Darkness Awaits

By Michael Campling

Darkness Awaits Us All.

Step into its velvety shadows and explore its subtle depths.

These tales will keep you company on your journey.

But don't let them keep you awake at night.

After all, they're just stories, aren't they?

This collection of horror stories contains:

IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR ALONE

AFTER DARK

ONCE IN A BLOOD MOON

A DARK ASSORTMENT

In Front of the Mirror Alone is previously unpublished.

After Dark and Once in a Blood Moon were originally published in an anthology titled Ancient Enemies, then subsequently as individual titles.

A Dark Assortment is a collection of seventeen short stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shadowstone Books
• Release date: Oct 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201006044

Michael Campling

Michael (Mikey to friends) is a full-time writer living and working in a tiny village on the edge of Dartmoor in Devon. He writes stories with characters you can believe in and plots you can sink your teeth into. Claim your free mystery book plus a starter collection when you join Michael's readers' group, The Awkward Squad. You'll also get a newsletter that's actually worth reading, and you'll receive advance notice of regular discounts and free books. Learn more and start reading today via Michael's blog, because everyone ought to be awkward once in a while: michaelcampling.com/freebooks

Book preview

PART I

IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR ALONE

IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR ALONE

In the quiet times, I tell myself that if I shut my eyes, he goes away.

But that’s a fairy tale. A lie.

Methuselah is never far away. He’s waiting for me. Always.

Bryony turns her gaze on me and says, So, Andrew, what I’m hearing is that you’ve attributed a name to your chronic pain, and you’ve called it Methuselah.

No, I reply. I didn’t choose the name. That’s what he’s called.

She makes notes while I stare at her, letting the seconds tick away, inching me closer to the end of our session, nearer to my moment of freedom.

This is interesting. Bryony smiles at me. Like saccharine. No. Like aspartame. Describe Methuselah to me. What is he like?

Like dying alone, I want to say. Like cold steel twisting in my eyeball. But I look at my hands, twist my fingers together and stay tight-lipped.

Okay, she says. If he were a person, what would he look like?

He looks like me. Who else could he possibly look like?

Right. Another note. She’s writing faster than before, pressing her pen harder against the pad. She flips the page, frowning, and I know what’s coming next. Tell me about your medication. How are you getting on with it?

Fine.

Hm. There’s a note here from Mr Jacobs. He says that you’ve expressed some concerns about your meds.

I grimace. They turn my stomach, make me dizzy. But it’s no use complaining. I need them. For Methuselah. I explained all this to Jacobs, but he doesn’t listen. He’s useless.

Mr Jacobs is a consultant psychiatrist. He’s one of our most senior doctors, and he’s an expert in your condition.

"Yeah? And what is my condition, exactly? No one’s ever spelled it out to me. Not the army, not you, not even your precious Mr. Jacobs."

Disappointment edges into Bryony’s expression, and I realise I’ve been raising my voice. So before she can answer, I mumble an apology, tell her I appreciate all she’s doing for me. She’s trying to help, damn her.

Her smile is back, brighter now. We can go through your case notes if you like, she says. But it will take some time, and I’m afraid… she glances at the clock, and I stand up.

Thanks, I say. See you next week?

I take the bus home. I can’t look at the windows, so I make by expression blank and watch the other passengers. Across the aisle, a woman takes out her phone and uses the camera to check her makeup. That’s okay. It’s an electronic image rather than a reflection. It’s safe.

The minute I get home, I run around the house, closing all the curtains before it gets dark. Once I’ve covered all the windows, I can breathe easy while I make dinner.

Chopping the ingredients is always satisfying, the rhythm relaxing, the ceramic blade clean and sharp. The cast iron pan is a faithful friend, and the pungent smell of sizzling meat fills the kitchen. When I cook, Methuselah stays out of my way, so I like recipes that take a long time. Today, I make a beef chilli with the cheapest cut of meat I could find. I have to let it simmer, standing over it and stirring it gently with a wooden spoon until hunger drives me to eat, then I wolf it down fast before Methuselah can show up and spoil everything. I scoop up the thick sauce and shove it in my mouth, even though it’s so hot it almost melts my plastic cutlery. My lips burn, my tongue is on fire, but it’s worth it.

The chilli is good. I used six fat cloves of garlic plus a couple of scotch bonnet chillis, and I can almost feel the aromatic molecules dissolving into my blood stream. I’m so busy chewing, I almost don’t hear the noise outside.

But there it is again.

A cat is mewling, whining in anguish, the sound so pathetic I have to listen. You and me both, I think. More than you could know. A sorrowful smile twitches at the corner of my lips. I can’t help the poor creature. I can’t take that risk.

But the pitiful cries don’t stop. On and on. And they’re close, as if the cat is right outside my house.

I put down my fork and move to the window. The curtains are heavy and, along with the double glazing, they muffle the sounds of the outside world. But this noise filters through, and the cat won’t stop. Instead, its moans grow louder.

I back away, the cat’s cries stretching my nerves razor-thin. Get rid of it. Scare it away. Throw some water at it.

At the kitchen sink, I fill a mug with water, then I hurry to the door, turning off the hall light. There are two glazed panels in the door, but so long as it's dark inside and out, there are no reflections, no danger.

I’m two steps away from the door. One.

I’m reaching out for the handle when a car pulls up outside, its headlights sweeping across my door, beams of light raking across the glass. It lasts less than a second, but it’s enough.

He’s here, standing behind me.

Methuselah’s reflection glares back at me from the dark glass, his soulless stare chilling me to the core. Outside, the headlights have been extinguished, but Methuselah remains. He’s broken free, found a way to step into the light. And now he’s tasted liberty, he won’t go back. Not without a fight. Going somewhere? he murmurs.

No.

Liar.

I swallow hard. There’s a cat outside. Making a noise.

Methuselah sucks air over his teeth. What have I told you about opening that door at night?

I know, but…

Shut up! You were breaking the rules. And you know what that means.

I don’t turn around, but in the glass I see his hands creeping toward me. The mug of water falls from my hands, and I clutch my head, despair clouding my vision. Methuselah’s icy fingers curl around my throat, and I choke, fighting for air, babbling, begging, praying.

But my pleas don’t work. How could they?

He holds tight, squeezing the life from me, and my legs give way, my body crumpling to the floor. But maybe I’ll be lucky. Maybe I’ll pass out quickly this time. Before it gets too bad.

It’s light outside when I wake up on the floor in the hallway, my body sore and my mouth dry. Arms shaking, I peel myself from the carpet and stand, swaying. There’s a damp stain on my trousers, and I fear the worst, but it’s just water. There’s mud on my knees and dark stains on my shoes. Cocking my head, I listen, but the house is quiet. Perhaps he’s gone.

Slipping off my dirty shoes, I stagger upstairs to the bathroom, and as I open the door, a wall of damp air hits me.

The room is so swathed in steam I can hardly see, and the bath is full, though I don’t recall running it. I creep into the room. In the bath, Methuselah looks back at me from the water’s surface, a sly smile curling his lips. I could push him down, hold him under. The old bath is slippery, and he might not be able to get a grip and fight back.

I edge closer, but as I reach out to him, my fingers trembling, his head breaks the surface. Come for a good look? he asks, wiping the water from his face with his hands. Like what you see?

No, I reply. I need to pee, that’s all. I turn my back on him and use the toilet.

Rough night, he says. I had to take you out the back, make you see sense. You’ll be all right now though, won’t you?

It’s not a question; it’s a threat. I grunt in reply, moving to the basin and washing my hands. I scoop cold water over my face and my cheek stings. Two drops of red splash into the basin and are swirled away. I grab a towel, pressing it against my face, and it comes away streaked with blood. What have you done? I whisper, but Methuselah just laughs.

I stalk from the room, slam the door. But still I hear him, his wild, cackling laughter drilling into my skull. I have to get out of the house, and this is my chance. I can slip out while Methuselah is in the bath, so I change my clothes and go, stomping along the rain-slicked pavement.

There’s a police car parked outside a neighbour’s house. What’s happened? I’ve never seen the cops in this neighbourhood before. We’re away from the city centre. My neighbours are young couples, families, old folks. It’s quiet. That’s why I chose it.

It isn’t far to the Cafe Continental, but I don’t go straight in. I linger outside, and I do something I never do. I stare at the steamed-up window, hoping against hope that I won’t see the image of Methuselah by my side. I defy him to appear, and maybe it works, because I see only my own reflection, my eyes round with surprise. And a faint ember of happiness glows inside me.

Someone exits the cafe and a fug of warm air seeps out, promising coffee and comfort, so I march inside. I buy a mug of black coffee and a bacon roll. The young woman behind the counter is fresh-faced and cheerful. According to her name badge, she’s called Vikki. I’ve never seen her before, so maybe this is her first day in a new job. Vikki’s apron is white, her fair hair tied back, but though she looks the part, she seems nervous, her movements stiff and awkward.

Like me, Vikki is a fish out of water, but she hasn’t given up the struggle against life. Not yet. She tackles the ancient coffee machine, yanking out the basket and bashing out the spent grounds as if she bears a grudge. A minute later, I have my coffee and Vikki moves to the till, jabbing at the buttons. The till beeps at her, but she won’t give in and, finally, she beats it. Claiming victory with a satisfied nod, she beams and says she’ll bring my food over.

It’s a nice moment, but when I turn around to search for a table, my throat tightens. The man staring at me has the same unkempt dark hair as Methuselah, the same glassy greed in his eyes. It’s not him, I tell myself. It’s just Ollie. Everything’s fine. Ollie is a regular in here, and sometimes we share a table, chat. He raises his hand in greeting, and I lift my chin in acknowledgement.

As I make my way over to join him, I chide myself for mistaking Ollie for Methuselah. Methuselah is wiry, lean and hungry like a wild dog, whereas Ollie is soft, his black leather jacket straining at the seams when he struggles to button it across his stomach. He lives on a diet of junk food, cigarettes and extra-strength lager. He couldn’t hurt a fly. The slightest exertion sends him into a coughing fit, and as I sit down facing him, the thought of Ollie getting into a fight is almost enough to make me laugh out loud.

What are you grinning at? he demands.

Nothing much. I drink my coffee, let the bitterness roll over my tongue. It tastes better than usual, and I decide I like Vikki. I hope she stays, but there’s not much chance of that. The staff here change with the weather, moving on as they realise they’re in the wrong place. All the best customers go to the coffee shop a hundred yards away, lining up for their lattes and flat whites. But the place is full of mirrors and photos in glass frames, so I’m stuck in here with the likes of Ollie. The dregs. But this place keeps trading, probably because it becomes a bar in the evenings, serving overpriced bottles of beer to an oddball crowd of students and colourful characters: the kind of people who believe in crystals and wear tie-dyed clothes. At least, that was the impression I got last summer when I walked past one warm and sunlit evening.

Ollie has been reading the local paper, but he folds it and tosses it onto the table.

Do you mind if I have a look at that? I ask. Might be some jobs going. You never know.

He snorts and pushes the paper toward me. Waste of time.

I’m saved from a round of weary grumbling by the arrival of Vikki with my bacon roll. I thank her and bite into the soft white bread, savouring the salty fat of the fried rashers.

Nice, Ollie says, and I know he’s not talking about my breakfast. His eyes are on Vikki, his gaze tracking her as she walks away, and I sense the waves of hunger radiating from him.

So, what’ve you got planned for today? I ask him, and he snaps back into his sour mood, launching into a tirade about the lack of jobs for people like us. I stop listening while I eat; I’ve heard it all before. Ollie claims he’s ex-army too, and I go along with it. But he doesn’t smell right. He gets confused if I use army slang, and besides, with his smoker’s cough, he’d never get past the medical. But you never know. He might’ve been fitter once, stronger, before something inside him broke and he wound up in the civilian world, cast aside.

I finish chewing and Ollie has changed tack, spouting local gossip. I hear the word ‘cops’ and pay attention. What was that?

Ollie frowns. Aren’t you listening?

Yes, but tell me again. I missed it. I tap my left ear, the one that doesn’t work, and Ollie relents.

Two cops came in for takeout coffee, and I heard them talking. Some sick bastard killed a cat last night, and they left it on some old biddie’s doorstep. She comes out in the morning, blood all over the path and Tibbles dead on the doorstep. The poor cow almost had a heart attack. He shakes his head. They reckoned it must’ve been kids. Nothing the feds could do, the useless sods. If I got hold of those kids, I’d sort them out once and for all.

Where was this?

I dunno. Somewhere nearby. The cops walked here. Sounded like they’d come straight from the old biddie.

The blood drains from my face, leaving me cold. I finish my coffee and tell Ollie I have to go home.

He studies me for a second, then says, You look like shit. Even more than usual.

Thanks, I say, then I head home. The police car has gone from my street, and I take my time, scanning the paths. There. A doorstep has been scrubbed clean, but there’s a dark stain on the path.

A cold dread settles on my shoulders. Methuselah did this, just because the cat was making a noise. Just because he could. But I’ll get the blame. It’s only a matter of time.

At home, I go into the spare room, shift some boxes and open the old wardrobe door. There's a mirror inside, the only one in the house. I should’ve got rid of it years ago, but I kept it, just in case. Opening the door wide, the mirror shows Methuselah lying on the spare bed, dozing. He opens one eye, but as soon as I speak, he shakes his head and pretends to sleep, ignoring me while I hurl bitter words at him. It does no good and, eventually, my voice cracks and I have to run from the room.

Downstairs, I pace the floor for hours. I don’t stop until someone hammers on the front door.

I sneak into the hall. Who is it?

It’s me, Ollie. His voice is strained. "Can I come in? I