Vampire Stories to Tell in the Dark Read online

  Vampire Stories

  TO TELL IN THE DARK

  ANTHONY MASTERS

  Contents

  1 Summer Pudding

  2 Buried Alive

  3 The Sitter

  4 Matron’s Madness

  5 The Mounds

  6 A Deadly Experiment

  7 Family Thirst

  8 The Undertaker’s Parlour

  9 The Prowler

  10 The Doll’s House

  A Note on the Author

  ‘We shouldn’t have come,’ said Jon.

  The crypt under the church was dark, but a security light glowed on the vault-shaped ceiling, illuminating two large, rather fearsome family memorials with grinning gargoyles at the top of the columns. There was a smell of shut-in dust and decay.

  ‘We’ll be OK,’ Jodie was scoffing. ‘Don’t be so chicken. The warden’s dead from the neck up.’

  ‘That’s what worries me,’ Jon replied defensively. ‘He looks like an off-duty vampire.’

  Some of the others mumbled assent. They were all feeling uneasy, not knowing how to handle the situation. It had been Jodie who had dared them to leave the cosy safety of the youth hostel in the converted church and explore the crypt. The coast had been clear, as the warden and his wife were in their own quarters.

  It was the dead of winter and the snow was gently falling outside in the city streets.

  ‘Maybe we’ll get snowed up and be in this place for days,’ said Tom.

  Jon shivered. ‘How long are we going to be down here?’

  ‘As long as it takes,’ muttered Jodie.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘As long as we dare,’ She rounded on them. ‘First one who goes back to the dormitory is a coward.’

  No one moved, but their eyes shifted anxiously along the sombre plaques naming countless dead, to the darkened statues in the gloomy side-chapel – statues that looked as if they might come alive at any moment.

  ‘What shall we do then?’ asked Abby.

  ‘We’ll stay until dawn,’ replied Jodie challengingly. ‘And we’ll tell stories.’

  ‘What kind of stories?’

  ‘How about vampire stories?’ said Colin, fearfully looking round at the tombs. ‘I bet this place is full of vampires.’

  ‘Real-life vampires!’ said Jodie. ‘I’ve got one to tell first.’

  Uneasily, the others sat down on the stone floor in front of the largest memorial of all.

  ‘Anyone remember Tony Blake?’ asked Jodie. ‘That boy who left school to go to his parents’ new sheep farm in Northumberland? He told me a really weird story before he went.’

  1

  Summer Pudding

  Old Susan Parker was Tony Blake’s ‘summer friend’. Well into her seventies, she never left the house in winter and neither did her husband Matthew. The East Sussex countryside was remote and the old houses were swallowed up in small valleys. Susan and Matthew Parker had once kept a large herd of sheep and the local mystery was that they had all died off, one by one, until only one remained. Susan had explained to Tony that ‘they had a wasting disease. Infected each other. No one could save ’em.’ But he had never seen a vet visiting the farm.

  Now the Parkers no longer farmed. They had sold all their land and never seemed to see anyone. Except Tony.

  The Blakes were the Parkers’ next-door neighbours, although they were separated by half a mile of woodland and could only be approached by what Tony’s father called ‘the old twisty track’. Tree roots stuck out of the banks on either side, and it was densely overhung with heavy branches. In winter Tony could just see the sky between the gnarled fingers of wood, but in the summer the leaves blotted out everything, making the lane permanently dark. When there was even the slightest wind the trees rustled and sighed menacingly, but Tony refused to be put off, and when the days were longer he often visited his ‘summer friend’.

  He was a lonely boy, partly because his father’s sheep farm was so far away from the school and the village, and partly through choice. A dreamer, Tony was close to the moods of the countryside, and in the holidays he liked to be alone, living the stories of the old days told to him by old Susan. Fascinated by her reminiscences, he liked to imagine that he was part of them. His visits to the Parkers’ house would always have been a treat – if it hadn’t been for the figure he thought he occasionally saw at Susan’s upstairs window.

  Tony had summoned up his courage and asked Susan if there was anyone up there, but she was cheerfully quick to deny it. ‘Lord bless you, Tony, there’s nothing up there but dust. I never get to the upstairs rooms with my rheumatics, and Mr Parker could never make them stairs with his arthritis. It’s all shut off. Maybe you saw the curtain move in the breeze. There’s a broken window up there that we’ll never be able to fix.’

  But when Tony suggested that his father could come and put in a new pane of glass, Susan was unhappy. ‘We’re too old to have strangers round.’

  ‘You’ve got me.’

  She smiled an old weather-beaten smile, which lit up her wrinkled brown face, and he looked at her affectionately. Susan Parker was small and hunched, but despite her rheumatism she was still physically strong, with her big hands and muscular arms.

  ‘You’re different. You’re my summer friend. And you know what I’ve got for you today?’

  ‘Summer pudding?’

  ‘That’s my boy.’

  Susan would always bring the pudding out and put it down on the old moss-and-lichen-stained table in the overgrown front garden. She never allowed him inside the house.

  This time the pudding was better than ever – a truly delicious concoction of crustless, thin white bread soaked with raspberries, redcurrants, blackcurrants and cherries. The pudding was a deep, gleaming red and Tony relished every succulent mouthful.

  That was the day she told him their last sheep had died. ‘Not that we need the living now. We’ve both got our pensions and the house is ours.’

  ‘What did the vet say?’ He looked at her, the last remnants of the pudding still clinging to his lips. Tony knew she’d never called the vet out in her life, but he also wanted to find out why.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Nothing to say. It’s a wasting disease. Like the rest of ’em.’

  ‘What did they waste away from?’

  But she quickly changed the subject. ‘Now – how about some home-made lemonade to round off that pud?’

  ‘Great.’ The lemonade was almost as good as the pudding and Tony couldn’t wait to be given a mugful of the glorious golden liquid. It was very hot in the garden and the insects seemed to be making an abnormal amount of noise. He had a slight headache and there was sweat on his brow. He was also acutely conscious of being watched.

  The next few days were full of torrential rainstorms and wind, so when he started off on the first clear morning to the Parkers’ house, the old twisty track was waterlogged and the saturated leaves overhead dripped, ice cold, on to his thin T-shirt.

  There was a curious stillness to the old house as Tony emerged from the sodden foliage, and to his concern he saw that the dirty dish that had contained the summer pudding and the lemonade glass were still on the garden table. Then he caught sight of Susan Parker, sprawled face-down on the path. She looked like a rag doll, empty somehow, and even smaller.

  Tony ran towards her, sure that she was dead, his heart pounding and the tears stinging at the back of his eyes. She must have lain there for days and she was soaked. Soaked and wasted. Wasted? Tony stood stock still. There was a limpness to her, a gathering of flesh in folds, a trace of blood, a general collapse. Her muscular arms were thin and draine
d.

  Tony knew that he would have to go into the house. He pushed open the door into the dank interior, and very slowly his eyes became used to the darkness. There was a small hallway which smelt stale and musty, a short corridor, a flight of stairs, and beyond those a dining-room.

  Tony paused. Wasn’t that a step he had just heard? Breathing? He froze, staring up the staircase to the tiny landing. Was that a dark shadow moving? He shivered, squinting upwards through the gloom; there wasn’t much light coming in through the small windows.

  He forced himself on towards the dining-room, where, on the table, there was a large dish containing the last few crumbs of what Tony knew had been a summer pudding. Then he saw Matthew Parker.

  Like his wife he was lying on his front, his limbs splayed out, his body curiously limp and drained. There was a small puncture mark on the back of his neck and a smear of blood on the floor. Tony stood there, horrified, unable to move, rooted to the spot as if he had entered into the fairy-tale spell of some bewitched cottage. How had they died? Had something attacked them? An animal? A dog? But they hadn’t been savaged.

  Then he heard another step on the stair. And another. Something, someone, was coming down. He could smell a fetid animal-like scent and caught the unmistakable sound of heavy breathing.

  Then the steps stopped – and there was a silence.

  ‘Who’s there?’ whispered Tony.

  The silence intensified.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he cried out a little louder. Then he heard the stairs creaking and the steps returning slowly upwards. Seizing his opportunity he ran out of the dining-room, down the passage, through the tiny hall and out into the warmth of the slowly strengthening sunshine. It was a glorious moment, dispersing his terror, comforting Tony as he stepped back into a more familiar world.

  Two weeks passed. The inquest on the Parkers’ deaths found that they had wasted away, presumably catching a disease from their sheep that neither vets nor doctors could diagnose.

  The puncture on the back of Mr Parker’s neck was explained away as a horsefly bite, as was a similar mark on his wife’s throat. As to the steps on the staircase, the old house was searched and reported to be empty.

  The long summer days continued and Tony felt very lonely. He no longer enjoyed his own company, for he missed old Susan deeply. Only once had he ventured down the twisty track, staying amongst the trees, noticing how quickly the already overgrown garden was creeping up the walls of the house, rather as if the natural world was claiming the place as its own.

  Tony began to brood, and to cheer him up his parents gave him a Labrador puppy which he called Clover, but soon after the little dog’s arrival, the Blakes’ sheep began to suffer from the same wasting disease as the Parkers’. Bearing in mind what had happened to the old couple, the vet gave instructions that while tests were run the flock must be quarantined off in one field, only to be approached by Mr Blake wearing protective clothing.

  Under strict instructions not to go anywhere near the field, Tony took Clover in the opposite direction, setting off down the old twisty track. His intention had been to stay in the woods, but as it was a bright afternoon he decided to take another look at the old house.

  Tony gazed at it sadly, for a complete air of desolation hung over the place. Soon, he supposed, it would become a ruin. Then he had the eerie feeling of being watched and his eyes were drawn to the upstairs window. A surge of panic gripped him: he was certain he had seen a face.

  This is crazy, he thought. The police had definitely checked to make sure no one was there and he knew the house had been put up for sale by a distant cousin. Then he saw the ‘For Sale’ sign. It was lying in the undergrowth, half covered with leaf mould.

  Tony glanced furtively up at the window again, aware that Clover was keeping close to him.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Tony whispered, ruffling her fur. But the puppy was growling now.

  Boldly he went to the gate, while Clover hung back. Through the long grasses he could see the summer pudding plate and the empty lemonade glass, now covered in mould. A small piece of pudding was still there, and a wisp of lemon rind.

  He stared up at the first-floor window, conscious again of being watched, and saw, for a fraction of a second, a head that was quickly withdrawn. The shock jangled through his body. Then Tony noticed that the front door of the old house was slightly ajar.

  Clover began to sniff the air, pointing her nose directly at the door and scuffing her paws in a way that Tony had seen before. This is what she normally did when she was hungry. Then, without warning, the puppy was off, forgetting her fear and dashing through the grass and thistles and overgrown hollyhocks to the front door. She pushed her way in, and with a joyous bark disappeared from view.

  Tony stood outside indecisively. The last thing he wanted to do was go in after Clover, but he couldn’t let the puppy run into danger. He looked up at the window again. There was no movement at all. Surely it was all in his imagination, he reasoned.

  Cautiously, Tony edged through the door and went inside. The house was even more musty. Then he was practically knocked off his feet by a wildly excited Clover who, evading his outstretched arms, dived up the stairs with a friendly bark.

  Knowing it would be useless to call her, Tony slowly mounted the stairs, sweating all over and shaking so much that he could hardly put one foot after the other.

  Eventually he came to the landing. He had expected it to be thick with dust, but it was in fact quite clean, and he suddenly realized that the stairs looked as if they had been swept as well. Why was that? He paused and then forced himself on, hearing Clover scrabbling at something in the adjoining room and giving little barks of excitement.

  Tony opened the door to a child’s dilapidated nursery with a bed on one side, a cot on the other and a frieze of rabbits running around the sides of the room. There were a few old toys, including a huge, battered teddy bear and a soldier who had lost an arm. On a table in the centre were the remains of a summer pudding that Clover was gleefully finishing.

  Hurriedly, Tony went over to the plate. The pudding looked slightly different, its juices an unnatural, brilliant red. Shrugging, he walked over to a huge cupboard which ran the length of the room, with an old sign over the top saying GREGORY PARKER’S TOY CUPBOARD. PRIVATE. KEEP OUT. For a ghastly moment Tony thought he could hear breathing inside, but when he held his own breath to listen, he couldn’t hear it any more.

  Grabbing Clover, still feverishly eating, he carried her, struggling, downstairs, but as he reached the hallway, the puppy jumped out of his arms and ran towards the kitchen.

  The big, scrubbed wooden table in the centre held another half-finished summer pudding on which Clover was gorging herself. Against a side wall was a long, low freezer which was emitting a low hum. Why was it on, wondered Tony, when the house was meant to be up for sale? He looked out of the window to see a cable leading from the nearby pylon into the wall. Yes – that was it. Squatters had moved in. Tony breathed a sigh of relief and, leaving Clover to continue her feast, walked idly over to take a look in the freezer.

  He gasped. It wasn’t possible. Inside the freezer were dozens of huge summer puddings, wrapped individually in clingfilm, each gleaming blood-red in the hard artificial light. What were they doing in there? Who were they for? Then he saw the note pasted on the underside of the lid. It read:

  Matthew – the puddings are not up to strength since the last sheep died. I have contributed to this last batch. This is a reminder to be brave – to feed your son when I am gone. Your beloved Susan.

  Tony stood there, his mind reeling. Slowly he came to an appalling conclusion. Then he heard the steps on the stairs.

  Grabbing Clover yet again, Tony hurtled out of the kitchen without daring to glance up the stairs. He tore out of the door, through the overgrown garden and back on to the twisty track. He didn’t stop running until he was outside his own house. Putting Clover down, he walked into the calm of his mother’s big, clean, fa
rmhouse kitchen, the puppy following at his heels.

  ‘Mum –’

  ‘What’s up? You been running? Chasing that dog?’

  ‘Did the Parkers ever have a son?’

  ‘Well –’ His mother seemed reluctant to answer.

  ‘I must know.’

  ‘She always made me promise I’d never tell anyone. Not that it would have mattered much, with her and Matthew such recluses. Do you know, I don’t think they saw a soul in years. Except for your visits, they never –’

  ‘Mum!’ He was beside himself with impatience.

  ‘All right. All right. Yes – they did. But sadly he suffered some kind of brain damage when he was young. I think he fell off a tractor. Anyway, he had to be put in an institution, apparently.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Well, that’s what she said. By the way, I’m doing something special for you. It won’t be as good as Mrs Parker’s. She was a real expert. But I’ve made a summer pudding for you.’

  ‘Wow!’ said Jon. ‘Was he ever caught?’

  ‘I think so,’ replied Jodie.

  ‘You think so.’ He looked nervously round the crypt.

  ‘My cousin Alan had a nasty experience in Bulgaria last year,’ said Jon. ‘That’s why I don’t like being down here. Of course, I didn’t believe what he said – not a word. He’s always making things up.’ He paused. ‘Do you want to hear?’

  2

  Buried Alive

  Alan’s mother is Bulgarian and she met his father while she was working as an au pair girl in London. She never talked about Stedok, the village she came from, hardly ever mentioned her parents and seemed happy never to go back to her country again.

  Several times Alan and his dad had suggested a holiday there, but she always turned the idea down, so it was very much to their surprise that Margot said that she was going back to Stedok for her father’s funeral. The return coincided with one of his dad’s business trips, and when Alan asked her if he could go with her she at first refused. But by keeping on, he wore his mother down and she reluctantly agreed that he could accompany her.