The Swine Shed: A Horror Novel

By Joseph Samuel

Philip has come to the frightening realisation that somehow, if only briefly, he has the ability to enter people's consciousness. This act takes a debilitating physical blood-covered toll on both parties. For a few short minutes, Philip is in control of the chosen person's body and mind, dictating their actions. He discovers, to his cost, that t

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joseph Samuel
• Release date: Aug 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9781802276183

Book preview

Prologue

Each Friday morning, creatures of habit, Angus and Mary MacTavish drove to the local supermarket. Angus always accompanied Mary, as he, being a true Scot, didn’t want her frittering away his hard-earnt pension on any non-essential rubbish. Today, as on every shopping day, Angus would take the lead and be in total control of the supermarket trolley with Mary following dutifully along behind him. They swept, as normal, through the main supermarket doors with Angus ignoring the buckets containing many varieties of flowers at the entrance. Mary would always take a moment to admire the bunches of tulips and chrysanthemums and think just how lovely they would look in their lounge. She knew only too well Angus would not consider something that would be dead in only a few days, as they simply were not worthwhile. Now his rose bushes at home, that was a different matter. Every year after a little care and consideration, they would flower and reward you with their beauty, all for no cost.

Today, Angus had decided that for tea he wanted baked potatoes filled with baked beans and cheese. Still his favourite most cost-efficient meal, even after all these years. He pulled his trolley to a stop next to the shelves with the loose baking potatoes and, as usual, waited until Mary had carefully chosen each potato. Two large ones for Angus, and then three smaller ones for Chloe and herself to share. Angus had both hands on the trolley waiting for the potato selection to be completed so they could move on. He felt a little odd, a little bit sickly and an odd metallic taste was growing in his mouth. He bowed his head slightly as he was feeling light-headed. He thought about it, and was sure he’d taken his medication that morning; his blood pressure tablets ‘ramipril’ and those stupid orange tablets Mary insisted he took. ‘Fortifies the over forties.’ Stupid woman. He was in his late sixties. So what use were they anyhow? Angus thought. His ongoing, and worsening, prostate problems meant he was in constant need of a pee, but that didn’t make him feel sickly.

As quickly as the wave of nausea came, it went, and momentarily he was feeling normal. He would have to ask the kind supermarket staff if he could use the loo, explaining yet again about his little problem. They always oblige and today will be no different, Angus thought.

The potatoes now chosen, Mary loaded them into the shopping trolley. Angus’ hold on the trolley’s handle now magnified as he was hit by a second wave of even more powerful nausea. His head bowed again and a drop of blood from his nose hit the steel gauge of the trolley and onto the carefully chosen baking potatoes. Angus felt a sudden debilitating, energy-sapping nausea which was increasing. He felt he was losing control and about to faint. Now swaying, with his head bowed further, Angus could just hear Mary’s high-pitched voice and her hand grabbing his arm.

‘Angus, Angus! What’s wrong, Angus?’

Other shoppers had noticed this old man, his head bowed with blood dripping from his nose and ears, hanging onto his trolley. One lady in particular, a retired nurse, hung back a little and was ready to offer her assistance if needed.

Angus felt as though he was in a dark place, moving, warm and powerless to stop it. A strange image, a blurry face, a face he thought he recognised but couldn’t quite think who it might be. Moving towards this image, becoming one, then passing. Is this death? he thought. The nausea began abating, Angus felt drained and without any energy. He could smell blood and sensed he was lying somewhere, on something hard and solid. He must have fainted or so he thought.

Philip’s concentration and thoughts of the despicable Angus had succeeded. He felt, and saw, the shopping trolley, as if he was looking through Angus’ eyes. He saw the blood dripping onto the potatoes, felt the body of a much older man, the aching back and pain in his arms and the very strong need to urinate. The hand grasping his arm, Mary repeatedly saying, ‘Angus, Angus!’ The concerned looks of other shoppers and the dreadful, energy-sapping nausea. Philip felt he hadn’t got much time in this old body and had no idea what to do. He pulled away from Mary’s grasp and saw in front of him the loose potato shelving on two levels. Baking potatoes on the lowest and a second shelf above with loose Maris Pipers and above that a rail with the price card stuck on it. Just behind the price rail was a floor to ceiling pillar that formed part of the structure of the building. Angus’ body grabbed the price rail and hauled himself up feet first onto the lowest shelf and then higher, onto the Maris Pipers. Grabbing the pillar for support, with blood flowing onto his shirt, Angus’ body was now groin height to the increasing throng of spectating shoppers.

‘Angus? Angus, oh my dear lord, Angus!’ was all Mary could say.

Philip felt the incredible exertion of the simple climb in this old man’s body and felt he was losing control. The need to urinate was beyond excruciating. With this, he steadied Angus’ body, one hand holding onto the pillar. With the other hand, he pushed Angus’ brown corduroy trousers and white underpants down to his thighs. The strong stream of urine was immediate, splashing and covering the potatoes below. Urine covered the carrots and even made its way to the leeks that were all neatly displayed.

‘You’re all a bunch of sassenachs, a load of ugly bastards!’ Angus’ body shouted to the shocked audience. Some stood watching, some were laughing. Most abandoned their baskets and trolleys, gathering up children and heading for the door to escape this mad event. Philip was shocked to hear the words he had said from Angus’ mouth and that they were all said with his broad Scottish drawl.

The intense nausea threatened to take him over. The darkness was closing in and Philip’s control of Angus’ body was diminishing. As he was giving in to the inevitable, he saw Mary had fainted and was lying in the middle of the aisle. With this, Philip let go. He felt he was moving back along that dark warm tunnel, two, then one, back to where he had started.

Angus’ body crashed full length onto the top shelf of potatoes, rolled down to the second level and eventually onto the cold floor of the shopping aisle. His face and shirt were covered with blood, trousers still around his thighs, and the last drops of urine dribbling onto his trousers and the floor. The retired nurse was first to reach Angus and quickly rolled him into the recovery position whilst covering his naked midriff with her shopping bag. A shelf stacker was lifting Mary into a sitting position and security were on their way.

Philip’s eyes were recovering in the candlelight. He felt drained. His right hand ached and his chest felt bruised and painful. Chin on chest, he grabbed the padlock and with shaking hands spun the wheels one by one. 8… 7… 6… 5… The lock released and Philip pulled himself up into a sitting position. Blood covered his shirt and congealed blood was caked around his ears. His head swayed as he sat up. He felt dreadful. He undid the ankle straps and slowly rolled over so he was on all fours. Feeling sick and drained in the dim candlelight, Philip started to smile as he thought of the embarrassment he had just caused Angus.

Section One

Chapter One

Arthur Thompson, Philip Thompson’s father, was an angry man. Thirty-one years old, ex-army squaddie, six-foot-one tall with fair hair and broad shoulders, he was considered, especially by himself, a handsome man. He really liked to be thought of as a sixties film star, a Burt Lancaster lookalike, with an eye for the ladies and possessing a reasonable line in chat. What let Arthur down so dreadfully was his temper. He had what some would call a ‘snap temper’, no shades of grey here. Arthur lived his life in one of two moods: simmering disquiet or absolute rage. To Arthur, nothing was wrong and, to him, his demeanour was quite normal, even though he would always blow up over the slightest inconvenience. He would smash objects to pieces if they were not working to his liking, usually muttering the words, ‘I’ll show yer.’

Every single problem Arthur had, he shared with his family. They would have to hear all about it and never, ever, comment. Both his young kids, who he referred to as ‘swine’, knew not to ever question or interrupt, not ever. Arthur was always the first to condemn his kids and last to praise and oh so very quick with his fists. The ‘swine’ knew to keep quiet and literally out of arm’s reach. Arthur was a monster of a man who should never have been allowed to be a father. He was feared by all his family but none more so than his only son, Philip.

Daddy was so feared by Philip that Arthur could make the young boy cry with just a look. Arthur would just stop talking, turn, and stare at the kid and Philip would start to shake and cry. If Arthur moved towards the stupid kid, Philip would usually wet his pants in abject fear, so, as Arthur would say, ‘The soft shite kid deserved a good belting.’

Arthur was so proud of the power he exerted over his useless son; enjoying seeing him scurrying about to complete Arthur’s command, or just to get out of his way. Arthur would justify, after dishing out a fist to the back of Philip’s head, that he himself had been hit every day with the poker.

‘Never did me any harm.’

Philip’s fear of his uncaring and unloving violent father was as total as it was complete. Fear and loathing would later be Philip’s overriding recollection of his childhood when in his father’s presence.

On one occasion, seven-year-old Philip had innocently and unexpectedly walked into the living room to see his father with a table knife in his mother’s tiny black savings pot pig. Arthur was carefully trying to slide a sixpence out of the thin entrance slit on the top of the little black savings pot. If he was to be successful and repatriate the odd sixpence, he would just blame, if questioned, the ‘swine’ for its disappearance.

To say money was tight was an understatement but Mrs Thompson had this tiny, black pot pig and the very odd sixpence would be placed in it for what she would call a ‘rainy day’. It sat, pride of place, on the green, wooden window ledge in the living area. Philip and his older sister would often like to guess there were perhaps four or even five sixpences in that tiny pot, which was wealth beyond their wildest dreams. To Philip’s mother, it was her pride and offered a small element of hope if things were to get any worse.

Philip knew immediately, as he entered the tiny shabby living room, even in his tender years, that his father was trying to extract a sixpence. Philip averted his eyes immediately, not wanting his father to know he had seen his actions. He also knew his mother would not be best pleased and for some confused, misplaced, childlike logic, looked back at his father, and blurted out, ‘I’ll just tell me mum you only took one.’

Philip instantly regretted saying anything and looked down at the green swirls of pattern in the worn linoleum.

Arthur momentarily stopped and stared. His elbow was up at right angles with the knife inserted in to the savings pot, close to his eye. He had been caught by the swine mid-act and was immediately enraged. Without a second thought, Arthur flew across the dingy living room, landing on top of his son, pinning the seven-year-old to the floor. Sixteen stone crushed the wind out of the boy, pressing him down on the cheap green flooring. Philip’s head clattered to the floor; he felt shocked and dazed and felt the enormous weight upon him. He could not breathe. The pain in his head from the thud with the floor was huge but he so desperately wanted to say sorry, wanted to say that he would not say a word, wanted to cry, to breathe, but he could do nothing. Philip felt the flat of the knife pressing hard against his young neck.

With their faces only inches apart, Arthur now above his son with spittle dripping onto Philip’s eyes and mouth said, ‘You say anything to your mother and I’ll come in your bedroom and stick this knife so far into your neck, you’ll bleed to death like the total swine you are.’

Philip still couldn’t breathe and was totally overwhelmed with fear. He could see into his father’s wild grey eyes, feel the heat and smell the stench of his breath, the wet spit on his face. And, not for the first or last time, Philip wet his pants. The pain in his small ribs, the ache in his head, the absolute fear, the inability to breathe. Then the world started to close in on him, everything started to go dark and then black… He must have killed me, was Philip’s last thought as he fainted.

Cold, wetness, severe pain in his ribs. Thudding in his brain as confusing images started to appear. More wetness, then warm wetness going cold in his pants. His dad shouting something, more fear. The image of his dad was back, towering over him, becoming clearer and more cold wetness in his face from a tea cup. Blurry, wet vision, headache and wet pain. His dad was shouting.

‘Get up, you piece of shit, and clean this up.’

Philip’s instincts took over. He slowly and painfully crawled to the wall and gathered himself up. He looked down at the linoleum where he’d been crushed by his father to see water on it. With a thudding pain still in his head, Philip stumbled to the kitchen to get the tea towel to wipe up the cold water his father had thrown in his face. Wiping the floor, he dared not look at his father, above all else he dared not have eye contact with him. Confused and with tears rolling down his face, Philip went to the small, musty bedroom he shared with his sister, hoping to find some dry pants.

Arthur, for the first time, thought he may have gone too far, thought the stupid kid was dead for a moment. Little bastard had scared him! He knew though, that he’d got the message over and although he hadn’t been able to release a sixpence from the pot pig, he knew his secret was safe and to Arthur, that was all that was important.

Some might argue that the continuous trauma, such violence experienced at such a tender age, could have a devastating effect on a young mind. Could even warp or twist the natural process of evolving when growing up in what is normally a loving and caring environment. When the mental, coupled with the physical violence, is administered by the supposed protector, the person every child wants to respect and look up to, the role model, the damaged mind will seek protection in whichever way it can. These horrific events possibly opening that young mind to strengths or powers to use and to protect itself in the future. It could be described as an awakening or unlocking of a dark, dormant room, somewhere in the deeper cellars of the mind that perhaps we all possess but don’t know how to access. That day, unbeknownst to Philip, this door had been pushed wide open.

To Philip, nothing was different. To him, this was normal life. He was swine, a worthless piece of shit and every other name he’d been called. One day, this wide-open door, in the recesses of his mind, might manifest itself in such a way as to protect him. Protect him when he least expected it. It was only going to be a matter of time.

Philip did not get much sleep for the three following nights, nor did he tell his mother about his father’s attack upon him nor about the pot pig. A large egg appeared on his forehead from where he had hit the floor. The thudding pain slowly reduced to a dull constant ache that would last for days. A large angry bruise was the only reminder of the attack and Philip would wear the bruise for the next two weeks. Those nights following his father’s attack, Philip just lay in his bed, eyes wide open almost petrified, listening to every sound. He couldn’t sleep until he had heard his father use the bathroom and then walk the three steps past his bedroom door to his own. Holding his breath and praying for Daddy not to come through the door, knife in hand.

*

Dyslexia wasn’t really known about in the late 1960s when Philip was at school. The nine-year-old was just considered to be ‘thick’ or ‘a bit slow’ as his mother would say. It was true he found spelling, English and expressing himself with pen and paper far too difficult and consequently turned off from school work altogether. Dreaming, escaping, now that was a different matter. Philip could lose himself in thoughts of Thunderbirds, Captain Scarlet and Fireball XL5 for many hours. Always the conquering hero, protecting the innocent, fighting the good fight and seeing off the dreaded foe.

Philip’s lack of ability and dreamy nature was not lost on his schoolteacher, Miss Bolton. Both the final year at Philip’s junior school and the year below, were all housed