Scary Halloween Read online

  During those three long weeks last year when Sandra was crying and swearing, I often heard her speak of something called unfair, I didn’t understand it then, but I believe I do now.

  Sandra is ecstatic, ‘Ace!’ she says to the repair man then she tells him that he is a genius and hands him a wad of notes.

  Already I can feel the thesis making its presence felt once more in my C-drive, sashaying about its old file folder. But I no longer feel so hostile towards it.

  There is something in the turns of phrase, quirky footnotes that registers in a curiously familiar way, déjà vu you might call it. And as it settles back in, I can’t help thinking that I know the words from some time before.

  THE EYE OF THE CROW – GRAEME PARKER

  The eye of the crow is dark and reflects all light.

  It sees all and watches and waits.

  The crow sat on its perch in the graveyard. It’s shadow cast in the full-moonlight.

  Looking down at all the plots of the Howff graveyard in.

  Many are buried there; the rich, the not so rich and sadly the young ones that lived only a few days in this world. Some that were close to God, some that merely hoped to meet God.

  The crow fluttered its wings and came to rest upon a newly erected tombstone.

  The silver moonlight reflected from its cold dead black eyes.

  The old cemetery gate creaked. Footsteps approached towards the freshly dug grave that the crow seemed to be standing guard over.

  It gave out a squawk as two hooded men dressed in rags started digging into the newly turned soil.

  “Rabbie. I don’t like this. I’m not happy I tell you. I’m not happy.”

  “Be quiet Shug, you’ll wake the dead!”

  “That crow is looking at me awfie funny!”

  “Just ignore him.”

  “He looks a big, mean old bugger!” Shug was a young skinny man. He picked up a stone and threw it at the crow, who just hopped out of its way and then perched back down upon the gravestone. It squawked angrily at the men.

  “Leave it Shug. Let’s just get this stiff to Doctor Kinloch’s and collect our payment. I hate being in a graveyard at the dead of night!”

  “Huh! Dead of night! Get it?”

  “What?”

  “You made a joke. Like saying a cemetery is the dead centre of town. Or that people are dying to get in here!”

  “Just shut up and dig, will you?”

  They laboured away under the watchful eye of the crow.

  The bird became more and more animated as they scraped off the last of the earth to reveal a coffin of finest wood it’s brass handles glinting in the moonlight.

  “Thing about the rich, when they do die they do go out of this world in the finest of wooden over coats.” The older man said as he tried to maneuver the coffin.

  “Wait, what’s that noise?” The tall youngster asked.

  They listened in hushed silence for a moment. “Och! That’s nowt but the wind lad. You are as jumpy as a possessed frog tonight.”

  “I dinna like this Rabbie.”

  “Had away with ya. You’d think you’d never been grave robbing in your life before! Now shut your gob and get an end of this before I knock you in the hole and fill you in me self!”

  As the two men struggled to lift it from its resting place, the crow started to hop around manically, flapping it’s wings as if it was possessed by the devil himself.

  They were finally able to remove the coffin lid. A moment later, there came a huge clap of thunder and the once clear night sky was suddenly filled with black foreboding clouds.

  At this the crow began squawking wildly.

  The men looked down at the body in the coffin. The older of the two bent down and picked the pennies from the dead man’s eyes. “Perks of the job!” He grinned through broken tombstone like teeth.

  But his smile was quickly replaced with a grimace of pain as the crow swooped down like a bullet and straight into his face. Claws and knife-like beak dug at his eyes. The bird's attack was relentless.

  The other grave robber looked up and saw a looming blackness in the sky. An inky cloud swooped down like a cloak upon the two men.

  It was a murder of crows. They started attacking the men, attaching. themselves to the startled figures. They pecked away relentlessly, more like fervent woodpeckers than crows. Soon both men were wearing the black crows like a coat of death. Blood and flesh flew into the air. The birds' talons tore strips off the men’s faces until they were unrecognisable. They staggered around screaming, their rags running with blood. The older man staggered forward, stumbled over the coffin, and fell headfirst into the grave.

  The younger man tried to run for his life, but the birds holding him flew as one and lifted him off his feet and then dropped him down upon the gravestone. His head smashed against it with a sicking thud; popping it open like a smashed over-ripe watermelon. He died instantly. The birds suddenly fell silent and all but one flew away. The original crow hopped back on top of the gravestone and fluttered its wings in thanks. It let out a squawk of victory.

  The blood-splattered headstone read “Rev Fergus Crow born 1769 – died 1843. May God and all the other Crows watch over him.”

  LOT 666 BY KENSINGTON GORE

  I’ve a great love for art and painting in particular; my dear wife Marge calls it my true passion.

  Indeed, I have fond memories of my early years in London when as a student of art history, I shared a flat on Baker Street with… well it that’s another story I’ll tell you about it sometime.

  Actually, I paint a little myself, but primarily my main interest is in buying paintings. Some for my personal pleasure but for more often and not for galleries. In my youth I had been known to travel the world in search of paintings that fascinated me. In those days of my youth half the excitement lay in the excitement of the chase and the other half in the gamble.

  The backing of one’s own judgement being able to spot a diamond in the rough. As you may imagine this passion of mine has led me to some very strange places and into situations one would have never thought possible – though the strange and odd have always been similar bed-fellows to me.

  There was one such situation, so bizarre, so frightening, so disastrous as to be almost unbelievable.

  Oddly enough I was reminded of it only last week when I was driving through Oxford.

  On one of my regular visits for it was here, some twenty years ago that I triggered off a chain of unfortunate events.

  It was a cold day I remember and probably just as much to keep warm as anything else I’d strolled into a small auction room just off the main high street. The auction was about half way through.

  ‘Lot 666. A portrait of a man, early 19th century English school, artist unknown,’ said the elderly auctioneer above the mumble of the auction room.

  I moved forward to take a closer look. The portrait was of a man in a bright blood crimson riding jacket; he looked in his mid-forties with black hair, a large, long bony face, with small deep-set eyes. Now at that time I had an interest in a modest sized gallery in the Kensington area of London and although this was clearly a painting of some quality. I felt no great desire to buy it. There was something oddly unnerving about that face particularly the eyes.

  ‘What am I bid?’

  My gaze continued to be drawn to the portrait; it was an uncomfortable sensation.

  ‘Fifteen pounds, fifteen, eighteen, twenty-five pounds!”

  Bang. The gavel went down. The portrait was mine.

  But I didn’t have my usual enjoyment and elation about the purchase. I decided it must have been my own illogical hypersensitivity towards the face that was at fault.

  ~

  When I got back to London, I put the painting in a small anti-room at the garage and well forgot all about it.

  Until a few days later when an old acquaintance Michael Emery called on me.

  ‘Michael it’s so good to see you,’

  ‘And wha
t a surprise to find you here, why aren’t you in LA?’

  ‘Oh, that’s next month.’

  ‘Kensington dear boy. I can never keep up with you.’

  ‘I’m the elusive Pimpernel, how are the children?’

  ‘Marvellous.’

  ‘Young Sean away to school yet?’

  ‘No, at the last minute we decided against it.’

  ‘Oh, why was that?’

  ‘It’s very simple really. Neither Marry or I wanted some frosty matron to have the rest of his childhood.’

  ‘You know as a bachelor I’ve never understood why parents banish their children for eight months of the year to some kind of God forsaken prison.’

  ‘Exactly. Mary has always been opposed to the idea.’

  ‘How is that beautiful wide of yours?’

  “Beautiful of course. Actually, Mary is the reason I’m here. She has a birthday coming up soon…’

  ‘And you’d like to buy her a painting?’

  ‘That was the idea. But something modest of course, within my budget.’

  ‘Oh, for you my friend always. But why don’t we have a conducted tour?’

  We walked through to the gallery area and talked about the paintings that interested Michael. Suddenly he stopped and said: ‘That portrait over there, I don’t know it seems to draw me to it. I must admit I don’t like the look of the chaps face, but I somehow feel compelled to look at him.’

  I’d noticed that throughout the conversation of the past hour no matter where Michael had been standing in the gallery, he’d turned around time and again to stare at the face.

  ‘Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes, I do know what you mean? I bought it in Oxford last week.’

  ‘Oxford, that’s Mary’s home town.’

  ‘Well, then perhaps he’s an ancestor?’ I joked.

  ‘Kensington, what a good idea,

  ‘Sorry I’m not with you?’

  ‘Well, she’s often said she’d like some family pictures about the place.’

  ‘But supposing she doesn’t like him?’

  ‘Erm, that’s a point.’

  ‘Look here. Why don’t you take it him on approval?’

  ‘Would you mind?’

  ‘Not at all, I’ve known you long enough.’

  And so, after we’d exchanged a transaction slip, Michal Emery took the portrait promising to give Mary’s answer in a couple of weeks.

  I must admit, well I wasn’t sorry to see it go.

  ~

  One evening about two or three weeks later I was sitting in my study at home browsing through a recently acquired folio of early 19th century drawings engravings. I was delighted when halfway through I turned up and engraving based on that very portrait. What was more, I found out it had been painted by one Jacob Robertson in 1825. He was a painter just now being rediscovered and the sitter was identified as Nathanial Joseph Blackburn 1782 to 1830, cloth merchant.

  The name rang a bell, but that was all. I was about to telephone Michael the news of my discovery when I noticed the time, it was almost 10:30. I don’t know about you. I don’t like being disturbed by the telephone much after ten, so I waited until morning. So, the very next day I called the Emery household.

  ~

  ‘Yes?’ a man answered.

  ‘Michael?’

  ‘No sir.’

  ‘Oh, could I speak to Mary… Mrs Emery I mean?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Would you mind telling me who you are sir?’

  I didn’t recognise the voice, but I very briefly explained who I was, why I was calling and all about the whole portrait business.’

  ‘You say you’re a friend Mr Gore?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long have you known them sir?’

  ‘Oh, about seven or eight years. Why, who are you?’

  ‘Chief Inspector Parker sir, murder squad.’

  Within minutes I was in my car heading for the village where the Emery’s lived. All I could hear all I could think about was the words “murder squad”. What in God’s name had happened?

  My heart was pounding as I drew up at the house Chief Inspector Parker met me at the door.

  “Come into the sitting room Mr Gore.”

  Even after all my years working on horror movies had not prepared me for the sight that I beheld ‘Oh my God Inspector! This room it looks as if it has been ravaged by a madman.’

  ‘Madman is the right word, sir.’

  ‘Well the Emery’s. Michael, Mary, where are they?’

  ‘Mr Emery is at headquarters. Taken into custody.’

  ‘Custody, why?’

  ‘He gave himself up Mr Gore.’

  ‘Mrs Emery is dead, sir. Murdered.’

  ‘Murdered but… but what about the children… for pity sake inspector where are they? Let me look after them.’

  ‘They are dead too, sir.’

  At this point I felt sick to my stomach. My knees seemed about to give way, so I sat down in the only chair left undamaged. As I did so I noticed lumps and streaks of blood splattering the walls the curtain and the carpet. The inspector must have thought I was going to pass out because he poured me a brandy and we went outside into the fresh air. Gradually he told me the details.

  ‘It happed about 10:30 last evening sir. It seems that Mr Emery for no apparent reason he suddenly went berserk and attacked his wife with a hatchet. Then threw her body into the swimming pool.’

  ‘But Inspector. It simply cannot be true. Mary, not Mary he simply adored her. The children what would happen to them?’

  ‘Poison Mr Gore. Weed-killer in their milk. forensics say they were both dead by about nine o’clock.’

  ‘Did Michael Emery do this too?’

  ‘I’m afraid so sir. It’s just about the most hideous murder I’ve ever known.’

  After that the inspector questioned me about Michael. Not being a really close friend, I couldn’t tell him very much except that he was, well he was the gentlest of men and appeared to be completely devoted to his wife and family. There seemed to be no clue to this sudden horrific violence.

  When I spoke a little later to their old housekeeper Mrs Thomas the poor woman looked deathly white and was clearly distraught.

  ‘I keep trying to tell them how kind he was, but I don’t think they believe me. There was nothing cruel about Mr Emery.’

  ‘It was you who raised the alarm?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Gore. I heard this strange sobbing noise you see. More like, like an animal in pain.’

  ‘What time was this Miss Thomas?’

  ‘It must’ve been about midnight. So, I jumps out of bed and that’s when I found him…’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘By the swimming pool sir. It was too late to stop anything Mr Gore. He’d already thrown, poor Mrs Emery’s body.’

  ‘Did he try to attack you?’

  ‘No, no sir. Crying like a baby he was. And when he saw me see. He told me about the children. My poor little loves, oh it’s all my fault Mr Gore. If only I hadn’t let them take up their bedtime drink.’

  ‘Didn’t he normally?’

  ‘Oh, no sir. No. I normally do that you see. Well, he fairly snatched he mugs of the tray and told me to get out of the way.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like him.’

  ‘No sir, it wasn’t but he had been a bit funny for about a fortnight.’

  ‘You mean bad tempered?’

  ‘Yes, with the children and Mrs Emery.’

  ‘Well perhaps he was worried about his work?’

  ‘I can’t say but I know Mrs Emery was worried about him. The way he would just sit in his study, just brooding, not saying anything at all.’

  ‘And he’d been like this for two weeks?’

  ‘Just about sir...’

  ~

  Before leaving the inspector reminded me about the portrait. When he saw the transaction slip, he suggested that I take the painting back with me to London. It was hanging in Michael’s
study for a moment we looked at it together.

  ‘A thoroughly evil looking so-and-so isn’t he?’ Said the inspector.

  Evil, that was it, pure evil. That was it. I didn’t know that you could actually smell evil. But you can, that study stank of it. Nathanial Joseph Blackburn seemed to dominate it. I felt an aura of what I can only call satanic triumph emanating from that canvas, but I tried to put this down to imagination and my own wretched state of mind.

  As I left the house the police had started to drain the swimming pool of its red water. It was a sickening sight. Within hours the portrait was once again in the back room at the of gallery.

  Although privately I decided I’d like to lose it or even destroy it. I said nothing to my partners as I could hardly tell them that I destroyed a painting of quality simply because I had a feeling about it.

  The very next morning I flew to LA on my prearranged business trip in a month later I found myself in a library in Washington DC idling way an hour or two.

  I came across the newly published encyclopedia of criminals and criminology flicking through the pages I found this entry

  “Nathanial Joseph Blackburn 1782 to 1830. Hanged in London for the murder of his wife and children. Brutally assaulted wife with hatchet, throwing body in the river. Poison put in in children’s gruel, nicknamed ‘Killer Satan.’” So that was it. Blackburn’s evil, it must still be alive. How else could it account for Michael Emery’s behavior?

  But despite instinct I couldn’t logically dismiss the possibility of coincidence. However, I didn’t intend to take any chances that portrait had to be destroyed.

  Immediately I cancelled all further engagements and the next day flew back to London.

  Can you imagine my horror when on arrival at the gallery I found the portrait it been sold three weeks previously? I had to work quickly, the record should’ve been bought by Philip Smyth living in Heywood’s Heath. I telephoned and spoke to his wife telling you that there been some confusion over the portrait that my partner was unaware that I promised it to another client.

  ‘Do you want to buy the painting back Mr Gore?’

  ‘Mrs Smyth it would save me a great deal of embarrassment if that were possible.’