The Wooden Hills: A Collection of Dark Tales

By Andy Evans

The stories collected herein are not for the faint-hearted. Nineteen dark tales from the imagination of Andy Evans:  

“[some] are short, sharp jabs to the psyche, others are longer spirals of nightmarish descent”. 
- WENDY KING 

Each story is unsettling. Nothing here is quite as it would seem. Some being so terrifying as to frequent your dreams and leave you floundering, longing for the relative sanctuary of the daylight hours. 

In ‘Gravity’ a man walks along the highway, compelled towards a specific place, haunted by his past and a growing sense of déjà-vu. 

‘Evolution of the Werewolf’ flips the werewolf myth upon it’s head. 

‘Hiija' is about two rival horror writers and the deadly woman who inspires them both. 

While ‘We Who Dwell Behind The Veil’ explores why you should never be mean to your little sister. 

And there are others waiting in the darkness, too.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andy Evans
• Release date: Feb 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9781540147257

Book preview

The Wooden Hills

The Wooden Hills

A Collection of Dark Tales

Andy Evans

SECOND EDITION

Copyright © 2014 by Andy Evans.

Cover Image © 2014 by Amy Evans.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Tandem Equitas quotes two poems by John Keats (‘Ode to Autumn’ and ‘On Death’) which are in the public domain.

www.andyevansfiction.com

For Scott:

Aussie poet. Good mate. On-again, off-again work colleague.

This book’s your fault.

Contents

Foreword

The Wooden Hills

Houdini’s Mantle

Corkscrew Bob

Vengeance: A Boy’s Tale, A Man’s Tale

We Who Dwell Behind The Veil

Lean Thinking

For A Cat’s Life

Taint

Evolution of the Werewolf

Z

The Attraction of Stealing Fruit

The Snowman

27,000 Screams

The Empty Nest

Tandem Equitas

The Dentist

Hiija

Gravity

Curtain Falls

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Foreword

by Wendy King

Dear reader,

It’s there. Whether you’re aware of it or not.

Yes, it—that dark corner in the recesses of your mind…

… Or perhaps it takes the form of a black spot on your heart.

… Or maybe it’s just a slight tinge to your soul.

(… Provided you have a soul to begin with.)

Whatever it is, it’s something universal to human nature: Even if you consider yourself to be good—or kind—or righteous—there is, lurking within us all, at least one speck (though often much more) of inescapable horror, wickedness, or—dare I say—evil.

And it’s probably why you’ve opened this book.

In the pages that follow, you will find proof that you are not alone with your untoward thoughts. You will find that the proverbial ‘skeletons in the closet’ are common to us all. You will see yourself—and the people you know—in the heroes, the villains, the monsters and the demons. And you will find that these characters face the same fears and longing, hate and lust, loss and joy, selfishness and conformity that we experience in our everyday lives. It is merely their circumstances that are a little different from our own.

While this collection continues in the traditions of the horror genre—exploring similar themes intrinsic to classics like Frankenstein and Dracula, as well as the modern mores of Stephen King and his ilk—it is the diversity of the stories that keeps the imagination (and adrenaline) pumping. Where some of the stories are short, sharp jabs to the psyche, others are longer spirals of nightmarish descent. Some of them are tragic and unsettling; the others are… well… slightly less tragic and unsettling.

They also take us far and wide: From the Midlands of England, to the ‘Wild West’ of the United States, down under to New Zealand, and even out to strange new worlds completely. And the stories are each charged with the dynamic relationships that we know—or think we know—so well: parents and children; brothers and sisters; the bonds of friendship; the tensions between men and women, boys and girls; and the unknowable lives of the acquaintances and strangers that we encounter every day.

So read on, but be mindful—even when you have finished this book—that Andy Evans is still out there, writing.

Writing the things in your mind, heart, and soul that most of us dare not articulate.

Happy reading. If you dare.

Andy Evans Fiction Logo

The Wooden Hills

Isit still on the sofa, wearing my pyjamas, hoping Mum doesn’t notice me. I’m good at keeping still. The TV’s on—as usual—and Mum sits opposite me in the armchair, sipping her third glass of wine—again, as usual. The sofa’s one of those big spongy types, too big for a kid really, and once or twice I’ve slipped down the edge between the cushion and the armrest. With the room dark, the sofa’s a really good hiding place—if you keep still. I know Mum’s forgotten I’m up. They are saying naughty words on the TV and she hasn’t sent me out. It’s not the first time .

I had my bath when it was still light. That was hours ago. My hair isn’t even wet anymore.

Sometimes mum gets really tired. She says it’s her new job. I don’t think she likes it very much; I think she misses her old job. Also, moving house a lot makes you tired, she says. Settling into a new town is hard. So, sometimes she falls asleep there in the chair. Or, if she’s watching one of her programmes—like Heartbeat or Holby City—she’ll start crying. She cries a lot. Her eyes go all shiny and far away. Either way, that’s when I stay up late; but I don’t really like what’s on TV.

The house creaks.

Mum moves. Darren, why are you still up?

I pretend not to hear her. I’m a statue. Anything. I don’t want to face the monster. The one that followed us from the last house, and the house before that.

Are you listening to me? she asks. It’s bedtime.

Aww, Mum. The big, nasty monster with yellow eyes, that moved in under the stairs.

Don’t argue with me, she says. Go to bed.

Do I have to? Just the thought makes my knees feel weak.

You’ll be tired in the morning. And grumpy.

But— What about those sharp teeth?

You should’ve been in bed an hour ago. You’ve school in the morning.

I try my best to be a good boy. I don’t want to upset Mum. She says this is our new start, see. I know that everything’s my fault—Dad leaving, the monster, everything.

’Night, Mum, I say, and I lean across to give her a kiss. Her skin is soft, layered with makeup and glows blue from the TV, but her breath smells bad. I don’t like wine. I’ll never drink it.

I give her a hug. Her shoulders jump, then relax. It’s all right, Mum. I’m too old for hugs really. I feel a little embarressed, my face burning in the darkness, but Mum can’t see so that’s okay.

Goodnight, sweetheart, she says, pulling back, then adds: Up the—

—Wooden Hills, I say. It’s an automatic reaction. The Wooden Hills, meaning the stairs. That was one of Dad’s sayings. Before he left us.

I walk slowly to the lounge door, dragging my feet.

Goodnight, she says again, to hurry me.

She doesn’t know what’s waiting for me on the other side of that door...

I’m stood at the foot of the stairs, waiting. The monster can’t harm me if I’m not on the stairs, so long as I keep perfectly still. There are only two lights: the one on the ceiling of the landing upstairs and the one in the hall downstairs. There are lots of shadows. Too many. We’ve lived here just long enough that I have memorized my way in total darkness... but I don’t want to even think about that!

There are twelve steps, then a corner, then five more steps. I counted them the first day we arrived. My bedroom is the first door on the left, at the top. I’m safe once I get into bed, once my feet are off the carpet, and I’m wrapped in my quilt.

My hands shake. They always shake when I think about the Wooden Hills.

Every night the monster changes its hiding place. Where is it tonight? Perhaps sat in the corner, or crouching beside the coat rack. Sometimes I can almost hear its breathing, wherever it is. Or I imagine the drool running down its lips. Its eyes following me as it waits for the right moment to attack. I’ve been very lucky so far. I’ve kept one step ahead.

I’m too young to die. I imagine it would hurt quite a lot—dying—and then there’s Mum: I can’t bear the thought of causing her any more pain.

The shadows under the stairs are the deepest. That’s where the monster has its lair, but that doesn’t mean it’s hiding there now. Oh, no. If you’re a monster, under the stairs is a great place because when young legs hurry over you, then you can reach up and grab them—tear, bite, perhaps even swallow your victim whole. Not that this monster would be that kind. It wants to hurt me. It would chew slowly on purpose. It knows I know this.

My breathing is still too fast. I can hear my heart thumping.

It’s lonely here.

Of course, I could scream. I know Mum would come running, but really, what good would that be? She’d be eaten, too. No, I don’t want to add to her problems.

Sometimes I wish my Dad were here. Dad is physically stronger than Mum. The monster probably knows this, too. Dad told me it was my imagination when I saw something licking its lips in the shadows... or sneering. Just my silly imagination.

I didn’t mean to ruin everything. Dad said I was too soft. Said I needed to harden up. He was teaching me how to fight, when Mum got all mad with him. She called him a bully and lots of other names. I’ve never seen her so mad. I was sent up to bed, but there was no way I could sleep. I remember how they argued, how they screamed at each other. It sounded like they might kill each other this time. I felt this big lump in my throat... then I cried. Just like Dad said: I’m too soft. The next day he was gone. His side of the wardrobe was empty. Even the Arcam Hi-Fi system in the lounge was gone.

I take a deep breath. My breathing is slower now.

I creep up the Wooden Hills. Those words again. Stirring memories in me. Deep memories.

I’m careful to keep my distance from the railing, careful not to land on one of the steps that creak, which would give my position away.

For one wild moment, I think about running as fast as I can to the top of the stairs, but that would be silly. If I did that, I know the monster would be waiting for me around the corner. I can imagine those horrible eyes, the thick fur, and the teeth. A wide mouth, full of sharp spikes and blood. All this would happen in a split second and I’d have nowhere to run. What a stupid idea!

I look ahead. I look behind. My head turning one way, then the other, as I check and recheck the railing. The gap between the posts might be wide enough for the monster to reach through.

One step. Then the next. Slowly. My heart booms. My mouth’s dry.

I reach the corner and peer around it: still no sign of the monster. But I’m not out of danger yet. There are still so many places it could be.

I pull up, level with the landing. There are more shadows. Three doors are slightly open (there’s nothing worse than a door that’s slightly open). It’s the perfect place for a monster to lie in wait. And when it attacks, there's no warning, no creak, nothing... No time to react.

There are five steps left.

Grabbing the handrail, I edge forward.

Is my escape route still clear? Is the monster creeping up behind me? Or will the attack come from above?

I take another step.

It shifts under the sole of my foot, loud like a party popper.

I’ve forgotten this is the one that creaks!

I run. I mean really run. Pulling myself forward on the handrail, covering the last three steps in one leap. I look for any sign of danger, but I can’t think straight. I get to my bedroom. I grab the door handle. I’m sure—as I do—that the monster is right behind me, that its claw is about to tear along my spine, unzipping me. But no, no! I open the door, certain that, as I reach into the darkness for the light switch, its hand will grab mine, pulling so hard my arm comes off. The hairs on my arm stand up. I reach, stretch, feel for the light switch—

That’s when I realise something really is wrong. Something moves in the corner of my eye. It doesn’t look like the monster exactly. More like the house itself is moving... the walls shifting... the floor sloping... something pulling me back into the stairwell...

Back, back, back to the Wooden Hills.

Aaggghh!

No, they aren’t stairs anymore. The monster is the stairs. Its teeth, the steps. The entire stairwell an open mouth waiting for me.

And I’m falling. I remember falling.

Time slips, slows down. I’m falling down the Wooden Hills, but it’s another staircase, in an earlier house, at an earlier time. I wait for the pain to assault me, to rip through me, as I fall. I watch as the steps, the teeth, grow larger and closer. Nothing there to break my fall. Surely, death has me this time. And what, I wonder, will the pain feel like?

I remember crying, whimpering, fear spilling out of me, even as I plummet to what must be certain death. I think about skin tearing, bones shattering, blood splattering and nerves catching fire.

I close my eyes. Cast upon the Wooden Hills.

What had I done to deserve such a cruel end?

Now I remember.

I hadn’t spoken when I was spoken to. Earlier that day, that long ago day, I had disrespected someone without knowing. Someone mean who didn’t like being disrespected.

My arms spinning. My back arched. My whole body tense, waiting for those jaws to seize me.

I strike with my hands first, my arms crumbling beneath me, fingers snapping like old bicycle spokes. Next my face, my belly, between my legs, but there is no pain. Not yet. My eyes open, but my vision is dark shapes, shifting, swirling, dancing.

My body jerks down a few more steps before stopping. I’m numb. I can’t tell if I’m hurt, but surely I must be.

I keep still. Playing dead. The statue.

Somewhere I hear a voice calling my name. Dad. Yes, my dad. This is when Dad lived with us. He’s standing above me at the top of the stairs. Darren, Darren, I’m sorry, he says, I didn’t mean—I’m sorry... Are you alright?

I feel sleepy. Eyes heavy. The darkness is not such a bad place. It’s warm, sheltered, safe; a place where I can retreat from the world for as long as I like.

"Darren!"

I ignore Dad’s voice. What does it matter now? My body is beginning to wake up to the pain and I must go elsewhere. Sink into myself, into darkness, like sliding down the edge of the sofa. As I do, a single thought explodes through my mind: I was wrong. The monster didn’t pull me down, not at all. I remember now.

Now I lie in bed, years later, listening to the sound of my breathing in the darkness. Trembling. I squeeze my fists together, then loosen them. The stairs creak outside my room. Someone is coming up the Wooden Hills. It’s Mum. She’s come to tuck me in—as usual.

Besides, the monster isn’t here to harm us, but to protect us. Mum and I are not going to run anymore. I’m ready to fight. To think I blamed myself for everything. How stupid! How could I have forgotten?

The door slides over the carpet.

Mum leans over me. I hear the click as she switches the bedside light on. You didn’t have your light on? She looks surprised.

No.

She smiles and hiccups. You’re growing up so fast, Darren.

I sit, pushing the pillow up against the headboard, looking her in the eyes. Mum, is it possible to have a nightmare without being asleep?

I suppose so, she says. Whoever put that idea in your head?

No one, I say. The monster is watching from the wardrobe. I can see its old yellow eyes and its teeth glistening between the gap in the doors. Mum, now that Dad’s gone, am I the man of this house?

Her smile wobbles. Why, I suppose you are, yes.

Then we’ll look after you.

We?

I turn the lamp off. Yes, I say in the darkness and roll over, thinking about the monster, my newly discovered ally.

Houdini’s Mantle

2013

A ren’t you a little old for the klepto thing? asked P.C. Stuart Phipps, glancing over his shoulder to the back seat, where I was held captive. "I mean really : what age are you ?"

Eighty-nine, I replied, tipping my black velvet top hat.

"What is that you’re wearing? Are you like... a magician?"

In every sense: illusionist, escapologist, mentalist, yes, yes and yes. Wahia, the Magnificent, at your service. I swirled my cape over, covering the lower half of my face, like I do on stage. I tried the door handle: locked.

P.C. David Theobald yawned, his head turning toward the passenger window. Take a left here…

I followed his gaze along Lake Road, where a large yellow diversion sign and several orange cones blocked the road.

Oh yeah, said Phipps, smoothing the steering wheel through both his hands. They’ve closed Lake Road—

Really? I said. How come?

Phipps turned to the passenger seat, where his partner slouched. They’re knocking down that railway bridge, right, Dave?

I leaned forward, pressing my forehead against the mesh. How long’s the road closed for? I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror. My eyes brown, as strong as ever, framed by a crinkled, weather-beaten old face that I hardly recognised as mine.

Apparently they’re hoping to have it all done in a month, said Phipps. He didn’t seem to mind my interruption. His eyes studied the road, the indicator light ticking as the patrol car approached the Lake Road/Ranolf Street intersection. Bennetts Road is the diversion.

Oh goodness, I said.

Theobald opened his eyes. Hasn’t been a train through there the whole time I’ve been here, he said. In fact, I remember the old train station, down just the other side of the bridge. But, even then, it didn’t go under the bridge.

No, that’s true, said Phipps.

My gnarled fingers found the gold signet ring on my index finger, turning it a fraction.

There was a tiny little siding, but she must have been quite something when the train station used to be where the Warehouse and all that is now.

It was, I said, and, because of their interest, I released the ring and told them about the day I caught the train back in 1936.

1936

Palace Hotel! the touts called. Brents! Geyser! Grand Hotel! They stood inside the booking hall and along the platform. Arawa House! Fenton House!

I slipped through the crowds. My ticket safety tucked in my breast pocket... or so I thought.

The ten-past-ten train was a big occasion each day. Voices buzzed with excitement; foreign accents recalled the taking in of the waters in twangs and drawls, or how the place stank like rotten eggs. One stately English gentleman enquired about the luncheon hamper and where the best seat in the observation car might be found. Australians, Americans, English, French, Polish; most with pink, peeling skin, unaccustomed to the sun’s harshness here.

The ladies huddled together, silk hats, frock coats and furs. The gentlemen in dickey bows, suits and fedoras. I wore my Sunday best, which looked tatty by comparison.

A light nor’wester blew the sulphur smell over from Kuirau Park. Not a wisp of cloud marred the sky. It was a beautiful day for crossing the Mamakus.

I looked out across the tracks, at the Goods Shed, then to the West, where the train would be approaching.

To my right on the platform, I noticed a young couple sat on the bench, newly-weds, gazing deep into the other’s eyes rather than looking out for the train like everyone else. His hand cupping hers like fine white porcelain. The light sparkling from the diamond on her left ring finger.

Pick a card, I said, grinning, offering them a splayed pack of playing cards. "Any card."

Their eyes widened. The man’s mouth moving soundlessly. He released his bride’s hand and took a card. His long, thin, clean fingers extending.

"Right, now remember which card you picked, but don’t tell me... Place it back in the deck and I shall use my magical powers to determine which card it was."

He studied it momentarily, tipping it so his wife could also see, then returned it.

I shuffled the pack.

They looked at one another.

I strung a few random Maori words together—"Te puke hinemoa whakaruru te ohope…"—like an incantation.

They laughed nervously. Eyes wide again.

The Station Master watched me also, probably wondering what con a Maori boy was working on these unsuspecting tourists.

But my marked card—the Five of Diamonds—wasn’t on the bottom of the deck as it should’ve been. It was missing and, without it, the trick wouldn’t work.

Five of Diamonds? I asked doubtfully.

Er, no.

Behind me I