Dying Embers

By M. R. Cosby

Welcome to the world hidden behind the everyday. DYING EMBERS is a collection of short stories exploring urban strangeness – discovering what goes on within the dying embers of the fire, once the heat has almost gone.

"An ill-fated property search leads firstly to admission, then a strange form of retribution; and, ultimately, a terrifying reunion... Pocock witnesses something on the river bank which changes the course of his life... Did it really lead to him discovering the true source of the River Lea?... Rural Australia proves less welcoming than Preston had hoped, forcing him to confront the guilt from his past... In Building Bridges, Brentwood realises just how much he has neglected his family; will he live to regret it?"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stranger Designs
• Release date: Oct 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386909347

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

Book introductions? Does anyone actually read them, especially when they're by some stranger and not even the person whose book you've bought? There are lots of brilliant stories just a few pages away and that's why we're all here in the end – to enjoy and be slightly unnerved by Martin Cosby's excellent tales. If you want to skip ahead that's fine; I won't hold it against you.

And really, that's all I'm here to say – that these stories are excellent and Dying Embers is an inspiring, exhilarating collection of cryptic, haunting stories – part horror, part Robert Aickman strangeness, part something indefinable that is all Cosby's own.

Within these stories you'll find people drawn into strange situations that they, and we, only partly understand. In nearly all cases the characters themselves are not to blame for what occurs; they are merely unfortunates who have slipped through the gaps in a 'real world' that is more porous and uncertain than they imagined. The same goes for the lucky reader, and it is important in this regard that Martin seems only marginally interested in the traditional trappings of the horror story: the monsters, the restless dead, the slimy deities from another world. The lack of such predictable tropes makes the experience of reading these stories the more unpredictable; previous horror stories you might have read are no guide here.

It's easy enough to describe what happens in these stories, to describe what's there. There's a strange hospital, mysterious doorways, and in what is possibly my favourite story, In Transit, a businessman on a very odd journey. There are even dinosaurs. But none of this helps to explain what makes these tales so special. What matters is what isn't there, what isn't said. There's an absence at the heart of strange stories such as these, and that absence isn't just the author being deliberately obtuse and leaving bits out. It's a space deliberately carved, adding as much to the effect as a deliberate moment of silence in a piece of music. It's Cosby's skill in knowing what to leave out as well as what to include that makes these stories so special.

There's also a high level of craftsmanship evident in the controlled, elegant prose – you'd never guess on first reading that this is a debut collection and that most of the stories are appearing here for the first time. Like any prose, which gives such pleasure when reading, I'm sure it wasn't easy writing. I'm sure Cosby went through the same level of heartache and writer's cramp as the rest of us during the revision of these stories. At least I hope so, otherwise I'd feel even more envious of his talents as a writer than I already am ...

And on that note of professional jealousy, I think it really is time to draw a line underneath all of this. If you've stuck with me to the end of this then thank you, and I'd also like to thank Martin for asking me to write this introduction for a collection of stories I truly admire.

Now, get out of here. Go and read the stories.

James Everington

THE NEXT TERRACE

IT WAS AN uneasy alliance between us two boys. Opposites are often said to attract, but there was no real attraction here, more a kind of reliance on each other. Terry took the lead, with me providing the supporting act; these were roles forced upon us by the conventions of the time, dictating how boys should get on together. For, with all of Terry's bluster and bravado and my reticence and easy-going nature, we surely knew it was just a game being played.

Or at least I did.

I should explain that this was my first experience with the truly unusual. I never suspected that things happened which were not talked about; that if something was not mentioned in polite conversation, it could be swept under the carpet. Or at least, anything involving me. We all knew about my uncle's lengthy disappearance, or the ones that mattered knew, but it was rarely spoken about. Certainly not within earshot of my grandmother, whose hearing became suitably selective over the years.

For much of her long life, my grandmother lived in north London. She was one of those resolutely mature women who decide, with a determined dignity, to become old. After her legs stiffened with arthritis, she never again braved the unpredictable climate, and remained indoors. Her first husband, my real grandfather, had died many years before, and she had re-married to be blissfully happy (though no more mobile) in her twilight years. I never met my real grandfather, of course, so this Grandad was the only one I knew and loved.

My grandparents provided me with grounding and stability, a welcome contrast to my home life. I longed to visit them as often as possible, leaving my parents to their relentless arguments, their pointless silences and their casual cruelty. I didn't think this would ever change. But, looking back, I see it was only ever a matter of time.

~

Terry was my only real friend, and one of eleven children, which must have contributed to his brusque demeanour; he had to fight to get his share. He was also the youngest by almost five years, and the word mistake had been bandied about so often in his young life that he had taken it to heart.

Terry's family lived directly across the road from us in our bland Home Counties town. As an only child, I looked upon the crowded house opposite with a fascinated but polite horror; so many people under the same roof, so much noise. He must have been envious of my quiet home, quiet at least when my father was at work and therefore my parents were not shouting. With our mothers being firm friends through necessity in the hard post-war years, and Terry being just a year my senior, it was expected we would be friends. And so we were – up to a point. Understandably, Terry always preferred playing in my house. He was happy as long as he was the one who made the decisions, chose all our games, and broke my toys. I was happy if he was happy. It was better than dealing with my parents at least.

So he was a part of my life, for better or worse. Despite our differences, without him I would have been a much lonelier child, and would have learnt some life lessons rather later than I managed.

~

Terry's family knew my grandparents from well before the war, so when holidays for me were planned, occasionally Terry would accompany me on my beautiful visits to London. I hated how much attention he demanded of my grandparents, and the worst of it was that he got on so well with Grandad that I felt spurned. Resentment gripped me, making me feel wretched, and what’s more I felt guilty at my own selfishness.

A visit to my grandparents had been arranged for the last week of the summer holidays. It was a turbulent time at home, my parents barely speaking, so I was looking forward to some peace in Chertsey Road, N8. I was sure I would have my grandparents to myself on this occasion, as I had not seen Terry for a week or so. Hope bloomed as the day and time approached. However, just as we were leaving, there he was, holdall in hand. My heart sank. No doubt he needed to escape his chaotic home life as much as I did, but nonetheless I was crestfallen, and angry with my parents. Although, as things turned out, neither of us got quite the break we wanted or needed.

~

Driving a car was new to my mother. After various wrong turns, mechanical worries and near-misses involving fences and the occasional pedestrian, all of which horrified her but excited us boys no end, we arrived late but safe. The evening was warm and humid, and the heavy brass knocker was almost too hot to touch. The resounding clang of it against the door rang through the house, echoing for an interminably long time. I started to think they were not home. Presently I heard my Grandad padding in his slippers along the hallway. His blurry shape filled the stained glass windows in the dusty old front door as he busied himself with the lock.

My mother stayed for a rushed tea, then departed sharply so as not to be traveling home in the dark. I could not wait for her to leave, taking my everyday anxieties with her. Soon it was time to sort out our sleeping arrangements. Terry was given the main bedroom at the front of the house, and I would have the single bed in the second bedroom.

The unusual aspect of this visit was what we found upstairs.

It was a typical terrace; long and thin. The front bedroom took up the full width of the first floor, opening onto the landing, other rooms leading off to the side. A long stretch of windowless corridor led to my grandparents' bedroom at the very back. Their room seemed very remote to me, always cold, smelling damp and musty all year round. I often wondered why they chose that room as their own.

Climbing the stairs, we all turned back along the landing towards the front of the house. My room was to the left, and opposite had been a large cupboard, built-in to the wall, right to the ceiling. But now it was gone. Instead there was a gaping hole where it had been ripped out. In my imagination, it was as if a giant fist had punched straight through the wall. This injury to the fabric of the house was mercifully covered by a piece of heavy-duty translucent plastic sheeting, taped, nailed and stapled at the edges, but ill-fitting. It moved stiffly in a warm breeze. Around boy-height, the hole was right to the floor, jagged brick edges surrounded by cracked and shattered plaster. I did not know what to make of such an aberration, and I turned open-mouthed to Nanny.

Oh, that thing, she said. It made such a noise when they did it. Good job we were downstairs at the time. Even so, I had to turn my hearing aid off. Then there was the dust. My mantelpiece was a mess.

So why did they do it, Nanny? My voice was unsteady.

She screwed up her nose, a youthful gesture she had kept into her old age. She ruffled my hair, which I invariably recoiled from, but which I secretly liked. Oh, a builder called round. He said something about some heavy work they had to do. I didn't catch it all. He was so softly spoken, and talked so fast. Do you remember what he said, Albert?

Grandad looked up sharply, screwing up his face; over the years their mannerisms had converged endearingly. He was a rotund, cheerful man with the complexion of a freshly polished red apple. Heavy glasses slipped down his nose as he regarded the hole in the wall. He said there's a lot of work to be done... I'm not surprised, mind. Muriel moved out ages ago, and she'd never done anything to the place since her Fred died. Must be twenty years back. I’m sure it's a wreck; I s'pose the new people want to do it up, so they can sell it as quick as possible. He paused. Right, let's get you two nice and settled in...

Terry had eyed the damage seemingly without much interest, and was already wreaking some kind of havoc in the front bedroom. He had been making a remarkable amount of noise as I talked to my grandparents, but by the time I joined him, he was sitting quietly on the bed unpacking his bag.

I felt more at ease once we were all downstairs again, sitting together in the lounge. As time for bed approached, however, I found myself worrying about how the hole in the wall was directly opposite my bedroom door. So for once I was happy to have Terry's company when we headed up to bed.

At that time, Grandad worked as a porter at a nearby hospital, and he would often bring old comics home from the waiting-rooms. He produced a big pile for me to share with Terry, so we busied ourselves sorting them into his and mine on the bedroom floor.

This is boring. Terry threw some Spider-Man comics across the room. My grandparents had just said good-night. We listened intently as they shuffled softly down the gloomy corridor to their bedroom, completing each others' half-finished phrases, familiar as old slippers. I was about to get ready for bed, but Terry had other ideas.

Let's go look through that hole in the wall!

He was clearly excited at the prospect. I shuddered, recalling the slabbed edges of the hole, like teeth, and its foetid breath. My mind had created a monster in the next terrace.

No, come on, we know next door's empty, so let's crawl through and have a shifty. See what's there. You up for it? He glared at me, willing me to share his enthusiasm, but pleased he could take the lead.

I was always uncomfortable at not being able to enjoy his risky escapades, and Terry revelled in my awkwardness, calling me childish names. It often happened, as we peered down the darkest glades in the park when the evening came on; or he challenged me to accompany him with the school bully on illicit excursions from school; or to make risky forays beyond the gate with the 'trespassers will be prosecuted' sign on it. Don't be silly, Terry had said on one eventful, moonless evening, again giving me that look. That sign's rubbish. They can't kill you for hopping over a gate. Things had come to a head earlier in those holidays, when we were playing with matches in the empty house at the far end of the council estate; but that tragic game would remain unspoken between us. I remembered so little of it already, as if my mind had blocked it out.

So the familiar unfolded, and I capitulated despite my misgivings. Besides, I knew Terry's bravado meant I might be able to satisfy my own curiosity.

Come on, don't be a mummy's boy all your life! He preyed on my hesitation. I'll go through first. You can hold the plastic stuff open and keep an eye out for your grandparents. Give me a shout if you hear them. It doesn't matter if you're too scaredy-custard to go through. Go on, say you'll do it!

It struck me that if his confidence had been as high as he led me to believe, he would not have needed me at all. Still, I gave in. Steeling myself, I opened the door from the bedroom gently, listening for the slightest sound. Terry hesitated as I whispered that the coast was clear. A shadow crossed his features. I have since wondered, did he share my doubts at the time?

On the landing, the light from the bedroom ended sharply just before the hole in the wall, sending the long hallway down to my grandparents' bedroom into darkness.

Hey, Terry. D'you reckon we should look for a torch? My whisper sounded hoarse and my throat was sore as we both lay on the floor and gaped into the hole. Dust swirled in the air all around us, shifting shapes; almost creating something tangible, then dispersing. We searched the rest of the house as quietly as we could for any kind of light, but our quest ended in bad-tempered failure.

I'll have a look through there. It might not be too dark. As Terry prepared himself, I pulled the edges of the plastic sheeting free. This was not easy, as it proved much heavier and thicker than I expected. It took all my strength to pull it back far enough to let him through.

Ready?

As I struggled, my fingers too sweaty and my hands far too shaky to gain proper purchase, I could hear dry, scraping noises from the other side. Slow and rhythmic. This gave way to faint crackling, spitting, roaring sounds. As my imagination worked overtime, I began to ask Terry if he was sure he wanted to go ahead with this, but he had already made his move. I hardly helped at all. His head penetrated that wound of a gap, he sneezed once then he was gone, with a soft sucking sound.

The sheeting slipped from my hands and slapped back down heavily, almost sealing itself against the wall. Yet more dust flew into the air all around, scattering lumps of crumbling masonry, a few pieces striking me. I blinked and straightened up, almost bereft. The sounds became more insistent, and I listened as if in a trance. It had to be just Terry moving around, didn’t it?

My indecision conquered (how long had I stood there like a statue?) I bent down and prised back the corner of the plastic. Poking my head through, the noises ceased abruptly. I could see clearly, as the internal walls of the house next door had already been removed,