Short Shocks 2 Read online

  Short

  Shocks

  2

  Andy Love

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, save those clearly in the public domain, is purely coincidental.

  Nobody’s Inn Copyright © 2011 Andy Love

  Dead Beat Copyright © 2011 Andy Love

  Whose Choice? Copyright © 2011 Andy Love

  Dial A Demon Copyright © 2011 Andy Love

  Soul Trader Copyright © 2011 Andy Love

  Whispers Copyright © 2011 Andy Love

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Discover other titles by

  Andy Love at Smashwords.com

  13-digit ISBN 978-1-4763-7273-4

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Mum

  Reading horror is better experienced without fingers splayed over the eyes, and jumping with fright at the written word.

  Love you always.

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  Contents

  Nobody’s Inn Page 9

  Dead Beat Page 84

  Whose Choice? Page 145

  Dial A Demon Page 150

  Soul Trader Page 174

  Whispers Page 241

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Acknowledgements

  The author would like to thank the following for their patience and help.

  My dear wife

  ~

  Lucy Kelvin

  ~

  Staff at National Archives Scotland

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  Nobody’s Inn

  Shivers spread through the terrified body of Jacob Brown. Bile burned his throat as memories of life in the Scottish highlands came to mind. More specifically, near the village of Dunkeld.

  Life with them instilled anger and fear; a clan of people who change into beasts for the hunt, and he called them kin. He never imagined his head would still be attached, after stealing freedom from the infectious clan. The werewolf’s pursued him into a den of Draugar, a legend the werewolf Elders preached of and feared. Draugar left Jacob for dead, as no being ever escaped their clutches, dead or alive. Yet, here Jacob sat, in the warmth of the Sheep Heid Inn.

  Jacob in the corner and caressed a flagon of ale, with filthy rag-bound hands. The Inn served as a nightly libation hole to drown bad memories, which constantly infested his mind. Drunken cheers at the other end of the Inn distracted his gaze on the oak beamed ceiling. The clatter of hoofs from the stables beyond, failed to draw his attention from the garner of flames atop the black wrought iron chandelier. The light cast a dim flicker across the smoke-filled room, and Jacob wallowed in the fetid comfort.

  He blended well into the mass poverty of Edinburgh, and survived alone, cold and hungry. The lowlanders considered the highland accent and him as an outsider. He became an experienced rat catcher, to ensure his own sustenance, and quickly provided cheap meals for the poor locals. A smile of dry red lips nestled beneath a long wiry and straggled beard. This served as a disguise, which keep his neck and chest warm. His tongue snaked across globules of ale, which gathered on his untrimmed moustache. He couldn’t believe his luck–still alive, settled in the lamentable parish of Duddingston, in the year of our Lord, 1725. His emotions bristled with humanity for once, and certainly made him smile. To wait too long in one place instilled tense apprehension, which burrowed into his soul. A fear of the day he might be found, kept him in populated areas. The distractions masked his dreadful thoughts in this benign haven.

  Jacob waited to meet Andrew Jardine, a local writer and friend. Several years past since they first met, a friendship forged from drunken bouts: they argued, and instigated a brawl at the Sheep Heid Inn, before being thrown into the street. The two strong-willed men yelled a slurred melody through nauseous and perilous streets. They swore and chanted to their respective hovels. Its one of a few good memories he has, and to recall the friendship, always encouraged a grin.

  He heard the distinctive sound of hooves and cartwheels on the cobbled road, outside the Inn. His neck craned to see out the window, but realised the glow from the street lamp struggled to push back the night. He fretted for his friend, meant to be at the Inn before dark. Jacob’s flesh crawled, as it always did when evilness neared.

  A black silhouette formed behind the glass door to the Inn, larger and darker. The door swung open and invited a misty stench of sewage from the loch. It crept across the floor and swirled around Jacob’s feet. He unconsciously held his breath until the door closed, and the mist evaporated in the warmth of the Inn.

  Andrew closed the door and shivered. He tried to shake off the moisture, which clung to his garb. He looked around the Inn, rubbed his mittens together then took off his hat. He nodded acknowledgement to Jacob in the corner, and limped to the table. Andrew laid down his satchel, cane and hat. He greeted his friend as he vigorously rubbed his hands together again.

  “Sorry I’m late; I got held up at work. Mr. McGregor wouldn’t let me go until I’d finished the story on that new mansion, near Wester Duddingston. He promised the Earl of Abercorn it would be ready by tomorrow. McGregor’s such an old slave-driver; the Earl has tore the place apart for more than two years now.”

  Andrew sat down and shifted his weight as he tried to find comfort on the hard wooden bench. Jacob shook his head and took a deep breath. “Ya mean he’s an auld bastard. You need to spit out whit's on yer mind sometimes, Andrew.”

  “I enjoy having a job.” Andrew smiled. “Alright, what’s the big secret about? Why did you want me to bring lots of paper?”

  Jacob leaned his head over the table and whispered, “Do you believe in legends?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, when ya know something is close by in the dark. The odd stink you just can’t place, or an uneasy prickle across your skin, as if something’s walked over your grave.” He looked around, to ensure nobody could overhear. “Do you think something can exist, even though you haven’t seen it?” He moved back from the table and searched the room furtively with collided eyebrows.

  “I…I think I have an open mind.” Andrew lied. “What is this all about?” He asked loudly.

  “Keep yer voice down, I dinnae want anybody overhearing what I’m aboot to tell you. I need to know how open yer mind is. There’s a darker side to this world.”

  Andrew looked curious and impatient. “I’m your friend, Jacob. I’m sure I’d understand anything you tell me in confidence. I can keep a secret.”

  Jacob’s widened his brown eyes in shock. He despaired at the idea of his warning to the public left untold, and buried with his friend.

  “No, no, no!” He placed his grime-filled nail to his lips and hushed Andrew. “I want everyone to know what I tell you. I want you to put this into print.”

  Andrew raised his voice again, as he forgot the previous warning and taunted Jacob’s accent. “Away an bile yer heid! Nothing’s going to happen to you, except being eaten by one of your own bloody huge rats.” He laughed heartily at his own joviality, but Jacob slammed his fist on the table.

  “Listen to me. This is nae a game, it’s nae lies, and it’s nae made up in any way. Whit happened to me wis real; there’s things oot there that are hungry for non believers like you
.”

  Jacob realised the noise he made, scanned the Inn, and spotted a few drinkers who showed interest. Old Mrs. Hunter also diverted watchful eyes from her wiry Jack Russell, laid in front of the open fire. She observed the two men with disdain. Andrew raised a diffident hand, and the owner returned her gaze back to the dog. Its ears perked as it heard a venomous spark from the fire. Its head traced the trajectory of an ember, until it hissed in mud and sawdust-covered floor. The Jack Russell yelped, and distracted all interest from the two men, as the customers laughed at the dog’s cowardice.

  “Jacob, calm down.” Andrew’s eyes searched the room; thankful the short interest in his friend's outburst waned. “Right, I think you should spit out this big secret, before you choke on it. We’ve not got all night and you're buying the ale.”

  “Aye, fair enough.” Jacob grinned, He leaned back in the seat, signalled to the wench with his flagon, and pointed at his friend.

  “I loved to dauner through the heather near Dunkeld village. The dreich weather would seep through ma jacket, and chill ma bones. Sweat ran doon ma back and soaked the waistband of ma breeks.

  “It seemed mair bother when I was with the kin, I’d rather be alone in the wild. There’s nobody to troubled me when I’m oot in the forest. There’s nae clan rules, and nae laws to abide by. Most of all, I escaped the hatred of ma kin.

  “Sometimes the black sky pressed doon on the forest as I gaze at the lights. The sky seemed so close, it might crush me. On a moonlit night, I would find a wee spot in a wooded area, lay on ma back and let the moon lay beside me.

  “I preferred to prowl through the forests, and hidden from sight. Unseen. I always enjoyed the human contact, no matter what trail I took. Ma Elders always preached that, ‘the humans are an ungrateful, selfish and destructive race. They offend our sense of smell, how the skins on these people stink. Even at a few acres away, you can smell their fear.’

  “I always tried to escape the frenzy of feeds, and the repulsiveness of ma kin. I detested ma life as a werewolf: hunt, kill, and feed; hunt, kill and feed; so much blood, every day. Although born into the clan, I didn’t want to be covered in blood. Jessie and me only wanted to be left alone; to read books and learn about humanity. I always thought my pity for humans, weakened ma hunger for blood. Centuries of diseased werewolf’s, and using human females, must eventually breed a weaker race. It seems I was a beast, contaminated with human traits.

  “I was once a werewolf in the highlands, where I lived with my clan of infected. Our ancestor’s memories as werewolves are passed on through breeding, and wee chunks of the past, which stays in our heads. Anyway, it all started back around the 1300’s…I’m sure you’ll write it better than I gossip.”

  Andrew scratched the tale on to paper.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Interview with Jacob Brown on the night of November 23 rd 1725, a true account.

  A cool morning had settled in the Scottish Highlands. Rose MacKinnon’s croft, nestled in the Brumbuie woods a few miles north of Dunkeld. She took her daily walk East from home, toward Loch Kinloch, and enjoyed the quiet time to collect water. Even though it was just before dawn, heavy clouds failed to obscure the pallid moon. She wove through the trees, and the old wooden bucket swayed gently at her side. The low mist made her appear to glide through the wood.

  Rose was cautious, as there were incidents of loved ones recently laid in the ground, who were dug up and half eaten by some wild animal. Everyone blamed the wolves that roamed the forests.

  She remembered last Sunday, when Father Moffat of the local church, confirmed what they all feared. She watched his tall and lean body encased in black. Both his hands grasped the lectern, and leaned toward the flock as he preached.

  “My children of God I beseech you all. These wolves are a personification of the Devil. These beasts are an abomination of Lucifer, and are all around us. They defile our consecrated grounds and devour our loved ones' souls.” The preacher raised his arm and shook a clenched fist at the parishioners. “We must destroy them all. The beasts must be purged without mercy. We must cleanse our lives of this evil in our midst.” Rose saw his flushed face and the veins on his neck protrude. He paused, lowered his arm and grasped the lectern again. His skin returned to a pallid sadness as he pleaded with the people. “Save our children from being devoured, by the evilness that has arisen from the bowls of hell.” Father Moffat walked around the lectern and stood at the edge of the stage, hung his head and clasped his hands in front of his robe. “Let us pray for our sins…”

  The men of Dunkeld and her husband, would be on the hunt for wolves late tonight, again. He didn’t have time to waste on this hunt, and the daily chores wouldn't tend to themselves. All the precious days of work in the fields ruined, because King Dorvadilla preferred to hunt at night and sleep all day. After a hard day in the fields, he was expected to hunt at night for demons? Rose scorned his pompous, repetitive speech as he primed and preened his finery. “I decree whoever brings about the slaying of ane wolf, or their whelps, to have ane ox to his reward.”

  The shimmer of light on the water came into view as the trees thinned. She heard a crack sound to the left, which made her stop and look. Rose heard it again, but to the right. It is not a normal sound of the forest. Different, unlike a tree that discarded dead limbs, more of a dull snap.

  A heavy weight pressed hard into the ground and broke a dry branch. The unnatural rustle of leaves were not stirred by the gentle breeze, which blew wisps of blonde hair back and forth across Rose’s cheek.

  Her eyes darted left and right as she tried to quell the sensation of her every move being watched. Tension grew within her as a force approached, but from where?

  “Hello,” Rose asked, with a quiver in her soft highland voice. “Is there anyone there?”

  She froze to the spot. A twig jagged into her foot, but she listened as hard as she could for any sounds.

  “Please, show yourself. Don’t hide in the shadows.”

  Her skin goose fleshed as a heavy breath rasped at her neck. A strong presence behind seemed to push her forward, to lose her balance. She turned to face whatever lurked, even if it was her imagination, the curiosity needed quenched. Rose bombarded her mind with fear, which enticed her body to turn. Slowly, her weight shifted.

  She faced the presence that imposed. The horrific image continued to flash in her mind—she released a scream, which pierced the stillness of the morning. Rose stared into huge yellow eyes as the stench of musk filled the air. The savage craver of flesh opened its jaws wide, and revealed a vivid red mouth as saliva slid from its fangs.

  Rose could now smell the rancid breath of the beast, and its cold, black snout brushed her forehead. Would her life end this morning? Pain exploded through her neck, as long teeth punctured her skin and pierced holes through veins, flesh and muscle. Savage incisors ripped the skin on her throat, and pressure built in her head as warm fluid ran down her legs. Her suffering bordered prurient elation, if not for the stink of her urine.

  The beast slid its teeth from her neck and sniffed the curious new smell. Rose dropped to her knees as her left hand clutched her throat. She struggled against the wet leafs, and stumbled toward her home. The fiend grabbed her ankle: she fell forward. She stretched her arms out to save herself, and the bucket flew into the air and struck a tree. With all hope lost and on her knees, she mumbled for mercy.

  “Oh Lord, please help me. Please help. Oh ma dear Lord, I dinnae want to die. Please help, I dinnae want to die…”

  The beast approached from behind and pressed its hind nails into her calves. Its front claws latched into the small of her back for extra leverage, hauled its body up and toward Rose. Her blue and red kirtle material strained from the beast’s power then ripped apart. The torn kirtle, barbette and veil were discarded on the forest floor. The animal raised itself with both muscular arms, and sank its nails deeper into Rose’s back then entered her. Rose squirmed to escape as she screamed with anguish and terror.<
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  The beast grabbed the back of her neck in its jaws. Her body became still and her screams silenced, as her head dangled from the beast's teeth. Hot saliva slide down her neck, across the throat and gathered on her chin. Elongated drips of blood slid from her reddened face. She tried to forget the trauma of the animal's fast, hard and dirty actions from her mind. Rose fought to scream for help as tears streamed down her face, and blood spluttered from the holes in her throat.

  New sounds could be heard through the forest: a dog barked and a voice shouted. The beast sniffed the scent of interruption. The beast gave a howl as it withdrew from Rose. The noise gained volume and proximity with rapidity. It retracted its claws and Rose flopped to the ground. The beast roared with fury at the disturbance. It sprinted through the trees as a wolf…and into the distant fog…as a man.

  Rose lay on the forest floor, her naked peach lay bared to the cold morning air. She cried tears at the trounced exploit of her body and the disgust that circled in her mind. Her husband and dog arrived at her side. The dog began to lick blood from her neck, but Scott McKinnon slapped its rump.

  He tried desperately to hide his revulsion of his wife’s obvious defilement. “Oh my poor Rose, what’s happened to you? Who did this?”

  Scott used a part of Rose’s torn kirtle and wrapped it around her neck. He gently picked up his wife in his arms, stood up and struggled as fast as he could through the mist and trees, toward their cottage. “Hang on Rose; it’ll be fine. Let’s get you home, my love. Oh, my dear Rose.”