Days of utter dread, p.1
Days of Utter Dread, page 1
Also by Graham Masterton
HORROR STANDALONES
Black Angel
Death Mask
Death Trance
Edgewise
Heirloom
Prey
Ritual
Spirit
Tengu
The Chosen Child
The Sphinx
Unspeakable
Walkers
Manitou Blood
Revenge of the Manitou
Famine
Ikon
Sacrifice
The House of a Hundred Whispers
Plague
The Soul Stealer
THE SCARLET WIDOW SERIES
Scarlet Widow
The Coven
THE KATIE MAGUIRE SERIES
White Bones
Broken Angels
Red Light
Taken for Dead
Blood Sisters
Buried
Living Death
Dead Girls Dancing
Dead Men Whistling
The Last Drop of Blood
THE PATEL & PARDOE SERIES
Ghost Virus
The Children God Forgot
The Shadow People
DAYS OF UTTER DREAD
Graham Masterton with Dawn G Harris
An Aries book
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the UK in 2022 by Head of Zeus Ltd, part of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Copyright © Graham Masterton and Dawn G Harris, 2022
The moral right of Graham Masterton and Dawn G Harris to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (E): 9781804542194
Cover design: Nina Elstad
Head of Zeus Ltd
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM
In Memory of Friends We Have Lost
James Herbert and Jeff R. Milchard
‘Those are the days when we wake to realise that we are one day closer to the coffin-lid being closed over us, blotting out the light forever.
‘Those are the days when we are aware that we are nothing more than a collection of random atoms that have temporarily clotted together to be us.
‘Those are the days when we fear how easily we could be ripped apart, long before we have enjoyed the time that should have been ours, causing us terror and agony beyond description.
‘Those are the days of utter dread.’
Manfred Waffenmeister, Das Buch der Angst, 1934
Content Warning
This contains extreme adult content and exploration of subjects that will not be suitable to all reading tastes.
CONTENTS
Stranglehold (with Dawn G Harris)
Half-Sick of Shadows
On Gracious Pond
National Balance
Cutting the Mustard (with Dawn G Harris)
A Portrait of Kasia
The Greatest Gift
Epiphany
The Red Butcher of Wrocław
Cheeseboy
About the Authors
An Invitation from the Publisher
STRANGLEHOLD
With Dawn G Harris
‘Do you accept clothes from dead people?’ the girl asked, peering short-sightedly into the cramped back office of the animal charity shop.
Lillian looked up to see a skinny and nervous-looking young woman, her face half-masked by her long dark hair, her hand quivering as she held out a half-filled bin liner.
‘My uncle died. He had a cat. I thought he’d want it all to come here.’
As the girl spoke, Lillian unaccountably felt a shiver run down her back and along her arms, but she gave the girl a quick smile and stood up, and stepped out of her office to take the bag. The girl’s hair swung back, and Lillian saw that the left side of her face was twisted and scarred, as if she’d been burned as a child, and that while her right eye was dark brown, her left eye was black and glassy.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m sure that whatever is in here will raise some money to help our animals.’
As she took the bag she saw that the girl’s hands were dirty, and that there were crescents of mud or dried blood under her fingernails. The bag felt strangely warm, and smelled of dirty clothing, but she said nothing. She had been managing this charity shop for nearly three years now, and she had accepted far more repulsive donations than this. She looked kindly into the girl’s good eye and cradled the bag as appreciatively as if it were her uncle’s cat itself.
‘Please – you will take very good care?’ said the girl. Her hair fell back to cover the melted side of her face, and then she turned and walked out of the shop.
*
Lillian carried the bin liner through to the back of the shop and tugged on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. Normally, for health and safety reasons, she would have emptied the contents slowly onto the sorting table, but the eeriness of the girl’s appearance and the way she had said ‘Please – you will take very good care’ made her cautious. Once she had untied the bag she lifted it up and tipped all its contents onto the table in a heap.
A few pairs of smelly woollen socks fell out, then a faded blue shirt, an old electric razor, a bent Panama hat, a chunky jumper that was all rolled up, some T-shirts, and lastly a thick, brown, leather belt. The belt was well-worn, and its heavy buckle was shaped like a python’s head, so that when it was done up it would appear as if it were swallowing its own tail. On the back of the belt some strange squiggly marks had been burned into the pale brown leather – கழுத்து நெரிக்கும் – which she assumed were some kind of decoration. She started to sort through the items, tossing the socks into the rags bin ready for collection on Tuesday.
She lifted the arms of the jumper and it felt heavy, as if there was something wrapped up inside it. When she picked it right up off the floor, ready to throw it into the rags bin along with the socks, a black cat tumbled out of it. A dead black cat, with its yellow eyes staring blindly and its tongue protruding from between its sharp, pointed teeth.
Lillian shrieked and stepped back, horrified that the girl with the melted face could have donated anything so disgusting as a dead cat.
‘Oh, God!’
‘Whatever is it?’ called out Joyce, one of her volunteers. She came hurrying to the door from the shop floor.
‘It’s a cat!’ said Lillian. ‘Honestly, I thought I’d seen everything working here – dirty underwear, burned-out ironing boards, chamber pots with their handles broken off – but a dead cat! I can’t believe it!’
‘Black cats – aren’t they a symbol of bad luck?’ asked Joyce, peering at it over her glasses. ‘Or is it good luck? I can never remember. But they’re supposed to cross your path, aren’t they? Not just lie there, dead.’
*
The next day, when Lillian opened up the store, she was surprised to see how tidy it looked. Yesterday, when she had left, the rail of newly donated clothing had looked messy and crammed, but now all the coats and dresses were hanging neatly, and all the accessories like ties and scarves and belts were hanging separately. Only one belt remained on the sorting table – the python’s-head belt that had been brought in by the girl with the dark hair and the melted face. It was laid out dead straight.
She couldn’t remember having tidied the shop up so well, but she had spent nearly twenty minutes on the phone arranging for the council to come and collect the dead cat, and then she had been cashing up the day’s takings in her back office, so probably Joyce had been arranging everything while she was busy, and she had been too tired and preoccupied to notice.
She looked at the belt and she had a vision of the young girl’s half-scarred face, and heard her voice saying ‘you will take very good care’, and for some reason she left the belt where it was, reluctant to touch it.
As the morning went on, the shop became busier. Several customers were attracted to a grey, striped shirt that had been donated by the young girl. When one woman held it up to show it to her friend, though, her little girl began to cry, and beg, ‘Please, Mummy, put it back!’ She was almost screaming.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, what’s the matter with you?’ her mother snapped, and tugged her, still sobbing, out of the shop.
A middle-aged man with a large stomach and a comb-over had been rooting through the men’s accessories but now he came up to Lillian and said, ‘Not much of a selection, have you?’
‘We can only sell what we’re given, I’m afraid,’ said Lillian. But then her eye fell on the leather belt with the python buckle. ‘Here… how about this charming leather belt? Most unusual.’
She picked it up the belt and dangled it in front of him. His eyes immediately lit up, and he almost snatched it from her. Then he stared at the python buckle as if he were hypnotised by it, and Lillian was sure that his eyes were gr adually becoming bloodshot.
‘I’ll take it,’ and reached into his jacket for his wallet, without once taking his eyes off the belt.
*
That evening, Lillian decided to cook herself a proper dinner: a roast chicken breast with broccoli and potatoes. She had been eating too many takeaways recently and putting on weight. As she was draining the water out of the potato pan, she glanced across at the small TV in the kitchen and froze. She slammed down the pan on the draining board, tugged off her oven glove and reached for the remote so that she could turn up the volume on the evening news.
‘A forty-eight-year-old Banstead man was found dead this afternoon in his kitchen. He was named as Geoffrey Perkins, the owner of Perkins Carpets in the high street. Police have said that he was strangled with an unusual leather belt. His death appears to have been suicide because he was alone and the door to his flat was bolted on the inside, but police said that this is not conclusive since there were one or two unusual circumstances, although at this stage they declined to elaborate. Now for the local weather.’
Lillian switched off the sound. Her skin tingled as if she had suffered an electric shock, and for almost half a minute she stood in the middle of the kitchen just staring at the television screen. They had shown a picture of Geoffrey Perkins on the news – smiling, standing by the sea somewhere. It was the same man who had bought the python belt, only this morning.
‘You will take very good care,’ the young girl with the melted face had told her. Supposing that had been a warning? After all, why had that little girl burst out crying when her mother had held up that grey striped shirt? What if there was something wrong with everything that she had donated from her dead uncle?
She went into the living room and picked up her mobile phone. She called Joyce, but all she heard was her voicemail.
‘Joyce? It’s me, Lillian. Listen – something awful has happened. First thing tomorrow we need to clear out some of the clothes that were donated yesterday – send them all to rag. Call me back as soon as you get this message.’
She sat down on the sofa. She didn’t feel hungry any more. She wondered if she was just being hysterical. But she thought of the feeling that the python belt had given her – her instinctive reluctance to touch it – and the way that Geoffrey Perkins’ eyes had appeared to turn red when he stared at it.
For the first time in a long time she wished that she and Jim hadn’t broken up. Jim would have laughed and told her not to be so bonkers. But then that was one of the reasons why they had separated. Jim’s idea of a supernatural event was West Bromwich Albion winning the FA Cup.
*
She had just finished the cheese-and-tomato sandwich that she had made for her lunch when the shop doorbell jangled. It was the girl with the melted face again, carrying a plastic shopping bag. Her hair was windblown and she was out of breath, but Lillian noticed that she was wearing high-heeled black suede boots, so it was unlikely that she had been running.
‘Got more for us, have you, love?’ said Joyce, who was busy arranging the shelf of dog-eared, second-hand books, but the girl ignored her and weaved her way between the coat-rails and came straight up to Lillian.
‘I was sure I’d given you this,’ she said, holding up the shopping bag. ‘I don’t know… somehow I must have dropped it. I found it lying on my front garden path this morning.’
Lillian cautiously took the bag and looked inside. Curled up at the bottom of it was the leather belt with the python’s head. She tipped it out with a clatter onto the sorting table, and there was no question that it was the same belt. She recognised the squiggly marks on it.
At first she couldn’t think what to say. She felt as if she must still be asleep in bed, and this was nothing but a dream.
‘You did give it to me,’ she said, at last. ‘You gave it to me, and we sold it.’
The girl stared at her with her single dark brown eye. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ she said. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. I can show you the receipt. We sold it to a man called Geoffrey Perkins. But haven’t you seen the news this morning? He was found dead – strangled. They couldn’t tell if it was suicide or not, but they said he was strangled by an “unusual leather belt”. I was sure they must have meant this one.’
The girl said nothing but continued to stare at her. She didn’t look down once at the belt, which had been slowly uncurling by itself and was now lying almost flat.
Lillian said, ‘I don’t see how it could have been, though, do you? Not if you found it on your garden path this morning. I mean, the police would have taken it away as evidence, wouldn’t they?’
‘If it had been a normal belt,’ the girl said, her voice so quiet and husky that Lillian could hardly hear her over the shop’s background music… Julie Bright singing ‘I’m Not An Angel.’. ‘But it’s not.’
‘What do you mean? And – by the way – there’s something else I have to ask you about. There was a dead cat among the clothes that you gave us. I very much hope that you didn’t put it in that bag on purpose. I had to ring the council to take it away.’
‘Ördög.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Ördög. That was the cat’s name. He was my uncle’s cat. In Hungarian Ördög means “devil.” My uncle was half Hungarian. No, of course I didn’t put Ördög in the bag. He must have crept in by himself, to follow my uncle’s scent. He was devoted to my uncle and when my uncle died Ördög refused to eat. Perhaps he just died of hunger.’
‘So what’s not normal about this belt?’
The girl hesitated for a moment, looking around. Then she said, ‘Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’
‘Yes. Come into my office at the back. Joyce! Can you look after the shop for a while?’
She led the girl into the cramped office at the back. They sat down at her desk, which was heaped with paperwork and cluttered with empty coffee mugs and pens and buttons and elastic bands and two pricing guns.
‘I’ve told only one person this before,’ said the girl. ‘That was my teacher at school because I thought I could trust her, but I don’t think she believed me because she never did anything about it.’
‘Before you start, why don’t you tell me your name?’ said Lillian.
‘Grace. My mother named me after Grace Kelly because she thought she was so beautiful. At least that was what my aunt told me. My mother and father both died in a car accident when I was three and I had to go and live with my aunt and my uncle.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Well, Grace Kelly died in a car accident, too, didn’t she? Anyway, my aunt was very kind to me because she was my mother’s sister, but my uncle resented that he had to take care of me. He was always shouting at me and slapping me. One night soon after I went to live with them, I had a dream that my mother and father were still alive and when I woke up and realised that they were both gone, I started to cry and cry and cry.
‘My uncle came into my bedroom and shouted at me to shut up, but I was so sad that I couldn’t. So he came back with a kettle full of boiling water and poured it over my head.’
‘Oh, my God, Grace. But why were you allowed to stay with them, after that?’
‘My uncle told the doctors that I had gone into the kitchen and tipped the kettle over myself, and my aunt never said anything, so I can only imagine that he threatened to hurt her if she ever told anyone what had really happened.’
Grace turned around and looked behind her before she carried on, as if she were anxious that somebody else might be listening. Then she said, ‘My uncle never showed any remorse. He always treated me as if it had been my fault that I was scalded. He was always brutal to me and I was bullied at school, too. The other kids used to call me Disgrace Face.
‘When I turned thirteen my uncle started to abuse me, too. Or try to. He was always coming into the bathroom when I was having a bath, or asking me personal questions and touching me. I ran away twice but I had nowhere else to go and I was found both times and brought back.
‘Then one day on my way back from school I went into that little shop at the end of the High Street – Magic Mirror.’
