Penny Dreadfuls: Thirteen tales of horror and suspense

It Wasn’t…

The fleeting shadow that passed you on the darkened streets that you thought was a stray dog?

The person behind you that you thought was coincidentally going the same way that you were?

The feeling you got that there was something behind you that you thought was your imagination?

It wasn’t.

The glint you thought were the lights on a car passing the house?

The caller that hung up as soon as you answered the phone you thought was a wrong number?

The movement you saw from the corner of your eye you thought was your imagination?

It wasn’t...

The flicker of a shadow you thought was the wind blowing the branches of the tree?

That noise you thought was the central heating switching on?

The sound you thought was the cat bumping against something?

It wasn’t!

The shadow was someone checking you out.

The person was seeing where you live.

The feeling was instinct; you should have taken notice.

The glint was light reflecting off a knife.

The caller was making certain you were alone.

The movement was the knife being raised to cut the phone line.

The flicker was someone in the garden.

The noise was someone forcing the window.

The sound was someone on your stairs.

Are you scared yet?

When I stop typing I hear shuffling. It’s getting closer and I’m running out of words to type…

The Last Vampire

I met Clive at the designated time and place: Eight o’clock at The Winebar; a seedy little hostelry out in the back of beyond. It used to be hip, cool and trendy but that was back when you could say ‘hip, cool and trendy’ without being laughed at. The name board above the front entrance could use a re-touch on the paintwork – and on the name itself if truth be told. I pulled open the door and went inside. Posters for ‘Seniors Night – (Grab-a-Granny) – and ‘Singles Night’ –(Divorced and Desperate) adorned the wall facing the entrance. My eyes instinctively went to the ceiling; cue the :rolleyes: emoticon.

Clive wore a shabby, outdated suit; and he perhaps should have washed the lotion out of his hair before our meeting – years before. To be honest, the glop in his hair smelled kind of ‘off’ when I got close, and I wonder if he noticed as I recoiled at the whiff. The style of glasses he peered through harked back to the late sixties or early seventies - the ‘National Health Specs’ style that gave all school kids of the time nightmares at the thought of having to wear them. A horrible sing-song refrain echoed in my head; ‘Guys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses’. That’s why I had laser treatment as soon as I could afford it.

His grey-white shirt sported frayed cuffs, some of which seemed to have been trimmed recently. Off-setting the brown brogues to shabby-chic perfection were gleaming white sport socks.

An obligatory red carnation shone with ethereal presence in his lapel. Bright, violent red stood out against his faded polyester jacket. I know it’s corny, but he insisted I acknowledge the boutonniere tradition. The encounter shouted ‘cringe-worthy’ even before we spoke.

From what I can remember of the popular seventies’ sitcoms, Clive would fit right in with any of them.

Clive made contact with me via my email address. He’d seen an article I’d written on the local By-Election result and he said he liked my style. I’m not a journalist per se - I have a contact at the local paper who sometimes accepts stories I submit, and I also have a Blog, but that’s as far as my journalism extends.

I think Clive wanted a low-key kind of thing anyway, which is why he contacted me. Either that or I was the only one that responded to his particular and peculiar requests.

He said in his first email that he needed someone to ghost-write his story. He intimated that he was something of a minor celebrity, and that (the phrase that hooked me) money was no object. I didn’t exactly jump at the chance, but I was already celebrating in my head. I played aloof to start with; no point in sounding desperate, even though I am, and not just for the money. I’d rather like the credibility of being a published author. Clive and his story could well provide that credibility.

The meeting was for our mutual benefit. We both had to see if we could work together. To be truthful, once I saw the red carnation sticking out of his lapel, I very nearly didn’t put mine on. Something about him, the way he slouched at the table, sloped shoulders, greasy hair, terrible, old-fashioned, thick-rimmed glasses struck me as someone who had been an easy target all his life; and was therefore someone that could possibly snap and wreak havoc at a moment’s notice.  But sanity prevailed and I pinned the flower on as I went over to introduce myself.

Count? I’m Jacqueline. We’ve been emailing for a few days. I thrust my hand toward him, although I wasn’t sure whether to put my hand out for him to shake or not; and certainly didn’t want to give him the impression he could greet me with an embrace or, god forbid, a kiss.

Jacqueline, yes! I am delighted! Please call me Clive. Would you like a glass of wine? He stood and we shook hands. (That was where I recoiled a little at the aforementioned smell.)

I nodded because I didn’t trust myself to speak. As he moved past me toward the bar, the overwhelming stink, a mixture of mothballs, dust and decay assailed my nostrils. I blinked to dry my eyes which watered at the stench. I was grateful that he had gone to the bar himself rather than call a waiter over; it gave me time to concentrate on overcoming the gag reflex that threatened to debilitate me.

By the time he returned, I had regained my composure and taken a seat opposite his. He placed a bottle of claret and two wine glasses on the table. I looked to the serving area. The waiter stood talking to the bartender; he could have brought them over, but for some reason Clive had chosen to wait on me.

He pushed a glass toward me and poured the wine he’d selected. I dislike claret.

He tried a little small-talk but it rapidly became obvious that he wasn’t very good at it. I reached into my bag and took out my notepad to save his blushes.

I presumed to bring this, I hope you don’t mind?

Of course not. Best to get right down to it, I suppose. I’m so glad you didn’t bring a tape recorder though…

I’m so glad I’d left it in my bag.

They never work you see. I cannot be recorded - or photographed for that matter.

Religious reasons? I asked.

Almost. He smiled and gave what I assumed was a cryptic wink.

To hide my confusion whether or not he was joking, I looked down at my notebook and clicked my pen a couple of times with my thumb. Well, if you begin where you’d like me to start on your story, I’ll take a few notes and write them up later. I’ll send them for you to go over for you to see if you like my style. Don’t worry if you don’t, I can alter it to suit.

Clive steepled his fingers under his nose, pressing the index fingers against his top lip in what I can only describe as an attempt for an elegant and intelligent-looking pose. Then he lifted his spectacles and rubbed his eye - which quite spoiled the look he had been striving for. He coughed once and began.

I, he said, with dramatic pause for effect, am the last Vampire. He studied my reaction.

Taken aback by his words, I couldn’t have written anything down if my life depended upon it. I sat and stared at him, and he had to start over.

My mouth gaped and I closed it as soon as I realised. I blinked a couple of times to regain my composure, but he noticed I wasn’t writing.

He coughed again and I got the impression that he’d practiced the speech - including the cough.

I am the last Vampire, he repeated, nodding as though to encourage me to start transcribing. I have been on this earth far too long and I grow weary. Before I go to my final rest, I have asked you to write my story so that I shall be immortal, in one way at least. He dipped his head pointedly toward my notebook as a sign of encouragement, and I hastily started scribbling, trying to catch up with the flow of his words. (Heaven forbid I miss any.)

Suddenly I understood it all. The dated clothes, the stench of decay and even the brown shoes and NHS specs. The vampire story… the guy was a loon! But, in for a penny, in for a pound - I may as well finish the interview. I had nothing else planned for that evening.

He talked. I listened and wrote. He corrected himself and I crossed out those errors. I nodded a lot – to give myself something to think about other than my astonishment that anyone would go so far in an attempt for attention.

At last we got into a flow. I asked questions; at first he didn’t seem pleased that I was interacting with him, but soon became comfortable with my method of interviewing. An idea began to form in my mind.

Clive sidestepped the question of his birth year – the only