A Crate of Rags & Bones

By L. A. Nolan

These dusty crates are filled with twenty dark tales that have been penned specifically to frustrate your slumber and incite insomnia. A stew of sinister intent as it were. A pinch of horror, a splash of mystery, two dashes of murder, and smatterings of suspense have all been brought to a boil and congealed into this olio of evil.

Within, you will find witches cackling as they reclaim their youth, a snarling coy wolf in a fight for survival, a banshee wailing about her homicide, and long dead pirates howling for revenge. A judgmental apple tree observes illicit lovers, a tyrannical government of a dismal future punishes dissidents with impunity, and a distraught vampire who seeks his own demise. These, as well as a host of other characters, endure experiences that test the bounds of rational thought.

Each story is unique, with yarns spun across multiple timelines, spanning numerous countries and continents to draw taut your tether to comfort and reality. Whether in India, Canada, Romania, or England, peering through the dingy lace of a Victorian past, or shielding your eyes from the ominous glow of a dystopian future, these tales have been woven to shroud your heart within the inky black of pure terror.

Pry open each crate in the safety of daylight and with the utmost of caution, for here, there be monsters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: One Point Six Technologies Pvt Ltd
• Release date: Dec 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9789356670457

L. A. Nolan

Award winning author L.A. Nolan was born in Toronto, making him the first Canadian born member of his family, whose roots are set firmly in Liverpool, England. Throughout his life, Nolan’s restlessness encouraged relentless travel to many countries, and in 2012, he finally settled in India.He took to exploring the country on motorcycle and began writing and blogging about his many experiences. Then, after breaking several bones on a desolate mountainside in the Himalayas and riding back from Nepal to New Delhi injured and unattended, Nolan focused solely on his true passion of storytelling.In October of 2021, Nolan released his debut crime thriller fiction novel, Blood & Brown Sugar, which won him the coveted Emerging Author of the Year – 2022 from Ukiyoto Publishing and voted Best Fiction 2022 by Literary Voice Magazine.Nolan lives in Bombay with his wife, a sarcastic beagle named Sweeney Todd, and two very naughty motorcycles, Wilhelmina and Elvira.Publications:Novels;> Memoirs of a Motorcycle Madman, a collection of humorous travelogues.> Blood & Brown Sugar, a crime thriller novel.> A Crate of Rags & Bones, a collection of macabre short stories.Short Stories;> Sabaat of the Kali Dayaan, in the Chandrayarn – Spin to the Moon anthology. (Included within)> A Wolf by Any Other Name, in the HellHounds – Tales from the Bark Side Anthology. (Included within)> Hearts of Gold and Ash, in the Abandoned House anthology.> The Last Farewell, in the My Hearts Sunshine anthology.> Picklestich & Candyfloss, in the Nocturnal Echoes anthology.> Stolen Dawn, in the When Goddesses Walked the Earth anthology.AwardsFor Blood & Brown Sugar;> Best Emerging Author – 2022, Ukiyoto Publishing House.> Best Fiction – 2022, Literary Voice Magazine.

Book preview

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Crate One

Nitish Knew... Here There Be Monsters

Nitish knew it was coming. It always appeared in the darkness. The hideous creature that lurked in his room. He quivered and drew his knees to his chest, making himself appear small.

Of course, his parents were of no help. They looked at him affectionately and told him it was just that he was young, and soon he would no longer fear such things.

It’s bigger than me! he had whined. His father smiled while his mother had smoothed the matted hair on his head.

Believe me, son, it’s much more afraid of you than you are of it!

Nitish doubted that! The beast was horrible and plodded around his room at will. It wasn’t frightened of anything!

No matter the number of repeated assurances from his parents that nothing evil inhabited his chamber, Nitish knew better. He knew all too well that here there be monsters.

The wind howled, rattling the window in its frame. Nitish shook with it. Such things woke the beast. He curled tighter in a desperate effort to make himself vanish and willed the breeze not to blow. But it did. A tap-tap-tap from a mango tree branch clicked on the glass. That finally woke the hellion. Nitish heard a jostle and groan from the unearthly being.

Suddenly, the demon screeched! A twisted yowl from the very depths of hell itself. Nitish didn’t understand the sounds that it made but recognised the cadence and tone. He knew well enough what horrors the call would bring.

He saw its smooth little feet as they hit the floor with a thud.

Five toes on each! How revolting!

Nitish’s umber fur bristled with fear and he screwed his single eye shut. He firmly planted the talon of his left paw between his fangs and suckled.

Papa! the monster shrieked again.

Nitish forced himself under the bed as deep as he could, for the only thing more horrific than dealing with one fiend, was dealing with two; especially after the wee one summoned its father! There came the clumping of approaching footfalls and a terrifying light suddenly flashed through Nitish’s bedroom.

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Crate Two

The Grand Masquerade

The carriage crashed along the rutted King’s Road as the man on the black stallion followed. The wind whipped up his cloak as he leaned forward to combat the relentless onslaught of the incessant rain.

There came a blinding, heaven-white flash of sheet lightning, followed by a static crack that roared through the blustery wind and bristled his neck hair. After blinking thrice, the running lantern of the carriage ahead, bobbing through the mist, became visible once more. He pursued it with vigour as the carriage peeled off the main road and clattered into a narrow lane. He pressed onward. The powerful horse responded to his fresh urgings and, with a snort, a wisp of opaque condensation spewed from its flared nostrils. The dull drumming of the stallion’s hoofs echoed off the tall oak trees that lined the narrow path.

A splendid eve for a ball, he mused with rancour. Yet, one does not refuse the polite invitation of a countess, does one? No matter how inclement the weather!

Never thee mind, he whispered. Tonight, I move with greater purpose.

It was the wish of Captain Finlay Keith, one of the finest swordsmen of the sixth Inniskilling Dragoons, to make his intentions towards Miss Claire McKerras clear this eve. To her very person, no less. A thought that soured the sparse contents of his belly akin to spoilt milk.

Yet, if there was a finer locale to profess his love other than Crow Valley Manor, amidst the frivolity of a masquerade ball, he could not imagine it.

The next flash of lightning illuminated the spires of the magnificent house ahead. A looming abode of stone and mortar that filled him with trepidation, not inspiration. The gates stood open, poised, a yawing aperture filled with wrought iron teeth secured to pillars of field rock jaw. Captain Keith trailed the carriage through them, and the muddied path switched to smooth cobbles.

Finley gave the leather reins a gentle pull, and his steed came to a halt behind the coach. He sat slumped in the saddle and watched as the driver escorted an older gentleman and younger woman from the cabin and then directed them towards the attending doorman of Crow Valley Manor. The rain had slackened to a mere drizzle now.

Far too minimal an effort and with atrocious timing, he thought.

After the carriage squeaked forward, Finley smacked two kisses at his horse, and the magnificent beast ambled to the base of the pretentious marble staircase. With a flourish of his cape, he swung his leg and dismounted; all the while displaying the pomp and splendour of a seasoned Dragoon. His sabre clanked against his leg as he planted his boot firmly on the ground. Finley scratched the horse under its muzzle and whispered in his ear. His steed snorted and nuzzled him. Then he turned his attention to the doorman, who had returned. A young stable boy led the horse away.

Captain Finley Keith, by invitation of Countess Hildegarde Halpine, he said with an air of royal conviction.

Greeting and warm salutations, sir, the doorman replied. Due to the nature of this evening’s soiree, we shall not announce your entrance as such.

I understand. Finlay gave a curt nod and followed him up the stairs.

Crow Valley Manor loomed over the front porch in a posture akin to a vulture hovering over a savoury meal of rotten corpses. The portcullis was ajar, as were the massive oak doors that granted entrance to the mammoth dwelling. They had rolled a plush red carpet out from the portal like a tongue anticipating its next morsel of sweet flesh.

The mansion was not a home at all, but more a colossal beast, a creature that stank of hunger and decadence. Local craftsmen had trimmed the abundant two-panel windows in black lead and thatched them with white astragal bars. Each was alive and flickering with a dance of flame, cast from some internal sconce.

A lightning flash reflected in the wild eyes of the rain-slicked gargoyles standing sentinel above the entrance. Finley graced the two hideous sculptures with a smirk. The twisted mouths did not respond but remained fixed in their malicious and silent snarls.

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The butler, who offered a towel of soft cotton while ushering him into the grand foyer through the port challis, greeted him.

Good evening, sir, he chimed in a well-polished tone. Finley took the towel and patted his face and extremities. Does sir require a moment to freshen himself?

No, I am adequately fresh, I believe.

As you wish, sir. Your mask, sir?

Ah! Yes, yes, Finley stammered, removing his cloak and retrieving the porcelain facade from the inner pocket. The butler relieved him of the soaked garment.

Finley had selected a Venetian-style domino for the event. A velvet cape of rich maroon, trimmed in thick gold brocade, and a tragedy mask painted in black and white. He secured it around his head, along with the bahoo, with a yellow silk ribbon.

Another distinguished gentleman! the footman at the entrance to the living area bellowed. Finley stood quietly while the eyes of the four score masked guests appraised him, then resumed their activities of bacchanalian intent.

Despite his reserved nature, the display dazzled Captain Keith. The residence had unabashedly displayed the opulence of the living area before him atop thick Italian marble. A deep hardwood floor polished to a high sheen bordered the tiles. Lavish winged chairs of yellow and purple velvet dotted the room alongside large plush sofas adorned with silk pillows.

A grandiose table, lit with a dozen candelabras, stood laden with an endless selection of silver platters offering roasted goose, cheese, fruits, loaves of bread, and a cornucopia of sweets. The twin crystal chandeliers above, home to sixty red tapers apiece, cast a warm glow over the hall.

On the rotunda above the bevy of merrymakers was an octet ensemble, pouring forth a cascade of sonatas that flowed over the crowd. The strung paper lanterns of red and white and blue and yellow from the rotunda to the second-floor balcony and back again, each quivering in brilliant radiance, solidified the carnivalesque atmosphere that would burn well into the wee hours of the night.

I had best attend to the necessities, he thought. The necessities being a brief colloquy with the hostess. A position that unfortunately for the proprietrix, dictated the need to dispense of anonymity.

Then on to the more pressing matter. Claire McKerras, and her hand.

He scanned the hall, searching for the Countess or Claire through the vast array of costumes and capes, masks, and veils. A myriad of extravagant tuxedos and starched military uniforms mingled with elegant gowns and tawdry corsets.

The women swirled and dipped and curtsied across an artist’s palette of flummery and arrogance, while the men stood stiff, soliciting titters and coy grins from soft rouge lips hidden behind white lace gloves. Their lecherous eyes peered from the darkened portals of a porcelain veneer; safe and anonymous.

Finley spied the Countess, perched on the bottom step of the staircase leading to the second floor, and recalled his earlier comparison of a vulture hunched over its supper.

The Captain navigated his way through the crush of perfumed ladies and lecherous lords. He liberated a flute of champagne from a silver tray carried by a steward en route to Countess Halpine and made quick work of its consumption.

Well, hello, she cooed.

Her accent was despicable. An ill-conceived union of English and Bavarian. He was thankful for the mask concealing his wince.

The Countess had seen her linguistic butchery born from an arrangement that had her spirited away to Munich at a tender age, fulfilling a marriage contract to some inconsequential Count.

A very good evening, Countess. Finley took her hand and bowed. She dipped in response, and he made a show of kissing the back of it through his ceramic camouflage.

And how do you regard my masquerade? she tittered, waving her free meaty arm in a grand gesture.

It is butter upon bacon, Countess, he chuckled.

Her reciprocal laughter quivered her flesh, not dissimilar to a lump of curd bound in a cheesecloth.

The recent years had not been kind to the Countess as her stout legs, mercifully hidden beneath the taut lavender satin of her gown, would attest; whilst trembling under the weight of a decade’s cruelty. She leaned close and assaulted him with her embittered breath.

I am aware of your identity, Captain. Not a difficult thing to surmise with your fine build and commanding gait, she whispered.

A desirable occurrence, he whispered back, recoiling from the noxious expulsions released by her ghastly orifice of yellowed teeth. To be known by such an elegant woman of grand stature.

Oh! You are such a charming man! Walk with me, she commanded with a nod towards the second-floor balcony. Leading him up the stairs behind her with a huff and a wheeze, Finley feared the Countess did not possess sufficient intestinal fortitude for such an endeavour.

I shall not carry thee!

He smiled behind the safety of his mask and followed at a respectable distance.

After reaching the top and regaining her breath, the Countess strolled along the corridor. Finley peered into the crowd below, searching for any sign of Claire.

They passed several closed doors, then arrived at the arched entrance to Crow Valley manor’s library. The vast room was awash in the light of a fireplace, the heat of which made Finley itch. They lined the walls with shelves housing what seemed like an endless supply of leather-bound tomes. Volumes of every conceivable size and colour bathed in the firelight’s flicker. Countess Halpine wavered with a heavy breath and steadied herself on the reading table.

I require your assistance, good captain, she began. An unfortunate and dire circumstance has set itself upon Crow Valley Manor.

Oh? he queried.

Yes. I received word from Munich this very morn. I’m afraid my beloved, Count Reinhold Halpine, has passed.

My deepest sympathies, Countess.

She waved a hand of dismissal and leaned on the edge of the table.

It has been an awaited occurrence for quite some time now, I’m afraid. He was very ill.

I see. My condolences, nonetheless, Countess. And how is it that I may assist you?

Well, she began, then paused as her brow furrowed. The Countess pulled at her bottom lip. My solicitor, Howell Batt...

Howell Batt! That disgusting swine!

Finley cringed at the mere mention of the name. A crook, a scoundrel, and foremost, his adversary for the affections of Claire.

...has informed me, as they have married me to a foreign Count and I have subsequently been living in Bavaria, I, as a widow, no longer hold sway over my family’s estate here in England. I have only just returned to Crow Valley and resumed residence here. And according to Batt, I risk losing this Manor and all its associated assets to the Crown.

Dire indeed, Countess. But I cannot see… She ended his sentence with a raised finger.

"I require a husband, Captain Keith. An English husband, and in haste."

You are not suggesting that I... The hideous nature of her proposal became clear. Finley’s breath shallowed and his knees weakened. He removed his mask to gulp some air.

The situation is delicate, he cautioned himself. Beware of how you tread.

The Countess was an influential woman, and while the act of passing an outright refusal through his lips would be a task done with ease, the consequences could be dire.

Consider this proposal, Captain. Our union would shower you with considerable wealth and reputation. My station and influence would propel your military career forward with great haste, should you wish to continue that path. I have no objection to you engaging in other dalliances, as long as you remain discreet, of course, and would expect of your husbandly duties only whilst I am in England.

The thought of occupying a marital bed with the Countess unsettled his mind. While Finley was beyond question a virile young man, he questioned if he could rise to such a repulsive union.

I shall remain in Bavaria for much of the year, the Countess continued. I’ll be returning only for a brief autumn of indulgence. She flashed a coquettish smile that dampened Finley’s brow and contracted his flesh.

I love the turning of the season in Crow Valley. You shall, of course, be master of this estate and free to pursue whatever captures your fancy during my absences.

Finley drew on his extensive military training and embedded sense of propriety to respond. He must not reveal he was averse to the overture and assume the posture of consideration while he sought a respectful way to decline.

I don’t know how to respond. This is quite unexpected. May I enquire as to why me, Countess? Would not a Duke or an Earl be–

More difficult to control, with frankness, the Countess replied. I have no desire to mire myself in power struggles where my estate and fortune are concerned. Not within the dregs of English hierarchy. These Dukes and Earls you speak of, have you considered any of the available in such a light?

Finlay shook his head.

Pompous and aged like blocks of mouldy cheese. Rigid in their mannerisms, prone to collie shangles and inflexible in their podsnappery! I believe, you, Captain, are more likely to behave in a manner more in accordance with the arrangement. You mind your pints and quarts. Think on it a moment, Finley. I believe you will find the arrangement not at all distasteful once you weigh the advantages. I shall leave you to ponder and expect your agreement post haste. We shall announce our intentions tonight.

The Countess moved past him to the balcony. "As an incentive, Captain, know this. Should you be inclined to refuse my proposal, I will ruin you." Her eyes bore into him, leaving no misconstructions of her seriousness.

"Have no doubt about this. Simple allegations of inappropriate actions towards me and my daughter would suffice. Then imagine the devastation to your character should we couple those allegations with rumoured suspicions of pilfering funds and resources from your regiment." The Countess breathed a wicked chuckle.

All these truths, easily attained by utilising the talents of Mr Batt. Your career will end, Captain Finley Keith, and you shall be forever scorned. I will expect you in the grand hall before midnight. With that, the Countess disappeared down the corridor.

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The Captain stood on the balcony overlooking the festivities below. He toyed with the pommel of his sabre while mulling over his dismal options. He smiled to himself.

Perhaps I should just run the evil cow through and be done with it. Nothing resolves a distasteful dilemma more expediently than cold steel through the lower intestine! He chuckled to himself.

A copper for your thoughts. Yet, judging by your grin, they are worth a tad more.

Startled, Finley spun on his heel to gaze upon the most delightful of sights. Lady Wilhelmine, the Countess’ daughter, stood leaning against the marble rail of the balcony. She seemed like a porcelain doll, with her flawless alabaster skin framed by curls of spun gold. Her eyes, shining like bottomless pools of liquid azure, mesmerised him. They sparkled as she smiled.

Lady Wilhelmine, he stammered, then with a sharp cough, regained his composure. She chuckled at his awkwardness.

Captain Keith. The creamy iridescence of her silk gown flowed over her supple frame like honey over strawberries. She took his hand.

Did my mother proceed with her silly little plan? Did she propose to you?

I... I’m at a loss, M’Lady.

I am aware, Captain, of my mother’s plot brimming with sinister intent. She sighed. A plot conceived by the evil flicker of an early morning candle and after exhausting a decanter of brandy.

I see, he whispered.

I assume, sir, you are less than enthralled at the prospect of bedding my mother?

Good heavens, M’Lady! Do not speak so!

Without warning, she kissed him. Deep and with passion. Although his grace and common decency urged him to resist, he found that to be quite impossible. She giggled at his astonished expression.

I’ve always fancied you, Finley, she cooed. I know we’ve not seen much of each other, what, five years since our paths last crossed? Yet, since childhood, my heart has fluttered only for you.

I am speechless, Wilhelmine, he whispered, shuffling from foot to foot. In the glaring light of her honesty, he tore his eyes from hers and again scanned the crowd below with a desperate eye, seeking any glimpse of Claire.

Worry not. You need not speak, only listen. I have conceived a sinister plot of my own, you see. Lady Wilhelmine reached out and brushed his cheek. This conniving manoeuvre of the Countess, it would garner success, but how distasteful. There is yet another, more palatable option, methinks, dear Captain.

There is?

This scheme of my mother’s, it would work equally well should you marry me and the Countess herself was... removed?

Finley’s eyes widened.

You speak of treachery! Of murder!

I do, Finley, I do. Wilhelmine dipped two slender fingers deep into the velvety cleft of her bosom and withdrew a