Tales From The Wyrd Museum 1: The Woven Path Read online

  Hesitating before he pushed it open, the warden's skin tingled and a ridiculous fear of the blackness that swamped him flared in his mind. He had never experienced such a complete darkness. Even in the worst blackout the night did not possess such a deep and sombre solidness.

  It was as though the dark had taken a form and substance all its own, to become a tangible, suffocating enemy, an adversary in which every terror was made manifest and every nightmare a hideous reality.

  To his distress, it seemed that the pitch gloom was actually growing darker. The malevolent night crept through the hallway below, flowing up the stairs to come pouring towards him. A vile, fetid reek was borne on the advancing, blind blackness—a stench of open graves and rotting corpse flesh—and at once, Peter was overwhelmed by unreasoning fear.

  Kicking the bedroom door open, he leaped inside, then sent it slamming into the frame behind him—propping himself against it to try and keep the darkness out.

  As beads of sweat pricked over his forehead, the warden squinted round the bedroom. Except for himself, the only illuminated place in the derelict house was totally empty.

  For a puzzled instant the warden stared round at the four bright walls, then swallowed nervously; whoever was trying to unsettle him was making an excellent job of it.

  Wildly, he wondered if he could crawl out of the shattered window and drop down to the ground below, just to get out of this uncanny building that lured its victims with light and crept after them with unfathomable dark.

  ‘Easy now,’ he panted, trying to stop the panic, ‘don't be hasty, don't be hasty, you'll only go an’ break your neck. What's to be scared of? Yer an air-raid warden, you ain't supposed to be ‘fraid of the dark. You came here to put the perishin’ lights out, don't go all to jelly when they do.’

  Then he heard it, a faint noise in the hallway below, a furtive, shambling tread creeping towards the stairs.

  'There is someone else in the house!’ he cried and the relief at the plainly human sound banished the fears that had threatened to unman him.

  But the smile soon melted from his face, there was something horrible and repellent about the purposeful stealth of those dragging footsteps.

  ‘Hope that's Joe come to see what the lights were about,’ he murmured hopefully. ‘Oi, Joe, that you?’

  He received no answer but the footsteps continued to climb the stairs and Peter's mind flew to Doris Meacham—perhaps her murderer was with him now, steadily mounting the steps in complete blackness, hungry for another victim.

  ‘Right,’ Peter growled, looking around for something to serve as a weapon and picking up the leg of a broken chair, ‘You come in here, chummy, you won't find me so easy to butcher.’

  By now the footsteps had reached the landing where they turned and began lumbering towards the brilliantly-lit room.

  Peter moved away from the entrance and lifted the chair leg over his head, tensing himself for the door to fly open and the assailant to come charging in.

  ‘First I'll knock whatever knife you've got out of your hand,’ Mr Stokes assured himself, ‘then I'll whack you out cold.’

  Above him, the buzzing light bulb abruptly dimmed and the shock of that instilled more terror into Peter than any murderer ever could.

  ‘Don't you go out!’ he prayed. ‘Don't leave me in the dark.’

  The footsteps were right outside the bedroom now and, whilst the light continued to wane, Peter took deep breaths as he prepared for the brutal attack.

  Nothing happened. Not a sound filtered through the door and the perspiration turned cold on the warden's brow as he waited for the onslaught to begin.

  After several minutes, with only the high buzzing of the failing light bulb to be heard, Peter's arms began to ache and he cried, “What are you waiting for? Come in, why don't you?’

  A faint noise like a strangled sigh groaned behind the doorway and Peter chewed his lower lip.

  ‘What was that?’ he called. ‘If you've got something to say, you'd best do it in here.’

  ‘Dad?’ came a fevered voice. ‘Dad, is that you?’

  Peter Stokes lowered the chair leg and the pit of his stomach tightened into a painful knot. ‘Who... who's that?’ he stammered.

  ‘Dad, it's me, let me in.’

  ‘No,’ Peter gasped, the weapon dropping from his trembling hands, ‘it can't be.’

  ‘Please, Dad,’ the voice pleaded, ‘it's so dark out here, it's been so very dark. I'm scared.’

  ‘Oh, Lord, help me,’ the warden sobbed, ‘Bill.’

  That's right, Dad, it's me, Billy. Don't say you've forgot me, Dad. It's so cold out here—let me in.’

  'That isn't you out there, son,’ Peter wailed, ‘it sounds like you but it isn't.’

  ‘Listen to me,’ the familiar tones of his dead son's voice razored through his soul. ‘I'm going to come in now. I want to see you again, Dad.’

  Mr Stokes's throat dried like sandpaper as the doorknob gave a sly twist, then turned and, with an ominous click, the catch sprang back into the lock.

  Very gently, the door opened and Peter shuffled backwards as a hand came reaching round to push it wide.

  With a shudder the doorknob tapped against the wall and there, framed in the entrance but keeping well within the murky shadows, was William Stokes.

  ‘‘Ello, Dad,’ he said, ‘glad to see me?’

  Only a ghastly croak passed the warden's lips as he gazed on the dark form of his dead son.

  The boy appeared to be dressed in his army uniform—Peter could see the buttons glinting dully—but because the unlit figure remained in darkness it was impossible for him to discern any more.

  ‘Billy,’ he finally whispered, ‘how can this be? I... I had a telegram.’

  ‘Only a wound, Dad, it were a mistake.’

  Peter made a move towards him.

  ‘Don't come any closer,’ the young, shadowy soldier warned.

  ‘Why not? Why won't you step into the light? Billy, what is it?’

  ‘I don't want you to see me like this, it was a nasty wound, Dad, left some ‘orrible scars. Won't be winnin’ any beauty prizes.’

  ‘Son,’ the warden said gently, ‘let me see.’

  ‘Don't say I never warned you,’ came the chuckling reply.

  Slowly, Billy stepped over the threshold of the bedroom.

  In the now dim light, where the ragged edges of the uniform gaped in tattered rents, pulsing shapes glistened and quivered.

  Above the right hip, where his stomach should have been, there was only a shadow-filled cavity and above that, within the smashed remains of his rib-cage, was a mass of torn flesh and ruptured organs. No arm was attached to the shreds of bone that poked from the shoulder and, hanging loose from the exposed throat, the windpipe jumped and jerked.

  A vile laugh hissed and gurgled from the apparition's mouth, the right side of which was raw and ripped right down to the splintered jaw and crushed cheekbone.

  The demon that had assumed Billy's shape appeared to Peter Stokes exactly how his son had looked at the moment of his death, and it watched in grisly amusement as the warden fell to his knees in torment.

  ‘You did this to me, Dad,’ it taunted, ‘I wouldn't have joined up if you hadn't made me. Took me six hours to die, Dad, and it was all your fault.’

  ‘No,’ Peter protested, “you're not my Billy.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ the demon cackled, its eyes flashing with red fire.

  As Belial moved in on him, the warden let out a piercing scream.

  Outside, in the bomb site, Edie Dorkins stared up at the glimmering window, shivering in horror at the chilling sound of the man's dying screech. And then the failing light was snuffed out and Peter Stokes’ howls were silenced.

  Yelping in fear, the girl turned and hared over the ruins, fleeing into the furthest reaches of her rapidly shrinking realm.

  Chapter 16 The Kismet

  At four the next morning, before the first grey traces of daylight clim
bed into the dark heavens, Angelo and the other airmen, who had tied towels to the ends of their bunks to show they were flying that day, were awoken by a torch in their faces.

  Shivering, the Americans slid out of bed, cussing at the iciness of the concrete floor, and dressed for the briefing.

  Laying out his gear, Angelo pulled on his clothes in a careful and precise order, then he meticulously shaved his face, so that there would be nothing to irritate his skin when he wore the oxygen mask.

  Then, when he was satisfied that everything had been done exactly the same as the previous twelve times, he took up the two teddy bears, just as he had carried Tex, and followed the rest of the men to the mess.

  Despondently, Angelo ate his breakfast, not speaking to anyone and, conscious that he was observing another of his rituals, none of the crew tried to engage him in conversation.

  ‘Least we g—get real eggs on mission days,’ Frank mumbled, appreciatively dipping his toast into the runny yolk.

  When the meal was over, the airmen filed into a Nissen hut for the briefing and learned the nature of the day's mission. Frank's information had been correct—they were to destroy an oil refinery, deep in the heart of Germany.

  With solemn, downcast faces, the men left the hut and piled into the equipment room where they hauled on their electrically-heated flying suits, flak jackets, Mae Wests and parachutes. Then they clambered aboard a jeep and drove to the airfield.

  All through the night the mechanics had been working on the Flying Fortresses, loading the bombs and bullets, running instrument checks and refuelling. Now they were ready for the aircrew and, as Angelo stared up at The Kismet, he touched the St Christopher's medal under his shirt muttering, ‘I need all the help I can get today.’

  With sombre efficiency everyone assumed their stations. Pat Dyson, the bombardier, sat in the nose of the B-17 with the navigator and behind them, raised on the flight deck, sat Captain Resnick, his co-pilot and the flight engineer.

  A strengthened bulkhead divided the pilots from Angelo, who made the routine examinations to the radio. The waist gunners inspected the great machine guns, mounted behind the wings, which fired through gaping holes cut into the fuselage.

  Beyond the bomb bay doors, the ball gunner waited for take-off so that he could crawl into the deathtrap situated under The Kismet's belly, and, bringing up the rear, squeezed right in the tail, his long legs tucked underneath him—sat Frank.

  ‘OK, boys,’ Captain Resnick's voice crackled over the intercom, ‘let's do the tests. Is everyone's throat-mike working?’

  One by one the crew reported in, then briefly they put on their air masks, to ensure the oxygen supply was coming through.

  When the preliminaries were done, Jimmy Resnick drummed his fingers on the instrument panel and waited for the all-clear from the weather boys.

  Sitting at the radio operator's small table, Angelo hooked Daniel's teddy on to the bulkhead, where Tex used to watch over him, and placed Ted in the corner beside the log book.

  ‘OK you little furry guys,’ he told them, ‘I’m expecting you to be just as lucky as Tex was, so you got a tough act to follow—stay sharp.’

  There she goes,’ the captain's voice informed everyone, ‘green flare. The mission's on, boys.’

  Slowly, the B-17s taxied to the runway and, with much roaring and shaking, they lurched into the air.

  In the tail, Frank gazed out as the ground suddenly dropped below him and soon he could see only the open sky as The Kismet steadily rose.

  The tail gunner closed his eyes—he had been dreading today's mission as much as Angelo and he hoped he wouldn't let the rest of the crew down.

  ‘Sure would like to see Kath again,’ he murmured wistfully.

  From his position on the radio table, Ted watched and waited as the aircraft assembled in formation, then joined up with other groups from different airfields.

  Eventually, they were flying over the English Channel, each man was now wearing his air mask for The Kismet had climbed to twenty thousand feet and the air was thin and freezing.

  Gazing up at Angelo, Ted could see that already the sweat had frozen into beads of ice on his brow and knew that the danger was only just beginning.

  An escort of smaller fighters flew in front of the huge box formation, but the range of those planes was slight and soon they would fall back, leaving the bombers vulnerable and exposed to attack.

  ‘Is it colder today or is it just me?’ Angelo spoke over the intercom.

  ‘Reading fifty below,’ the captain told him, ‘and falling. Hey, Voo, why don't you magic up some heat in here?’

  ‘You think I haven't tried?’ came the quick response. “Fraid my talent only runs to cigarettes and aces. Tried to pull a live rabbit outta my sleeve once, though. Would'a worked too if the danged critter hadn't died of fright up there.’

  ‘That ain't true!’ the bombardier's voice buzzed.

  ‘Don't you believe nothin’, Dyson?’

  ‘Not when it comes from your mouth, Signorelli.’

  ‘Wish I could make you disappear. Hey, Dyson, when we get back to base, what say I try an’ saw you in half? Figure that'd impress you?’

  ‘Haw haw!’

  Listening with amusement, Frank peered out of the tail window at the bombers flying behind and around them.

  ‘On our own now,’ the captain told everyone, ‘there go the P-47s, bye-bye, boys.’

  With a pang of sadness, knowing they were now at the mercy of the Luftwaffe, Frank watched as the escort planes dropped out of formation and headed back to England, leaving the Flying Fortresses undefended.

  A horrendous feeling of insecure isolation shivered down his spine and he gritted his teeth, taking deep breaths of oxygen through the mask.

  ‘You there, Voo?’ he blurted,

  ‘This is Mr Signorelli's answering service,’ squeaked a falsetto voice, ‘the lieutenant just bailed out.’

  Frank relaxed and chuckled at this nonsense. ‘Shoulda let me know,’ he said, ‘I'd have jumped with you.’

  Suddenly, the drone of the surrounding engines was interrupted by a fierce spitting of gunfire and Frank twisted his head to see a cloud of German fighters storm overhead like a swarm of furious hornets.

  ‘Goering's flying circus, boys!’ Captain Resnick rapped. ‘Don't spare the lead!’

  At once, the waist gunners sprang into action and their guns juddered as streams of flaming bullets shot into the sky. In the top turret, the flight engineer gripped the trigger of the gun, quaking as the weapon spouted out a trail of death. Under the belly of The Kismet, the ball turret rolled around, shooting into the empty sky below, not waiting to see if there were any fighters beneath.

  Frank's gloved hands squeezed the tail gun desperately as he scanned the air for enemy planes. The Messerschmitts were no longer in his field of vision.

  Then, without warning, one of them came swooping down, the shadow of its left wing passing right over his head. Straight for the Fortress following The Kismet, the fighter dived—its crackling guns streaking towards the flight deck.

  To Frank's horror he saw the pilots jerk in their seats as the bullets ripped through them and the bomber began to fall from the sky.

  Arcing round, the Messerschmitt disappeared out of sight once more and Frank could only watch as the B-17 dropped gracefully into the sea of clouds below.

  Quaking, he took his hands from the tail gun and hugged himself desperately.

  ‘Fish in a barrel,’ the bombardier quipped, ‘they're jus’ pickin’ us off one at a time, whenever they feel like.’

  “What else is new?’ Angelo asked dryly.

  But with a final burst of gunfire, the fighters wheeled away and soon the bombers were left in peace.

  ‘Hey!’ Patrick Dyson cried. ‘What gives? Where'd they go?’

  ‘Maybe they saw your mug gawpin’ at them,’ Angelo answered, looking round at the bullet holes punched through the fuselage. “We sure were lucky that time.’
>
  Unhooking Daniel's teddy, he gave it a kiss then returned it. ‘You did good, pal,’ he said, ‘but we still got a way to go. Don't think you can take it easy from now on.’

  For nearly an hour the formation flew in untroubled skies, then, as they approached Germany, a second wave of fighters came spitting from the clouds.

  Sitting on the table, Ted winced as three more bombers were hit. In the tail, Frank clung to the gun, screaming in abject terror as the dark shapes soared past and gripping the trigger so tight that his hand locked and cramped around it.

  Then the air exploded.

  A burst of black smoke thundered into existence as, far below on the ground, the anti-aircraft guns spluttered into life.

  ‘Here's the flak!’ Dyson observed unnecessarily.

  Angelo gave Daniel's teddy a warning tap to make certain he was on the job. Flak was even worse than the fighters—there was no one you could shoot at.

  Violent eruptions flowered everywhere and in a matter of minutes the sky had grown dark.

  ‘God Almighty!’ Captain Resnick bawled, ‘I can hardly see up here. You could get out and walk on this stuff.’

  ‘I ain't never seen it this thick before,’ the bombardier breathed.

  With a booming roar, one of the Fortresses nearby took a direct hit and, rupturing into two flaming fragments, it plummeted out of the sky.

  The noise of the exploding shells was deafening—Angelo covered his ears and, in the tail, Frank squeezed his eyes shut, unable to witness any more horror.

  In the middle of all this confusion and fear, Ted screwed up his face and tried to remember what happened all that time ago—how did they get out of this? But no matter how hard he tried, the answer eluded him.

  ‘What happened back then?’ the bear murmured frantically. ‘Jeez—why can't I remember?’

  Suddenly, a shell detonated almost overhead.

  A blasting gale tore through The Kismet as the flak ripped through the fuselage like tinfoil, slashing a two-foot hole horrendously close to Angelo's head.

  Everything not fixed down was snatched up by the rampaging windstorm and sucked out into the freezing sky. Papers, log books, compasses, pens, even empty brass cartridges, were flung through the jagged rent and also, with a frightened wail—was Ted.