Darkness Demands Read online

  3

  "Sexy Paul… Sexy Paul Newton!" There were four girls of around fifteen sitting on the wall that flanked the cemetery gates. He knew them well enough. They called themselves the 'Paul Newton fan club'. He knew full well that they were just taking the piss.

  "Sexy Paul. Sexy Paul Newton," they sang again as he walked by. He gave them a deliberately nonchalant wave. Immediately they whispered amongst themselves and then broke off into giggles.

  He hoped to God that they didn't follow him today. He didn't really mind them, but what they'd see would go round the school like a dose of measles.

  Thankfully they didn't follow. So he quickened his pace, following the line of the cemetery railings ("Is that to keep us out or them in," his father was over fond of saying. But it still got a laugh out of Elizabeth). Anyway, today Paul Newton had a secret meeting with someone he would prefer wouldn't become known to the Paul Newton fan club. Or to his family (who thought he was mooching around town with friends). Because today was going to be different.

  A sun-drenched path took him further uphill. Open fields lay to his left. While on his right the cemetery clung to the hill. Through the iron fence he could see darkly shadowed places beneath masses of trees that erupted from once neatly tended pathways. Tree trunks even burst from the graves themselves. With the imagination he'd inherited from his father he pictured the tree roots worming their way through rotted coffins and right into the bones of long dead men and women. Maybe a big taproot forced its way through the jaws of a man rotted by syphilis. And his skull was encrusted with pouting florets of milk mold… while the bodies of a million maggots lay there like dried rice, filling the casket from top to bottom…

  Cool, he thought, smiling. Maybe he would follow in Dad's footsteps after all. But he'd write horror movie scripts. And in a movie that would take the world by storm the syphilitic corpse would burst from the grave like a missile, showering the neighborhood with maggots. They'd come down rattling on roofs and cars and burrow into dogs' coats.

  Exceedingly cool. He grinned in an easy, handsome way enjoying the flow of thoughts through his head. Picturing his fantasy movie, he moved on a scene. A guy and a gal are making out in the back seat of a car; the guy kisses her nipples, they're hard and they're dark… the guy and the girl are getting close to that moment… that moment… she's naked now…

  But isn't this supposed to be a horror flick? Paul Newton was miles away. He'd even forgotten about his secret rendezvous; well, for the moment anyway. But the great god SEX that rules all heads (from twelve to eighty) had taken control now.

  A scene did suggest itself where the guy, hearing that rain of maggots on the roof, exclaims, 'Hey what's that noise?'

  'Don't stop now, Jim' (or Joe or Bert or whatever the frig the hero of the movie is called). Then he leaves the car, pulling up his pants as he does so. Sees the maggots writhing on the ground, then hears a noise in the bushes. 'I can hear something,' Jim, Joe, Bert (or whatever the hell he's called) says to the naked and still hotly panting girl. 'I'm just going to see what it is. I'll be back in a minute.'

  The girl groans with sexual disappointment. Boyfriend disappears into the bushes where he's glimpsed something shuffling along in a post mortem kind of way. There's a scream…

  But Paul Newton realized the sex scene playing in his head was far more interesting than the horror angle now. The girl would be standing naked by the car; nipples hard as cherrystones in the cool night air, her feet placed apart, pulses throbbing as…

  Hell. He was here. So soon, too.

  A section of fence had collapsed inward, giving easy access to the graveyard. He paused. Here, bushes and trees clustered across the face of the cemetery so densely it was as if they tried to hide some deadly secret. A breath of air stirred them. The sound made him think of something massive moving through the trees; an unseen prowling something that watched him from the shadows.

  With a shiver he realized that today was that single point in time when his fantasies and reality would collide. Licking his lips, he entered the cemetery; the lush grass reached his elbows. This was akin to walking through a green ocean with the tops of gravestones breaking the surface like shark fins. They were dark, predatory shapes. Soon they surrounded him as he moved deeper into the cemetery. It was silent, now except for the lone cry of a bird. Soon he'd passed from sunlight to shadow beneath the trees. Hell. It was dark as sin in there.

  It took a moment for his eyes to accustom themselves after the transition from brilliance to near darkness, but at last they did. And by the headstone of a family burnt to death in a house fire stood a figure.

  "I didn't think you would dare come," said the figure. "Follow me."

  He did as he was told. And followed the figure along a path that weaved between graves, deeper and deeper into the heart of the graveyard.

  4

  "Is that Harry?"

  "No, Dad, it's me." Cynthia Gregory walked into the bedroom. She sounded tired. It had been a horrible day.

  "I need to see Harry. It's important."

  "You can't, Dad."

  "Why not?"

  "Don't you remember, Dad," her voice, despite her woes, was considerate. "Harry died five years ago. You were at the funeral. Now, Dad, sit down to the table. Robert's bringing your meal. Do you want to go to the toilet first?"

  "Is it supper time?" The afternoon sun streamed in as the old man sat on the bed. "Is it suppertime? I'm hungry."

  "Yes, Dad." The old man's daughter sighed. "It's suppertime. Now, do you need the bathroom?"

  "I want to speak to Harry. It's important."

  "Oh, Dad…" She placed a tablecloth on a table that faced the window. Then she set out a knife and fork. "There. You come and have something to eat."

  He rose to his feet, then went to the window where he stared out with filmy eyes.

  "I'm hungry," he said. "It must be suppertime by now."

  "Robert's coming up now. Meat pie all right? And there's a crumble to follow."

  "And bread and butter?"

  "Yes. Just as you like it."

  "I don't like brown bread. Never have."

  "No, it's white bread."

  He spoke about food as he always did. It was one of his few interests in life. Yet he looked out of the window as if he expected visitors. She shook her head. Despite everything she loved her father. He'd been good to the family. Their mother had died young, but he'd never neglected his children once. Often, he'd work from home so he could be with them. Summers he'd take them swimming to the lake at the water mill. It was a place that drew him back time and time again. He knew the Kelly family that owned the place then, and he'd spend hours talking to Dianne Kelly; so much so, that Cynthia wondered if there was romance blossoming between the widower and the spinster.

  Now the old man looked out of the window. His lips moved as he whispered nonsense to himself. Cynthia tried not to ask the question but she found it tumbling from her lips anyway. "Oh, Dad. Why did you run away from the house this morning? You scared me half to death disappearing like that."

  He didn't reply. His eyes were on the cemetery in the distance as if he looked for someone there.

  "What was it about the letter that frightened you?"

  "Letter?" His milky blue eyes were innocent.

  "Yes, the letter you saw this morning. It was a wicked thing to do, but it was just some silly prank by children. They should have known you're in no state to go leaving bars of chocolate in the cemetery. If you ask me it was just plain cruel and I've a good mind to-"

  "Letter? Letter!" The old man remembered; a light flared in his eyes. One that shone with fear. "It's the letter. The letters have started again." With a shocking suddenness he struck the window with his fist.

  "Harry! Harry! It's come back. The letters have started again. Go warn Mr. Kelly. Harry… Harry why won't you answer me?"

  "Oh God," Cynthia murmured in utter defeat. "Dad, I wish you wouldn't say these things."

  "Now, now,
Dad, what's all this then?" Robert Gregory breezed into the room with the tray. "Don't go upsetting, Cynthia, there's a good lad. Eat your dinner while it's hot."

  "Harry…" The force had gone from the old man's voice now. Deflated, he allowed himself to be led by the elbow to the table. "Why won't Harry come round to the house anymore? He hasn't visited me in months."

  "Now, Dad," Robert Gregory boomed louder as if sheer volume would have a calming effect. "Tuck in. There's crumble and custard for afters."

  "I've told him," Cynthia said in that tired, distracted way of hers. "But he's still worrying about that letter."

  "Now don't go fussing about silly letters, Dad." He helped the old man sit to the table. "Eat up, there's a good chap."

  Cynthia went to sit on the bed. She crossed her arms, rubbing her elbows with her hands, troubled.

  Robert Gregory dropped his voice to a stage whisper. "Cynthia. Go down and have your lunch."

  "But I don't think Dad will-"

  "Don't you worry. I'll sit with him. You go down and unwind for a while. You've really been through the mill this morning, you know."

  With a grateful smile Cynthia went downstairs. Soon Robert Gregory could hear the clink of cutlery as she ate. He waited for a moment, shuddering at the sloppy sounds as Stan ate the mashed potato. Then he went across to the table where he glared down at the man attacking the full plate of food. "I think you've had enough of that, don't you?"

  Robert picked up the bread, dropped it onto the mound of steaming potato, and then took it through to the toilet where he silently scraped it into the bowl. It took three flushes but at last the food was gone. After that, he put the empty plate in front of the old man who stared at it in confusion.

  A little while later Cynthia returned to the room. "All done?" She sounded brighter.

  Her father looked down at the plate. His eyes were puzzled and sad looking.

  "Is it supper time yet?" he asked. "I'm hungry."

  5

  Paul Newton felt electricity in the air. It crackled down his nerves from his scalp to his fingertips. The figure beneath the trees turned to look at him.

  The eyes enchanted him-they were huge, luminous things that locked onto him and wouldn't let him look away.

  "I thought you'd have preferred to be with your friends," she said.

  He couldn't take his eyes off the slender figure, or her eyes, or her curling hair that cascaded down over her shoulder onto one breast.

  "Is there something wrong with my T-shirt?" she asked, looking down.

  "No… no." Good God. Like some lovesick kid he'd been staring at her breasts. "No. I thought you looked…" He swallowed, then added lamely, "Nice."

  "Thank you, Paul Newton. You look nice, too. New shirt?"

  "Yes." His mouth stayed dry. There was a real danger now his tongue would stick to the roof of his mouth, leaving him making groaning sounds like some zombie wannabe.

  "It's lovely," she said, reaching forward to touch it. "Cotton and summer go together like strawberries and cream, the perfect combination."

  "Your hair looks different." Oh Christ, why did he sound so lame? He clenched one fist behind his back. This was his first real date for Chrissakes… and with Miranda Bloom, the most gorgeous girl of his year. And here he was babbling nonsense. He tried to look calm, cool and collected. He leaned back against a stone angel, which rocked with a grating sound. Alarmed, he grabbed it around the waist to steady it.

  Miranda giggled.

  "This place isn't safe." He grinned. "The whole lot's falling down."

  "It's full of dead people, too. More than eighty thousand if I remember rightly."

  "Hell, that's a lot of bones."

  She smiled. Paul Newton found it was a breathtakingly cute smile. His heart hammered.

  "You've never been here before have you?" she said, stroking back a swathe of curls.

  He shook his head. "It's always been locked. I mean… I mean the main gates have always been locked." Hell, he was even stammering now.

  "They've been locked years. The place isn't used anymore."

  "At least this lot will rest in peace, then." He nodded at the acres of headstones lying beneath the trees.

  "Maybe not. Lots of people come here after dark to be alone." She gave that beautiful smile again, her dark eyes catching the glints of light falling through the branches. "There are always couples sipping wine in the graveyard at midnight, if you know what I mean?" She wrinkled her nose.

  He nodded and said that he did while frantically sifting his memory for the meaning of the expression. But the look in her eye was interpretation enough. She meant people made out here. He thought of naked bodies lying entwined on the grave slab of 'Nathaniel Benjamin 1863-1938, Mayor of Dewsbury and husband to Mary. Peace after great suffering.' Dear God, how could you keep your finger on the button when you could picture Benjamin's skull leering up at you through six feet of grave soil?

  "Come on," she said. "I'll show you round."

  Then she did something surprising, yet wonderfully exciting-she took his hand in hers, then they walked hand in hand amongst the headstones-alone but for the bones of eighty thousand dead.

  6

  While his teenage son was moving deeper into the graveyard and at the same time beginning to cross that boundary between boyhood and manhood, John Newton sat in an armchair at the Water Mill eating a sandwich. Val, from beneath a smoky fringe of hair, shot him glances with come-to-bed eyes.

  Meanwhile, Elizabeth, with her bandaged jaw, lay on her side like a Roman aristocrat, her top half propped up on one elbow as she drank from a carton of juice. She'd chosen to lie on a glass section of floor that was the window to the millrace. Through it you could see water running beneath the house. It was certainly this square of glass some four foot by eight that had sold the house to them all those months ago. One look at it, as he and Val walked in for the first time, and WOW! They were well and truly snared.

  Both had gazed in wonder. The glass panels set in the floor were incredibly strong-'you could march elephants across those' the vendor had told them. 'It won't so much as crack.' But still John Newton found it an effort of will to actually stand on the glass floor and peer down into what amounted to a pit of darkness. It didn't make it any easier when lights beneath the glass were switched on to reveal torrents of water cascading through the stone tunnel. In years gone by the flow would turn the waterwheel, which drove the millstones that ground wheat into flour.

  So, Val and John had toured the house, climbed back into the car, telling the vendor that they'd other properties to see. They'd driven all of thirty yards when Val turned to him and said, "John, we've got to have it, haven't we?"

  John had nodded. The Water Mill was irresistible. They'd gone straight back and made the offer.

  Of course, as in the rest of life, nothing ever goes that smoothly. They offered less than the asking price. The vendor haggled. Then they'd sat and drank coffee over the millrace again, gazing in wonder at the hundreds of gallons of water tumbling just feet beneath their feet, then-collapse of stout party-they'd caved in and offered the vendor's asking price. After a protracted song and dance between banks, lawyers, structural engineers, surveyors and for some reason the lady who lived down the street, it was all settled. Five months after clapping eyes on the place the Newton's moved in. For weeks afterwards they'd switch off the TV and gaze down through the glass floor at those speeding waters. In the light of the spot lamps the torrents never looked the same twice. If it were sunny for more than a day or two the water would take on a hint of green from algae in the water. If it rained heavily, clays in the streambed dramatically stained the water blood red.

  The effect was nothing less than magical. It hadn't even been dampened when Paul gleefully told Elizabeth there was a local legend that children had drowned there in the tunnel beneath the house.

  Threats of grounding plus removal of the computer from Paul's bedroom encouraged him to retract the story.

 
; Still, Elizabeth would gaze down through the glass at the waters swirling just four feet below and ask thoughtfully, "Dad, do you think anyone has ever drowned down there before?"

  John always made a point of laughing as if the idea was just plain silly, then he'd distract her by changing the subject.

  Elizabeth lay on her favorite spot on the glass, directly above the rushing stream. Even though the thick glass shielded her completely from what must have been a considerable roar, Elizabeth told them she liked to feel the vibration of it tickling her behind as she sat there.

  Once after a particularly heavy downfall of rain (and when both Paul and Elizabeth were at school) John made love to Val on the observation window. The vibrating glass certainly did have a stimulating effect. Even if the image did linger in John's mind of the glass giving way beneath their combined weight, and plunging them into the torrent below.

  "How's the chin, hon?" John asked.

  "OK," Elizabeth replied, more interested now in what was happening to Tom & Jerry on the TV than the state of her chin.

  "Does it still hurt?"

  "No."

  John smiled and shook his head. The girl was made of iron and steel all right. He only wished she'd develop a greater sense of self-preservation. She sucked on the carton straw; some juice dripped down to stain the dressing bandaged there beneath her chin, so a blotch of raspberry contrasted with the rusty brown of the bloodstain. The dressing was maybe a bit too big for her chin, forming a projecting shelf onto which crumbs from her lunch had dropped. These John had to carefully remove with the pastry brush so they wouldn't become stuck in the drying gunk that was forming a scab.

  "How's the book going?" Val asked.

  "Not bad," he said, telling a little white lie. "I've written the first couple of pages." The last thing he wanted to admit right now was that he doubted if it would be even half as good as Blast His Eyes; and that already he'd begun to harbor fears that they might end up loosing the Water Mill before they'd even grown used to calling it home.