A Dark Assortment Read online

  A DARK ASSORTMENT

  A Collection of Dark Short Stories

  Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darknesses of other people.

  —Carl Jung, in a letter to Rev. Kendig Cully

  Mikey Campling

  mikeycampling.com

  For Sue—my shining light.

  And for everyone who’s ever lain awake in the small hours of the night: sweet dreams.

  They’re just stories—aren’t they?

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Floorboards

  Fifteen Days

  Safety

  Black Friday

  Deadline

  Rats

  Granny Jankovic

  A Lonely Road

  Focus

  A Face at the Window

  Christmas Comes But Once

  The Villager

  Listen

  Sweet Dreams

  The Ride of Your Life

  Someone to Watch over Me

  A Monster Under the Bed

  Thank you for reading A Dark Assortment

  Connect with the Author

  Also by Mikey Campling

  Coming Soon

  About the Author

  Copyright

  FLOORBOARDS

  Simon knew the old oak floorboards shifted and creaked on a cold night like this, but it didn’t bother him. The house was solid, built to stand the test of time, and Simon felt safe, even though he was alone. Alone. Just the way he liked it.

  He enjoyed the stillness, the solitude. It was even better if, like tonight, the empty rooms were wrapped in soft, velvet darkness.

  As he began his careful routine of checking the rooms on the ground floor, he left the ceiling lights and table lamps switched off—their unkind glare would have been most unwelcome. Anyway, he didn’t need extra illumination. His eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom, and he sensed the subtle shifts in the shadows’ depths as he slipped softly from room to room.

  He paused in the hallway, tilting his head to one side. Another creak from the floorboards above? He stood perfectly still and closed his eyes. No. It had, perhaps, been his mind playing tricks on him. He opened his eyes. Silly man. After all, what could there possibly be to frighten him in an empty house?

  He headed toward the stairs. It was time to go up.

  But as he placed his foot on the bottom step, he heard something that made him stop in his tracks. This time he was sure. This time, it couldn’t have been his imagination.

  Slowly, he turned to hunt down the source of the sound. There. An old-fashioned telephone sat on a small table in the hallway. It was the only thing that could have emitted the jagged surge of hissing static that had shocked Simon to the core.

  The blood drained from his face. Somewhere in the dark house, someone had just picked up one of the other handsets. This was the only thing that could have caused the main phone to make that sound.

  He was not alone.

  Simon fought the urge to grab the handset. If I do that, they’ll know exactly where I am. And how would they react? Simon ran a hand over his face. Whoever it was, he must not make them panic.

  He took a breath and carried on up the stairs, moving as quickly as he could. He placed his weight carefully on each step, his shoes sinking gently into the thick carpet. He didn’t make a sound.

  In moments, he reached the top of the stairs. Here, the same thick carpet would muffle his furtive footsteps. He crossed to the nearest door and stood, listening.

  Yes. This was the place. From beyond the door came the faintest traces of a man’s voice, hushed and urgent.

  Simon leaned closer to the door and pressed his ear against the painted wood. He could just make out the words. “Yes,” the man said. “I’m sure. You must come quickly. There’s... there’s somebody in my house.”

  FIFTEEN DAYS

  Steve woke slowly, his muddled thoughts clambering over each other like a pack of barking dogs, eager to be heard. He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands, sloughing off a crust of dead skin and dried mucous. He blinked and squinted up at the ceiling.

  “Christ,” he muttered, “where the hell am I?” He ran his hands over his body. He was naked, his skin sticky with dried sweat. Wow. He must have got lucky with some girl. He couldn’t remember. “What the hell was I drinking last night?” he asked the empty bedroom. He closed his eyes and remembered the cheers as he’d drained yet another shot of tequila. He clutched at the bedclothes and pulled himself into a sitting position. A vicious bubble of gas gurgled and forced its way out of his stomach and up his throat. A belch brought the bitter taste of rotting apples to the back of his mouth. He gagged, and his guts squirmed as if they were trying to escape from his body. “Oh god,” he moaned.

  He swung his feet onto the floor and stumbled to the door. Where the hell was the bathroom? Across the landing, a door stood ajar. Inside, a light was on and a fan whirred. That must be the bathroom, but was it occupied? He’d have to risk it. He pushed the door open. And that was when he saw her.

  The girl lay face down on the floor, her arms and legs splayed awkwardly on the cold tiles. Her face was turned to one side, and a puddle of white, gelatinous vomit glistened on the floor below her mouth.

  Steve stared, his eyes wide in horror. Who the hell is that? A brutal cramp shuddered through his abdomen and the floor swayed beneath his feet. He staggered to the sink and threw up noisily, emptying his stomach over and over again, until retching did nothing but burn his throat and make his eyes water.

  He spat into the sink and turned the cold tap on, washing the worst of it away. He’d clean it up later. Maybe.

  He splashed cold water on his face and rinsed his mouth out. That’s better. He lifted his head, wiping his face with his damp hands. Slowly, he raised his eyes to look in the bathroom mirror. Let’s see the damage. But his bleary eyes didn’t go to his reflection. There was something else. Steve screamed.

  The girl stood behind him. Her face, reflected in the mirror, was deathly pale, and her eyes glittered with a savage greed. Steve whirled around, almost losing his footing as his bare feet skidded on the smooth floor. The girl bared her teeth in a cruel parody of a smile, and long threads of drool dribbled from the corner of her mouth.

  Steve backed away, fumbling for the door handle. Too late.

  She leaped forward and grabbed his arms, pressing him back against the wall. Christ, she was strong. Steve opened his mouth to shout for help, but she clamped her lips on his, pushing her cold tongue against his and breathing out hard, forcing her spent air into his mouth. With it came countless millions of microscopic spores. They flooded into his lungs and coated the inside of his mouth. They stuck to his spit and he swallowed them down—down into the moist, warm places of his body.

  Steve gathered his strength and struggled free from her grip. He planted his hands firmly on her chest and shoved her as hard as he could. She stumbled back, her arms flailing as she lost her balance. Steve ran from the room, slamming the door behind him. He dashed back into the bedroom. Thank god, his clothes were on the floor by the bed. He bundled them in his arms and thudded down the stairs.

  He pulled his jeans on, stepped into his shoes and opened the door. As he stepped out into the street, he pulled his T-shirt over his head. Then, still straightening his clothes, he sprinted away faster than he’d ever run in his life.

  It was a cold morning, and the fresh air and exercise revived him. By the time he was halfway home, his heart rate had slowed to something close to normal, and he’d had time to think. The girl must have been on something—maybe speed. There’d been a bad batch doing the rounds, so his mates had said. Crazy bitch. He shook his head in disbelief and laughe
d to himself. I can’t wait to tell the guys. They’ll be in hysterics.

  It was too good a story to keep to himself until the evening. Maybe he could catch up with his mates right then. There was a place in the high street that did a great cooked breakfast—a perfect cure for a hangover. And come to think of it, he was starving.

  He changed direction and ran across the road, dodging speeding cars. A couple of drivers sounded their horns and someone hurled abuse at him, but Steve just laughed. He didn’t give a damn. He felt great. He felt... alive.

  He jogged along the high street to the cafe and peered in through the steamed-up window. Great. The gang were all in there, huddled over their huge mugs of coffee. A couple of the girls, Debs and Nikki, had tagged along too. Even better.

  When Steve marched in, the boys raised their heads and greeted him with cheers and jeers. Steve grinned and pulled up a chair. He grabbed Dave’s coffee and took a slurp, enjoying the look on his friend’s face. He smiled at Debs and gave Nikki a sly wink. Damn, they look good this morning. They both smiled back. He must be on a lucky streak.

  “Oh man,” he said, “have I got a story to tell you!”

  ***

  Inside Steve’s body, the spores swelled as they absorbed his fluids. They began to germinate, releasing a cocktail of chemicals that mimicked his endorphins. As the fungal cells grew and multiplied, their enzymes seeped into Steve’s soft tissues, breaking them down, turning them into pulp. The fungus fed on his flesh, sending out its threadlike mycelia to creep slowly through Steve’s internal organs and eat into his bones.

  All the while, Steve lived every day to the absolute max. He’d never felt so alive, so buzzing with sexual confidence. For fifteen days, Steve’s life was fantastic.

  And then, one morning, he woke up on the floor and he didn’t know where he was or how he got there. It looked like he’d puked on the carpet. He wiped the sticky threads of white vomit from his mouth and pushed himself up to his feet. As he stood and swayed, the door opened, and a frightened face peered into the room. He didn’t recognise her. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter at all.

  Steve smiled.

  She looked delicious.

  SAFETY

  Everyone knew about the escaped prisoner. He was armed, they said. He was dangerous, an Islamic extremist, a suspected terrorist. Police patrolled the streets in pairs, their fingers resting on the trigger guards of their submachine guns. At ten years old, Mark was easily big enough to walk home from school on his own, but his teacher had given him a stern talk about keeping off the streets and going straight home. It was all very exciting. But what Mark really liked was the police helicopter. From the landing that led to their flat on the top floor, you could watch the blue-and-yellow helicopter circling over the city. Sometimes it swooped low and hovered, like a hawk homing in on its prey. And at night, if Mark crept out onto the landing and switched the lights off, he could pick out the helicopter’s distinctive port and starboard lights. Then he could easily spend an hour tracking the helicopter’s path as it wove through the night and soared above the sleeping streets. And occasionally, if he was lucky, the helicopter’s searchlight would cut down through the darkness, seeking out its target. It was better than TV.

  But on this night, a vicious storm hurled cold rain hard against the window, and Mark couldn’t see a thing. He sighed. There was nothing he could do but hope the weather would clear. He hadn’t even seen the helicopter yet. But perhaps that was something to do with the vivid streaks of lightning that, every now and then, surged from the streetlight-tinged clouds to split the sky in two. Mark screwed up his eyes in concentration and tried to stare out through the rain-blurred glass. Will the helicopter even be out there in this weather? he wondered. Surely it would be too dangerous. And if they are flying, I’ll bet they can’t see a thing in this weather. He nodded to himself. Even their special thermal cameras were no match for this downpour. Mark scratched his chin and yawned. He would give it another half hour. Perhaps something good might happen by then. Something exciting. Something to brighten up his dull evening.

  ***

  Twenty-five minutes later, a door slammed, the noise echoing up the empty stairwell. Mark frowned. It happened all the time. Someone staggering home from the pub drunk, clumsy and careless. Quietly, Mark crossed the landing and leaned over the railing. That’s weird, he thought. The whole stairwell was in darkness, and that never happened. At night, there was always a glow from the wall lights. They were even meant to work in an emergency. True, a few of them were usually broken, so one or two landings were always gloomy. But the stairwell was never completely dark. Not like this.

  Mark stared down into the bottomless blackness, his face twisting in fear. In the daylight, the long drop down the centre of the stairwell didn’t bother him. But this was creepy. It made his stomach squirm. He took a breath and started to turn away, but as he moved, he glimpsed something from the corner of his eye. He hesitated then looked down, and suddenly he knew for certain he was not alone.

  Far below him, perhaps near the ground floor, a thin beam of light danced crazily across the stairwell. Mark held his breath. Someone was definitely down there. Heavy footsteps grated against the rough concrete steps as somebody shuffled upwards. Or were they going down the stairs? Mark tilted his head and listened, but he couldn’t make sense of the echoes.

  He stood still and watched the drunken beam of light. Yes. It was getting closer. Whoever it was, they were climbing the stairs, coming toward him. The hairs on the back of Mark’s neck stood on end. Who was it? What did they want? And seriously, why weren’t the emergency lights on?

  Mark left the railing and felt along the wall for the light switch. He clicked the switch once, twice, but the landing light wasn’t working. They’ve cut the power, he thought. He’d seen it in movies. When the police knew where the suspect was, they’d cut the lights to confuse him. And then they’d move in—special teams pounding up the stairs, kicking in the doors, scanning every room with their night vision goggles. Unless… the terrorist has cut the power! He’d do that if he wanted to seize control of the building and take hostages.

  Mark swallowed hard. What the hell should he do? And then he heard something that sent a sharp stab of fear to pierce his stomach. Below him, in the darkness, someone stumbled and crashed into the metal railing. And when they let out a curse, the harsh words were foreign.

  It was the prisoner! Mark’s eyes went wide and the floor swayed beneath his feet. He clamped his hand over his mouth to keep from crying out. He mustn’t make a sound—his life depended on it. Slowly, he took a shaky breath. At least now he knew what he had to do.

  Mark crept across the landing and opened the door to his flat, easing the door handle down slowly so that it wouldn’t squeak. Inside, he didn’t try the lights; there wasn’t any point. He headed straight for his bedroom without hesitation, without even pausing outside his parents’ bedroom. He’d explain everything later, but at that moment, every second counted. He had to make a call, and his phone was in his bedroom.

  He crept into his room and grabbed his phone, his fingers moving quickly over the screen.

  The call took forever to connect.

  “Yes,” he said, “I’ve seen the escaped prisoner... The one on TV and the radio... Yes, I’m sure... Come quickly, he’s got a gun... No I don’t know what sort... Just come quickly. He’s coming up the stairs. I think he saw me.” The operator told him to calm down and give his address. Mark even gave her his postcode. But when she asked him to stay on the line, he shook his head and put his phone on the bedside table. “No,” he murmured. He sat on his bed and pulled his knees up to his chest. He stared into space. “Please,” he whispered into the darkness. “Please come quickly.”

  Mark sat still and listened to the hoarse rasp of his breathing. It was too fast, too shallow to do him any good, but he couldn’t make it slow down, couldn’t stop himself from shaking. We’ll be all right, he told himself. As long as they come so
on, we’ll all be safe.

  And suddenly the silence was sliced open by a barrage of sound. The dull thudding clatter of helicopter blades was so close that the sound battered against Mark’s bedroom window like a giant’s fist hammering on the glass. The deafening vibrations pounded through his skull and resonated in his chest. He put his hands over his ears but it didn’t make any difference. “Help!” he shouted. The searchlight flashed across his window. Footsteps in the hall, outside his room. His bedroom door burst open. Mark shut his eyes and screamed. And someone shouted his name.

  “Mark! What the hell is going on?”

  Mark opened his eyes. His dad stood wild-eyed in the doorway, a flashlight in his hand. “Mark, are you all right?” he said. But he didn’t wait for an answer. He crossed the room, wrapped his arms around his sobbing son and rubbed his back. “Did the helicopter scare you?”

  Mark held onto his dad, clutching tight handfuls of his warm T-shirt. “They’re coming, Dad. They’ll be here soon.”

  His dad sighed. “No, no,” he said. “It’s just a dream. Just a bad dream. It’s that stupid helicopter flying too low again. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  Mark pressed his head against his dad’s chest, and then, between his sobs, he told his dad everything.

  ***

  Outside, the officer in charge gave the word, and two teams of four CO19 Specialist Firearms Officers snaked into the building.

  Team Two, led as always by Sergeant Bentley, raced up the stairs. They were tasked with securing the stairwell. Team One began checking the ground floor.

  Bentley leaped up the stairs, his team hard on his heels. They held their weapons ready. Ready for anything. In moments, they had the suspect in their sights. They’d all trained for this. They knew exactly what to do. Their orders had been very clear. “Armed police!” Bentley shouted. “Do not move!”

  ***

  Majid Nasser didn’t know why the lights had gone out, but he did have a flashlight. He liked to keep it by his bed. It was a large black flashlight—the kind with a long metal body. He’d bought it from a market stall. Was five British pounds a lot of money to pay for such a thing? He didn’t think so. And anyway, it was about to come in very useful. He switched it on and let himself out of the flat and onto the landing. Perhaps he could find someone to ask what was going on. He might even be able to make himself useful. After all, back in Syria, he’d been a qualified mechanical engineer. He knew a thing or two about getting machines to work. “There must be some sort of master switch or circuit breaker,” he muttered. It would probably be hidden away somewhere. But he couldn’t just go poking around without permission. He needed to check. He needed to find someone.