Monkey Tails of Terror

By Monkey Kettle

A compilation of horror stories written by Monkey Kettle contributors. They're creepy and they're kooky, mysterious and spooky, They're all together ooky... And they've published it in a book. (features stories by Mike Edwards, Chris Townsend, Brian Amyes, Nikki Ibbotson, Simon Edwards, Phil Sky and matthew michael taylor).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781326188030

Book preview

Monkey Tails of Terror

Monkey Tails Of Terror

Contents

5. Silence - Mike Edwards

32. Stop - Chris Townsend

57. The Night Shift - Brian Amyes

83. Ungeheuren Ungeziefer- Nikki Ibbotson

88. The Edge Of The Rift - Simon Edwards

110. In The Deepest, Darkest Place - Phil Sky

134. there are monsters and i kill them - matthew michael taylor

Introduction

No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.

- The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson (1959)

That’s how you start introductions to horror anthologies, with a spooky quote. We know this because it is the way of things. And the way of things is how we like it.

The way of things is a well-worn pair of shoes that slip on without having to undo the laces, the dent in the sofa that your arse hugs perfectly, the comfortable clicks of your keyboard, the ever reliable, instantly recognisable ring tone.

I know what you smell like my love, I know how you taste...

And then, suddenly, you’re wrong. And I try to tell myself it is a mistake, a shift of perception, a new brand of lip gloss, but it’s not me, it’s you. You’re different.

Change terrifies.

I asked my friends to each write a story suitable for a Halloween anthology. In their own way, they all wrote about change. On one level that makes me glad... If change is so horrifying then your present can’t be all that bad can it?

Then again. I’ve watched you while you slept my love. In the moonlight your skin looks quite different, like it is being worn by a different person.

Dedication:

You’re not supposed to dedicate anthologies to people. But my story is dedicated to my Dad, whose birthday I forgot (again). I’m sorry I’m not as awesome as you designed me to be... yet.

Simon Edwards

Silence

Chapter 1. That Morning.

4.06, 6.32, 7.10. It was always the same pattern. Each morning he would wake up with a string of numbers in his mind. Sometimes there were only two, but usually there were three.

They came from the digital bedside clock, and recorded the number of times he had woken in the early hours. Even in the dark, they glowed red, and imprinted their chronic sequence on his subconscious. Usually he turned over, pulled the covers snugly around his neck, and went back to sleep. Although barely conscious, he was checking how much longer there was before the alarm went off. He believed in punctuality, but hated the alarm. It was far better to wake up naturally than to be jolted out of sleep by an alarm. Or so he thought. Most days he would stretch out and cancel the alarm, just seconds before it went off. It was a ritual.

Although his eyes were open now, it was still dark. A faint glow from the street lamps leaked from the edges of the curtains, the sun had not yet risen. It must be about 7.28. He turned over and stretching out his right arm, felt for the cancel button, and silenced the alarm.

Janet had moved out six months ago, but he still kept to his side of the bed. It’s not as if he was expecting her to return. She was now shacked up with some estate agent in Wolverhampton. It’s just that, after 15 years, the idea of sleeping on her side seemed unnatural. Perhaps he was keeping the space for some, as yet unknown, partner. Sometimes he fantasized that it was filled with Elena from Accounts, or the girl who had spilt her coffee at the photocopier last Thursday. Occasionally he stretched his left arm out, between the cool sheets, just for the sheer luxury of knowing that he could have the whole bed to himself.

There was something odd. It was so quiet. By 7.30 there should be the sound of the odd car in the street: the delivery van calling at the grocers on the corner. His first instinct was that it had snowed during the night, and a white blanket of sound insulation had been laid over the entire neighbourhood. He pondered this for a while. They hadn’t said anything about snow on last night’s forecast, but then they do sometimes get it spectacularly wrong. There was nothing for it. He had to get up.

Throwing back the duvet, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. Two paces to the window, he pulled the curtain back. Even as he did it he sensed something was wrong, but could not immediately identify what. The street scene below looked normal. There was no snow. A car was passing, and the shopkeeper across the road was putting up his shutters, but in silence.

He stood for several minutes, trying to rationalise the situation. Everything looked normal. He looked around the room, now faintly illuminated by the approaching sunrise. He closed the curtain again, and opened it, as if perhaps on the second opening the world would normalise itself, but it didn’t. The window was tall and narrow, starting about two feet above the floor. He always slept with it slightly open, because his attic flat was always hot.

His first assumption had been that the outside world had somehow changed. That somehow it had become silent. It was now dawning on him that this may not be the case. The uneasy feeling that he had experienced when first drawing back the curtain suddenly came into focus. He could not hear the familiar sound of the curtain rings running along the curtain pole. Such an insignificant sound; a noise that normally he would not even register, but now it confirmed that the silence was not just out there; it was in his room.

He clapped his hands; felt the sharp pain as they came together... silently.

I’ve gone deaf, he said out loud, only he didn’t. His mouth made the instinctive movements, but there was no sound. Oh shit! What to do now?

He went into the bathroom to have his early morning pee. A cascade of urine arced silently into the toilet. He looked in the mirror. Everything normal there. He covered his ears with his hands and released them, somehow hoping that this action would switch his hearing back on, but it didn’t.

He went back into the bedroom, and sat on the edge of the bed. He could feel the panic rising. His heart was beating fast, his breath was shallow but rapid. What to do now? The phrase repeated itself over and over again in his mind. He let his body drop back onto the bed, and just lay there, feet still on the ground.

He was not sure how long he lay there. It was now 8.16. By now, he should be washed, breakfasted, dressed and on the tube on his way to work. He was late.

I’d better let the office know that I am going to be late. His life had become so predictable that it did not occur to him that this sudden loss of hearing might, in some way, change his routine. I’ll get washed and dressed, then I’ll give them a call. Say I’ll be late... unexpected... unexpected... what? This wasn’t an easy thing to explain. People don’t suddenly go deaf, in both ears. At least, he had never heard of this happening. I’ll say I’ve had an accident. That avoids having to go into detail.

He finished a bowl of Special K, and picked up the phone. Laura would be at her desk by now. He punched in the number and put the phone to his ear. It felt strange. There was no dialing tone. He waited a few seconds. Hello... hello. Is there anyone there? He suddenly realised the stupidity of the situation, and in panic, he hung up.

But the urge to ring in was still strong. It made him feel normal, it’s what he would normally do. This needs more thought. I need to be better prepared. I need a script which explains what has happened, and what I intend to do about it, but is not reliant on a response from the other end. He picked up a Post-It from beside the phone, and took a biro out of the bedside drawer.

Hello Laura. I expect that you can hear me, but I can’t hear you. Something has gone wrong with my hearing. I’m going to be late into the office, so please ask Bill to cover for me. I’m going to go via the hospital, to see if they know anything about this condition. I’ll be in as soon as I can. Thanks. He read it through. That sounds OK; short and to the point, he thought.

He carried it out effectively. At least, he thought he did. There really was no way of telling.

He put on his coat; picked up his keys; checked that he had some money, and left the flat.

Chapter 2. To The Hospital.

Stepping out of the front door into the silent world was both familiar and alien. It looked much the same. People going about their business; having conversations as they walked; talking on their mobiles. At the corner by the tube-station, the young man who generally played there was silently busking. He had a good range of Simon and Garfunkel numbers, but today it could have been anything. There was no way of knowing. He felt strange, detached from reality; but no one gave him a funny look. How odd.

It was only two stops to the Hospital, and then a short walk. He had thought of going to his G.P., but quickly rejected it. It was difficult enough trying to get an appointment, and it would certainly have involved an interrogation by the receptionist. No, he would go to the Drop-In centre at the Hospital, or whatever it is called. A friend had been last month, and she said that they were quick and efficient.

Emerging from the Tube, he discovered that it had started to rain. It fell silently. He tried to remember the sound of rain; the plopping in the puddles, and the swish of car tyres on a wet road. He hadn’t expected rain, and hadn’t brought an umbrella. The Hospital was about 20 minutes walk away, but the rain was now quite heavy. Should he try to get a cab, or a bus? He didn’t know the bus routes in this part of town, and couldn’t ask. Well, he could ask, but it wouldn’t have helped. There were a few taxis about, but he held back. It wasn’t about the cost. He remembered the phone call to the office. He had to work out what he was going to say. He was just putting a few lines together, when a taxi came round the corner, and it was free. Instinctively, he raised his hand, and stepped into the road.

At the same moment a silent cyclist, kitted out in brightly-coloured road racing gear crashed into him. In his hearing world, he would probably have heard the cyclist coming, but not now. The pedal of the cycle hit him, just below his right knee. The bike turned an arc in front of him and the rider was pitched into the air, but miraculously landed on his feet in a crouching position. He must have been quite athletic. He swiftly got up, and out of the way of the passing traffic. The cyclist didn’t look injured, but he was clearly angry. His mouth was moving and he was shaking his arms. He just looked comical in his funny helmet. He picked up the bike, and rode off.

The taxi had now come to a halt, and the driver had wound down the window. Whatever he had rehearsed, it he had completely gone out of his head. The taxi driver looked at him and said something. Perhaps it was, Where do you want to go?. On the other hand, he might have said, That was bloody stupid, you could have killed that cyclist. Either way, it was no time for a conversation. He got into the cab and said, Drop-In Centre, Hospital.

Sitting in the back seat of the cab, he became aware that a warm liquid was running down his leg. It didn’t feel like rain, it felt sticky. Moving his coat to one side, he saw a long tear in his trouser leg. The material was slowly absorbing a dark liquid. He was bleeding. Instinctively, he felt in his coat pocket, extracted a tissue, and pressed it hard against his leg. It slowly turned red. Shit! he said. He must have said it quite loudly, because the taxi driver turned round and said something. He smiled at the driver, in what he hoped was a reassuring look.

They were now approaching the entrance to the Hospital. Drop-In he said to the driver, who nodded. He fumbled in his jacket for some money. The pain in his leg was increasing, and it was starting to throb. He climbed out, trying to look as casual as he could and hoping that the driver would not see the small pool of blood on the rubber mat. He only had a 20-pound note, but did not want to stay around for change. Keep it, he said, closed the door, and headed towards the brightly-illuminated entrance, leaving a trail of blood spots on the paving slabs.

Although his original intention had been to explain to them his sudden deafness, he was now suffering from a throbbing and bleeding injury inflicted by the cyclist. Perhaps he should have gone