Layers of Darkness: Six Twisted Tales of Horror and Psychological Torment

By T.W. Malpass

                                                                                 SIX TWISTED TALES OF HORROR AND PSYCHOLOGICAL TORMENT

 

Layers of Darkness is an anthology that celebrates the many subgenres of horror. Existential, Folk, Fairy Tale, Psychological, Body, Cosmic, Western, Supernatural, and LGBTQ+ are all explored in this emotionally engaging and unnervingly creepy collection of chillers.

THE GROVE
A woman and her child visit their local cemetery, only to become lost within the spiral of a mysterious grove that has seemingly materialised from another dimension.

ARIEL
Beth and Dante Fiennes have suffered a wound so deep it can only continue to fester. What appears to be the couple's salvation could instead be a sinister warning. She's home, but she's not the same.

OLD CRONE
As Prince Darius clings to life in the midst of serious illness, the king and queen take desperate measures by seeking out a hermit believed to be a witch in order to save their only son and heir.

ONE FOR THE NIGHT
Two strangers get more than they bargained for when they stop over in a deadbeat Texas town on the edge of the Mexican border. Every bad deed deserves another.

DREAM TOWN
Retracing his deceased mother's steps, a young boy embarks on a journey of discovery with his grandmother, peeling back the layers of a seaside resort deeply mired in the most unsettling form of unreality.

RIPE
During a long-distance trip across state to visit his sister, a troubled young socialite gets lost on an isolated road and is forced to choose between the comfort of self-preservation and saving an innocent soul from the clutches of a child-thirsty cult.

• Language: English
• Publisher: T.W. Malpass
• Release date: Mar 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215356838

Book preview

The warmth from the car’s heater failed to prevent Rachel Griffiths from shivering when she saw the autumnal winds blowing the fallen leaves at the entrance to Eveningside Crematorium and Cemetery.

Its black-painted iron gates loomed large as she turned the car towards them and off the main road. The West Highland terrier in the back seat immediately jumped up to press his wet nose against the window, his tail wagging at triple speed.

The young boy sitting with the dog moved to place his face next to his companion’s.

‘Look, Jimmy. Look where we are!’ he said.

‘Don’t give him any more encouragement, Daniel. He’ll only pee on the seat again,’ Rachel said.

‘You won’t do that, will you, boy?’ Daniel asked, ruffling the fur on the dog’s head.

‘You’re not the one who’ll have to spend an hour they don’t have trying to get rid of the smell,’ Rachel replied.

‘She’s such a spoilsport, isn’t she, Jimmy?’ Daniel said, still talking to his companion as if he expected him to reply.

‘She has to be a spoilsport sometimes. It’s the only way of keeping the pair of you out of trouble,’ Rachel said.

The pale hanging clouds deepened the browns and oranges of the vegetation flanking the vehicle on the access road leading up to the crematorium’s chapel. Large weeping willow trees surrounded the three-tiered stonework of the building. Their soft, naked branches bent at each tree’s crown and cascaded to the ground like skeletal fingers searching for an elixir to rejuvenate their limp, failing digits.

A dark, almost black rim scored the outside edge of the top tier of the chapel’s brick, tainted by the infestation of thick moss that had collected there over several years. Its weatherworn double doors were closed. It was early morning, and there were no funerals scheduled for the day, anyway.

Aside from a few dog walkers and mourners, Rachel could see on approaching the car park that the grounds were all but deserted.

Jimmy began to whimper, desperate to get outside to experience the familiar sights and smells of his favourite haunt.

‘Zip up your coat. It’ll be cold out there,’ Rachel said, catching a glimpse of her son in the rear-view mirror.

Daniel did as she asked and struggled with the zipper of his red puffer jacket, sliding it to the top. He then grabbed Jimmy’s lead before opening the back door to let him out.

The dog tried to bolt across the car park to the tree line, pulling Daniel with him.

‘Don’t stray too far,’ Rachel said. ‘I need to get some things from the car first.’

‘Tell that to Jimmy,’ Daniel replied, trying to keep up with his overexcited friend. Fortunately for him, Jimmy stopped pulling once he’d made it to the edge of the trees and he was able to properly sniff the natural ground.

Rachel made her way to the back of the car to unload the boot. She collected a bucket, which contained refuse bags, distilled water, a soft bristled brush, a sponge, and hand shears. Her other hand was free to manage the carrier bag full of flowers she’d just purchased—white carnations, her mother’s favourites.

‘Let’s go, Daniel. Seems like there could be rain soon,’ Rachel called.

‘Which way?’ Daniel asked.

‘Don’t you remember from the last time we visited?’

‘Erm.’ Daniel put his free hand to his chin and gazed beyond the car park and the surrounding trees. ‘This way?’ He pointed to the path arcing to the right.

Rachel nodded and smiled.

‘I knew it!’ he said, tugging on Jimmy’s lead. ‘Come on, boy.’

Daniel ran with Jimmy until they reached the long, straight road leading to the opposite end of the cemetery. He stood there in the towering majesty of the two rows of Italian poplars that sign-posted each metre of the concrete channel built through the multiple plots.

As it was the highest, most exposed section to the elements, the wind always gusted between the ancient bark, pushing Daniel and Jimmy back on their heels. The boy turned to catch his breath and noticed his mother was beginning to catch up to them.

Off to the left, something colourful caught his eye in a small plot sectioned off from the rest. The blades of a pink windmill spun like crazy in the bluster, rotating so fast, it was difficult to see where one blade ended and another began.

The toy had been fixed to a child’s grave by an inconsolable parent. Toys and children’s keepsakes littered the plot—teddy bears, dolls, balloons, footballs. There was even a tiny tricycle, complete with stabilisers and yellow ribbons flowing from the back.

Rachel realised what held his solemn attention when she approached, and she resisted the urge to look herself.

‘Hey, we’re almost there,’ she said, nudging his shoulder with her hand to slowly twist him in the direction of the poplars. ‘Do you know where we go next?’

Daniel scanned the area.

‘Hmm. Is it there?’ He pointed to a section of slanted gravestones built on a verge situated just beyond the children’s plot, overlooking marshland next to the main road.

‘Such a clever boy,’ Rachel said. ‘Definitely your mother’s son.’

They made the brief journey to the plot in question, and Rachel laid down the bucket and carrier bag to kneel by her father’s graveside. She reached out to push away some of the leaves and dirt from the headstone. His name, Sullivan Jacob Griffiths, could now be seen clearly again.

Settled on the sloping higher ground, the stones there were victims of whatever blew their way in the wind, so cleaning the headstone was a regular activity for Rachel. She took the cloth, brush, and bottled water from the bucket, first using the brush soaked in the water to clean the more stubborn dirt, particularly where it had dried between the grooves of the engraving.

As she wiped the stone clean, Daniel moved behind her so he could read the lettering more clearly.

‘Grandad was seventy-nine when he died?’ he asked.

‘That’s right, sweetheart.’ Rachel could tell by the pause that followed that something was bothering him about his observation. ‘That’s a good life for anyone. One of the favourite parts of his later life was spending time with you,’ she said.

‘Jimmy’s only two, but Sarah at school told me that’s fourteen in dog years,’ Daniel said, looking down at his beloved pet, who gazed back at him with love, unaware of the boy’s existential dread.

Rachel stopped what she was doing, twisting in her crouched position by the graveside.

‘Jimmy is still very young, even for a dog. If we’re lucky, he could live another twelve to fourteen years. Maybe longer,’ she said.

Daniel rolled his eyes back and silently mumbled numbers as he did the maths in his head.

‘I would be twenty-five then,’ he said.

‘Good work.’ Rachel smiled.

Daniel laughed at what a ridiculous notion of being twenty-five was. He imagined his uncle Owen, who was twenty-seven—how tall and mature he seemed.

‘Yeah,’ Daniel said. ‘That’s an awfully long time.’

‘It is,’ Rachel agreed. ‘Now, stop gasbagging and help me with the flowers.’

‘What’s my job?’ he asked, moving to his mother’s side.

‘Bag holder. We need to take the new flowers out and put the old ones in. Please hold it open for me.’

Rachel removed the decayed and broken flowers from their pot at the grave and trimmed the fresh carnations down at their stems so they could be slotted in place. She made sure they had plenty of water and were arranged in a presentable way.

Daniel did as he’d been asked and tried his best to make the opening of the carrier bag as wide as possible, allowing it to be filled with the discarded dead flowers.

When she rose to her feet, Rachel grimaced, feeling an old sports injury. She happened to glance down to the winding road that cut through the marshland to the alternative entrance and exit.

A fog bank had descended and was currently drifting over the marsh towards the solitary, twisted tree that resided in the middle of the boggy earth. The bank was thick enough to obscure everything it touched but seemed to be restricted to a small surface area no more than a thousand square feet.

Rachel had never seen fog behave like that before, and she found it quietly unsettling.

‘Do we have to go straight home, Mum? Jimmy wants to explore.’

Daniel’s words did not register with her. She was too preoccupied with the peculiar occurrence taking place on the marshland.

‘Mummy?’

‘What is it?’

‘Do we have to go straight home?’ Daniel repeated. ‘Jimmy wants to stay a while.’

‘Of course, darling. We’ll take the long route back to the car,’ Rachel said, collecting the tools she had brought with her and placing them in the bucket, still transfixed on the unnatural fog bank.

‘What shall I do with this?’ Daniel asked, holding up the bag of dead flowers.

‘There’s a bin over there, at the end of the line of big trees. Can you carry them until we get there?’

‘Yes, Mum. Come on, Jimmy.’ The boy led his dog from the sloping gravesite and into the gusting winds between the massive poplars.

Rachel finally managed to steal herself away from the sight of the eerie fog to follow him.

After Daniel dumped the carrier bag into the large wheelie bin, he ran with Jimmy towards the older part of the cemetery plot. Many of the stones there hadn’t been tended to for years. Caked in moss, some stones were broken and lay in pieces on top of the burial patch.

Daniel examined the neglect around him, and his shoulders rounded.

‘Why doesn’t anyone take care of these?’ he asked.

‘Take a look at the dates on some of the stones. There’s probably no one alive now who would remember them,’ Rachel said.

Daniel reined his dog in by tugging on his lead and knelt at the nearest graveside.

‘Geoffrey Hamilton. Born 2 December 1821 – Died 22 September 1857,’ he read aloud.

‘He was thirty-six,’ Rachel said.

‘That’s not very old,’ Daniel replied.

‘Life was a lot more dangerous back then, darling. Medical research was in its early stages, so most people died much sooner than they do now.’

‘But those children’s graves near where Grandad’s buried. They’re not old ones, are they?’ Daniel asked.

Rachel scratched at her throat uncomfortably while she thought about the best way to tackle his astute observation. ‘Even with the knowledge and technology we have, some children will always get sick and cannot be cured, or they have horrible accidents, but the vast majority of kids live a long time.’

‘It’s okay, Mum. I’m not afraid,’ Daniel said, moving on to the next grave to read the epitaph.

Rachel believed him, that he wasn’t afraid, but she also knew his confidence did not come from a place of wisdom. If he truly knew, he would be afraid, and that fear would cling to him like the strange fog bank clung to the marsh below them.

As they progressed into the plot, the dates carved into the limestone got older and older—back to the seventeenth century, and even a few graves laid earlier than that.

‘What’s that, Mum?’ Daniel gestured to the corner of the plot.

Rachel followed his direction and spied the opening in the trees surrounded by a trellis archway, interwoven with climbing clematis vines.

She’d visited the cemetery so many times over the years she had lost count, but she’d never noticed the opening before. It appeared far too embedded and lived-in to be a recent addition, and its existence provoked a nervous flutter in the pit of her stomach.

‘What is it?’ Daniel asked again.

‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen it before,’ Rachel said. ‘Let’s take a closer look.’

‘Time to explore, Jimmy.’ Daniel pulled his dog along and started to run to the opening.

Rachel quickened her steps to catch up.

The wooden panels of the trellis were heavily weathered. Any protective treatment the vine-strangled wood had received had long been worn away. The structure had clearly been there for a number of years, seemingly right under Rachel’s nose, and not once had she ever laid eyes upon it.

The foliage was so dense around the entrance that it was difficult to see more than a couple of yards inside.

Jimmy let out a single yap towards the dark shadows lurking within.

‘What do you think is in there?’ Daniel asked.

‘Some more graves, perhaps. It could be a special remembrance garden,’ Rachel said. ‘I guess there’s only one way to find out.’ With that, curiosity got the better of her, and she stepped through the opening, taking her son’s hand as she went.

They emerged in what appeared to be an organically occurring grove, less than an acre inside.

Apple trees, stripped by the fall, created its border. The ground was flat, the grass cropped and downtrodden.

The centrepiece of the grove—a sight that drew the eyes of the interlopers, even Jimmy–was the singular row of graves that began at the edge of the trees and spiralled inwards right to the very middle of the ground.

Such was its precision that it seemed as if it had been designed from above by a modern artist—an installation that merely posed as a genuine graveyard.

Rachel almost expected to come across a sign confirming exactly that, but there were no signs at all, unless she counted the one directing them with an arrow to follow the spiral from its outer rim to its inner sanctum.

‘This is a secret.’ Daniel said the words without really understanding why he had uttered them.

Rachel did. She understood. She understood something else, too, that her son seemed oblivious to. The air felt different within the grove. How it moved, how it caressed her face, how it turned stale and dry in her throat. A thin film of some kind had already coated her skin. The sense of it made her feel filthy and in need of a shower. The air was different in here, and no mistake—everything was different.

As ill at ease as she was, Rachel couldn’t prevent herself from continuing into the grove, guided by the spiral of granite and limestone.

‘Look at this one, Mummy. It’s even older than the ones we saw outside,’ Daniel said. He knelt by the decaying stone and wiped away the moss and leaves from its face.

‘Here lies Bartholomew Ward—1226 to 1241,’ Daniel read.

Rachel stood over the grave and stared at it for a couple of minutes, observing its craftmanship. The stone certainly wasn’t hastily put together. Even after such a passage of time, she could see that its carvings were clean and precise, and the stonework looked equally impressive.

‘This is old. Very old. Way back to the medieval period,’ Rachel said.

‘You mean when knights were around?’ Daniel asked, his eyes suddenly sparkling like dying stars.

‘Yes, knights.’ Rachel was no historian, but she had already questioned the age of some of the graves they’d come across before entering the grove, and she knew for certain that these older stones had no right to be sitting in front of them.

A fact that churned her stomach further was her ability to read the engraving. Without restoration, time should have wiped it away or, at the very least, made it illegible.

‘What’s wrong?’ Daniel asked.

‘Nothing. Let’s keep going for a little while, and then we’ll head back,’ Rachel said.

As she’d feared, every stone they passed was progressively older. A sharp gust of wind blew through the graveyard, rocking the half-naked branches of the apple trees, creating a low but ominous hiss.

Rachel gazed down at her watch. It had stopped. The hands had come to rest at 2:25 p.m. She was sure it could only be 12:30 p.m. at the latest, and she remembered looking at her watch before they left home and seeing it was working just fine.

The next grave appeared smaller than the rest, and the stones formed a T shape with a circular stone sitting on top of it. It was brown, darkened by age and exposure to the elements.

Even through the infestation of lichens, Rachel could see there were no engravings present on the tombstone, no markings of any kind, save one. A symbol had been etched into the centre of the circular stone at the top, a three-pronged swirling pattern. The sight of it sent a sickening shudder through Rachel’s body.

Her discomfort was visually apparent to Daniel, who tugged on the sleeve of her jacket.

‘Mum?’ he said.

She didn’t answer, transfixed by the symbol.

‘What does it mean, Mum?’

She’d only seen it once before during her teacher training about nine years prior, but for some reason, it had lodged in her memory.

‘It’s called a triskelion. It’s a pagan symbol. It’s meant to represent the three Celtic realms of earth, sun, and sky,’ she said in a dead tone.

‘What’s a pagan?’ Daniel asked.

‘An ancient religion practiced by the Anglo-Saxons, but it hasn’t been widely adopted for about thirteen thousand years.’

‘Wow. That sounds like a really, really long time,’ Daniel said.

Rachel smiled, a disconcerted tear escaping from the corner of her left eye.

‘That’s because it is, sweetie.’ She turned away from the discomforting headstone and looked down at Daniel and Jimmy. ‘Our little fluff ball has had enough exercise for now. Time to go.’

A severe squawking from above them shook Rachel out of her dread-ridden malaise. She looked up at the large crow perched on the branch of one of the apple trees. It seemed furious at their presence, as if they had encroached upon its territory. The bird’s cawing sounded amplified, so much that it hurt their ears and caused Jimmy to start yapping in response to its aggression.

‘Looks like someone else thinks we’ve overstayed our welcome,’ Rachel said, taking Daniel’s hand.

Now that she had turned her attention away from the graves, she suddenly noticed they were situated right at the centre of the spiral. It was impossible, she thought. They’d been less than halfway in when they last stopped to read the stones, but they had seemingly been transported, without their knowledge, to the median.

Whatever the mystery of this grove, it was surely not of this world. It did not obey the usual laws of the reality they knew, and Rachel was acutely aware that she needed to get herself and her son out of it and back to Eveningside Cemetery as quickly as possible.

She pulled Daniel on, following the spiral pattern back to its outer edge, where they had discovered the opening in the trees.

The whole time they hurriedly retraced their steps, the sound of the crow kept ringing in their ears.

The air in the grove seemed to grow even thinner, making it difficult to breathe.

Rachel felt a sudden resistance from her son’s hand and turned around to see what was holding him up.

Daniel had stopped facing one of the headstones. He stared at the engraving intently, like he’d just witnessed a ghost.

‘What? What is it? Rachel asked, taking a couple steps back to the graveside. Then she saw it. The limestone for this marker looked significantly less weathered than the others, and the date of birth and death for this particular soul read ‘1983 – 2013.’

‘I’m scared, Mum,’ Daniel said. The youngster had even less idea about the strange phenomenon they were experiencing than his mother, but the same primal fear—the same existential warning—had stirred within him and would not let go.

‘It’ll all be over soon. We just need to get back to where we were,’ Rachel said.

She pulled him on again, this time more forcefully than before. The light cast on the graves began to fade, yet there was no extra cloud obscuring the sun. The apple trees seemed to rise and become more imposing, and all the time, the single shriek of the crow drowned out every other sound.

‘Mum!’ Daniel’s exclamation was tinged with terror, and although she didn’t want to look, Rachel realised she had no choice in the matter.

The headstone in question appeared to have been laid yesterday. It gleamed with youth, even in the low, oppressive gloom of the grove.

‘Thomas Denton. Rest in Peace with Angels. January 1977 – March 2024.’

March 2024—three years from now. It wasn’t so much of a jolt to the system for Rachel. She had already accepted the otherworldly nature of this place they had found themselves entwined in.

‘Daniel, please listen to me. I want you to follow Mummy, and I don’t want you to look at the graves again. Do you hear me? Keep your eyes on me the whole time.’ She stared directly into his eyes when she spoke to hammer home her conviction.

‘Yes, Mum,’ he replied, his hand shaking as he brought his closed fist up to his mouth.

‘We’re getting out of here,’ Rachel said, breaking into a jog, squeezing her son’s hand.

No sooner had she done so than Daniel called out again in a state of distress.

‘No, Daniel,’ Rachel said, determined not to be halted for a third time.

‘But, Mum, it’s Jimmy,’ he replied.

She reluctantly slowed down but did not stop completely until she noticed Daniel dragging the collar and lead behind him with no West Highland terrier attached to it.

The dog was gone.

‘Jimmy!’ Daniel yelled across the open spaces.

Jimmy’s collar was still threaded, and he couldn’t have slipped it. She had tightened it herself that very morning. She already knew the grove had taken him.

‘Jimmy!’ Daniel shouted again. He tried to let go of his mother’s hand to move in the opposite direction, but Rachel would not release him.

Instead, she yanked on his arm to drag him closer to her, grabbing his chin to force him to look at her.

‘We’re not going to find Jimmy, Daniel. Not now. When we get out of here, we’ll send someone back to search for him, I promise. Right now, we have to leave this place.’

Rachel lined up the most direct route between the headstones and the opening. It would mean cutting through the pattern of the spiral for the shortest viable path to safety.

‘When I tell you, I want you to follow me and run. Whatever you do, do not look back,’ she said. ‘Do you trust me?’

Her son nodded, tears streaming down his face. She spread out her fingers, releasing her grip on his chin.

‘I love you, Daniel. Now go!’

Rachel started to run, and Daniel followed. The crow continued to caw, and although it should have been behind them, it sounded like it was everywhere.

Daniel had remembered his mother’s instructions and her warning to not look back. However, the need to see his beloved Jimmy again overwhelmed him, and the boy turned his head just for a moment.

Sadly, the dog was nowhere to be seen, and Daniel felt the vicelike grip of his mother dissolve in his hand.

He looked forwards, and she was no longer ahead of him. Slowing his run, he held his hand up to his face, noticing the thin layer of dust that clung to his palm.

‘Mum?’ At first, Daniel’s calls for her were only whispered through his fear. ‘Mum? Mummy?’

He spun around in a circle, casting a desperate eye over the tops of the headstones, holding his hands up to cup his mouth so he could project his voice.

‘Please, Mummy, come back. I’m sorry I turned around. Please!’

As he wept and tried to call out over the deafening squawk of the crow, his distress and raw panic caused him to trip on the uneven ground, and he toppled over at the foot of another grave.

Dazed by the fall, he shook himself and spat out some of the bitter-tasting dirt he’d ingested on impact. Placing his hands on the earth, he pushed to lift himself into the eyeline of the headstone in front of him.

‘Rachel Hannah Griffiths. Greatly missed by her loving son, Daniel. Born 8 February 1986 — Died 17 May 2035.’

The rapid dilation of Daniel’s pupils opened a portal in his mind, allowing every ounce of despair to come flooding in. He closed his eyes, refusing to look upon the ominous epitaph for a second longer.

The crow’s relentless cawing served as a reminder that he could not linger. He would no longer call for his mother. Although he didn’t know where she was, he certainly knew where she wasn’t.

Her last words to him echoed around his head—to run for the opening and to not look back, and that she loved him.

The boy sucked up his snot and tears and took off in the fastest sprint he could muster, breaching the barrier of the spiral pattern as he cut between each line of stones.

The black-feathered watcher launched itself from its tree branch and swooped down over the grove, tracing Daniel’s escape route.

Daniel had almost reached the outer edge of the spiral, and the opening in the trees was less than yards away—so close that he could see the wooden outline of the vine-infested trellis.

As his little shoes crossed the penultimate line of the spiral, his physical form combusted, his atoms separated like the blossoms of a dandelion in the wind, everything he ever was or could ever be dissolved into dust.

Caught on a sudden breeze, the cloud of dust swept back into the spiral and drifted over the gravestone the crow had come to rest upon. The bird had ceased its cawing, and it shuffled along the top of the marker, maniacally tapping its surface with its beak, casting its beady, black eyes down towards the engraving, traces of the dust cloud clinging to the freshly etched lettering.

‘Daniel Joseph Griffiths is sleeping the long sleep. Born 21 June 2011 — Died 3 December 2093.’

The two young girls stopped ahead of their grandfather, their laughter echoing through the relative silence of Eveningside Crematorium and Cemetery.

The girls danced their way towards the older, more dilapidated section of the graveyard plot.

‘April, Savanna, be careful there, please. Some of those stones are broken, and you could fall and break your ankle,’ the old man said.

‘Relax, Grandad. We know what we’re doing,’ Savanna replied, undaunted by the sight of the worn, moss-infested headstones.

‘Look at this one, Savanna. It says they died