Interludes

By Neil Davies

11 more tales of dark imagination: The Box; The Pathological Good Samaritan; Tradition; The Sarcophagus (with Rhianne Davies); A Christmas Pilgrim; Conversation; The Killing Tree; Young At Heart; The Cleansing; Two Years To The Day; The Ward On The Hill

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neil Davies
• Release date: Jun 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476473932

Neil Davies

I am fifty two years old and I have Parkinsons disease. This affects my mobility quite a lot but not my mind . I write my poetry as a way of keeping my sense of humour alive.I have been writing for quite a few years and my poems range from humourous things my daughters and granddaugher have said to obscene jokes transfered into rhyme and the meaning of life .I hope you enjoy your purchase. Please comment on my verses I would love to hear from you.Neil

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INTERLUDES

11 Tales Of Horror From

Neil Davies

Copyright 2012 Neil Davies

Smashwords Edition

Cover image by Steve Upham

http://www.screamingdreams.com

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CONTENTS

THE BOX

THE PATHOLOGICAL GOOD SAMARITAN

TRADITION

THE SARCOPHAGUS

A CHRISTMAS PILGRIM

CONVERSATION

THE KILLING TREE

YOUNG AT HEART

THE CLEANSING

TWO YEARS TO THE DAY

THE WARD ON THE HILL

Other Smashwords ebooks by this author

THE BOX

Originally published in Forgotten Worlds magazine issue 9

Harry Willaston first saw the box on a Monday morning.

He opened the bedroom curtains, letting the grey winter light pull itself wearily over the stained, rumpled sheets of the bed, the carelessly thrown clothes and unsealed bin-bags on the floor, the small wicker bin overflowing with empty beer cans, each one crushed angrily before being dropped. The fog and confusion of last night's alcohol slowed his thoughts and reactions, so it was several long, squinting seconds before the trailer parked in the driveway across the road finally drew his attention.

And on the trailer, the box.

Wood, with the dark stain of creosote. Nothing special in that. It looked like the kind of wood you could buy at the local DIY shop. Not that Harry had done much DIY, other than laying the new concrete floor in the basement. That was one of the complaints Mary had usually thrown at him, often accompanied by a plate, a half-full can of beer or, on one memorable evening, a kitchen knife. He absent-mindedly fingered the scar on his right elbow where the knife had gouged a path in passing. She would have criticised the basement floor too, if she were still there to notice it. So, the wood was not worthy of note. But the size, the shape… Rectangular, over six feet in length. The more he looked, the more he saw it as one thing and one thing only.

A coffin.

He stepped back, unnerved by the thought. A rough tongue licked over dry lips. The couple across the road were new, moved in after Mary had gone, after he had withdrawn into his own squalor and self-pity. He had never spoken to them, did not even know their names. He certainly could not walk over there and ask why they had a coffin in their driveway.

He pulled on the underpants and jeans he had taken off last night, thought about changing the t-shirt he had slept in, decided against it, and wearily stomped down the stairs to find some breakfast and his morning can of beer.

He began feeling better after gulping down a few mouthfuls of cold Budweiser and, after checking for green mould, he threw two slices of bread into the toaster.

There was a smell in the house, an unpleasant odour not completely hidden by the more acceptable smells of stale beer and toasting bread. It had been there for some weeks now, but only on the very edge of his senses. Lately it had seemed more prominent, impossible to ignore.

He blamed Mary for the smell. He blamed her for most of the problems in his life. Even so, he missed her, in his own way. There were times when he broke down and cried, wishing she could come back to him. But it was no use. He had to accept she was never coming back.

Not unless she could claw her way through three inches of concrete floor with dead hands.

###

Harry sat at the table, staring out of the window, watching the police car drift slowly by. He waited for the knot of fear in his stomach to ease. Every time one drove past he expected it to stop at his door.

He was certain no one suspected, that everyone had believed his story of how Mary had left him in the middle of the night. After all, they all knew how violent she could be, and how she was always threatening to leave. All his neighbours were sympathetic, and neither he nor Mary had any family to ask awkward questions.

Still, the coffin across the street did not exactly help his frame of mind.

He knew he shouldn't call it a coffin. It was a box. It was the wrong wood for a coffin, the wrong shape too. Also, now he looked closer, he had never seen a coffin with a heavy padlock hanging from a metal latch at the side. He knew all this, but he couldn't help it. His first impression had been of a coffin, and that was what it would remain in his mind.

Not for the first time that day he wondered what might be inside it. Then he thought about what could be inside it, if he was clever.

It was time he faced the outside world again. It was time he said 'hello' to the new neighbours.

###

Hi, my name's Harry.

He had bathed, found fresh underwear, fresh clothes from the depths of his drawers. He smiled. He held out a welcoming hand.

The man who had opened the door said nothing. He did not smile. He did not shake Harry's offered hand. If anything, Harry thought he looked confused, perhaps a little frightened.

Harry turned the unshaken hand and pointed towards his own house.

I'm from across the road. Sorry I haven't been over sooner, but I've not been well.

The man, in his mid 60's Harry guessed, with thinning grey hair and a frail, almost emaciated body, followed the pointing finger and a sudden, relieved smile cracked the weathered wrinkles of his face.

Nice to meet you….

Harry.

Come in, Harry. I'm George. My wife will be pleased to see you. We haven't really met many of the neighbours yet.

Harry followed George as he led him into a dimly lit living room that smelled of old cabbage and gathering dust. Heavy curtains were pulled tight over the bay window, blocking all but a thin sliver of daylight that jabbed, finger-like, across the dull red carpet. The only other light in the room came from a small table lamp in one corner.

Sylvia will be through in a minute. George sat himself in an armchair next to the lamp. Sit down, sit down. Would you like a cup of tea?

Harry felt his way to a second armchair and sat. He could feel the springs through the seat cushion.

Yes, a cup of tea would be nice.

Sylvia was as old and frail as George, but she nevertheless insisted on making a pot of tea and carrying a tray of teacups into the room. The tea itself was grey and tasteless and Harry declined further cups after the first one.

When he finally left the Carpenter's house, he knew they came from Birmingham and had a grown-up daughter, named Jackie, who had gone out to Africa on Mission work. He was no wiser as to the contents or eventual destination of the coffin, the box, in front of their house, but he had not expected to find that out on his first visit.

It took him almost two weeks.

By that