold, the metal of the sun... But, now, you die...”
It leapt clumsily at him, but he was already running out the door into the hall, heading for the front door, desperate to get outside. If he could make it to his car, he might just make it.
Boufonoula was just behind him as he slammed the front door open and exploded out into the yard. He fumbled in his pocket for the car keys—they weren’t there!
He stumbled to a halt, gravel skittering underfoot.
There was a horrible laugh behind him.
“Lost your keys?” it asked in a voice thick with mucus. “Oh dear...”
Could he make it to the road?
He began to run...
BEAST
by Sarah Gribble
The chubby kid spots a butterfly and crashes through the brush, his arms held high, fat jiggling as he executes a series of small hops in an attempt to pluck the poor creature from the sky. His troop is moving away without him, the scout master’s droning voice fading into the distance. The giggling boy doesn’t notice, nor does his troop notice his absence. Not surprising, given what I’ve observed over the past hour or so. He’s spent most of the hike dawdling, not speaking to anyone. He’s clearly the weak link in the herd.
My stomach growls and I move closer, ever so slowly. It wouldn’t do to alert him to his situation. Not yet.
I size him up. He’s not the best prey—mostly fat, I’m sure—but beggars can’t be choosers. I can’t bring myself to eat one more slimy fish from that stagnant, stinking pond.
I’m close now, only an arm’s length away. The poor idiot is huffing now, having overly exerted himself with the chase. I reach out, hesitate. I haven’t hunted in so long. A malicious fervor overcomes me. I want this boy to know I’m here, want to smell the sweet stench of fear wafting from his hairless armpits, want to watch a dribble of sweat make its way down his down-covered loaf of a neck.
He’s stopped hopping now, but is still reaching for the sky, not yet willing to admit defeat. Those sparkling yellow butterfly wings flutter above him, teasing, narrowly eluding his chubby, grime-covered fingers.
Oh, this will be fun.
I let my fingers creep forward. My heart races as a warmth settles into the pit of my stomach, expands with a tingling sensation to my groin. I can barely contain my euphoria and I bite my lips to trap the ecstatic cry begging to be released.
My jagged claws brush his back. He freezes. I retreat silently, hide behind a nearby tree. He doesn’t move, but his breathing has picked up once again, coming in short, shallow bursts. Oh, how I wish to see the look on his face. I bet his eyes are popping, his mouth gaping. He may even be crying, those silent tears streaking down his cherubic cheeks. Wouldn’t that be a treat.
He whimpers, turns his head slightly, then jerks it back to front. I watch him take a shaky breath, stealing himself, no doubt. But for what? Fight or flight?
He spins in place quickly, his eyes darting. I almost laugh. No one is here to save you, little piggy. You’re all alone with the big bad wolf.
I can smell him now. The terror emanates from him in a thick cloud. The forest senses it and goes silent. Fear is a powerful thing out here, a basic instinct sent out like an alarm that no creature will ignore.
Oh, my little piglet, what are you going to do? Will you run? I could use a nice game of chase. It’s been so long. I do hope he doesn’t plan to bore me by standing still, giving into his fate.
He tenses and I match his stance. Running it is, then. Good piggy.
He’s off. I take a step forward, from instinct, but stop myself. I’ll give the little squealer a head start. The meal will be all the more satisfying for the wait. Counting silently in my head, I listen to his ungraceful retreat through the tangled forest.
