Dare to Read: 13 Tales of Terror Read online

  DARE TO READ

  13 TALES OF TERROR

  JAMIE C. PRITCHARD

  Front Cover

  NICK D. PRITCHARD

  Copyright © Jimmy’s Fish Tank

  All Rights Reserved

  Thanks to Mum, Dad, Brother, and my good friend Tony

  Mr Tindall’s Magical Pier

  Pioneer-3000

  Grandad’s Butcher’s

  Secret of the Salt Mine

  Divine Art

  A Story to Remember

  Spirit of gRoobai

  131.1 FM

  Mocarium Disferia

  The Teddy Bears of Bromdale

  For Marlene Shillington

  Where Did You Get This Tattoo?

  Cell 374

  Mr Tindall’s Magical Pier

  1

  On the last of an 89-slide presentation, everyone, even those who spent most of their time in the library began to wake up. Two hours’ worth of jargon had sedated lecture hall B-12, an experience made all the worse if you already knew what aperture is, how to reduce noise and a whole heap of other stuff that was (certainly at this tender stage) overkill. Sat halfway between the worrywarts and the jokers, Chris Paton wondered why he bothered coming in. Being a capable photographer of nearly three years made these early lessons trying, especially when they ate up time he could’ve been working on his individual projects. Limbs were stretched in preparation for the walk home. Meanwhile young lecturer Mark Radcliffe (a graduate who went straight into teaching) switched off the projector and took a commanding position.

  “Right then,” he gave everyone a look before continuing, “I appreciate it’s a lot to take in. Now’s your chance to show me not everything went out the other ear.” On his table were a stack of papers, assignments. He moved back around to pick them up and offered them to someone at the front who took one from the pile then passed it onto their neighbour. “You have two weeks to decide on an interesting location and take pictures of it. There will be a set of daytime pictures and an equal set of evening pictures. The ones you’re most happy with should be put in folders of the same name.” A few whispered potential locations. One joked “the playground” at which point the lecturer cut back in. “Sadly Peter, though playgrounds are great locations I think you’re just about smart enough to know aiming your camera anywhere near children in this age will cause trouble, so no.” The lecturer began to tick off his fingers as he went through viable options, “Cathedrals, bridges, lakes – things like that. Nowhere dangerous. No power plants or standing in the middle of railway tracks, and try not to stay out any later than 8 p.m.”

  Going back to the desk he picked up a camera. “This will be the first time we’ve used SLR’s. Those familiar with them will know they stand out a lot more than compacts, so be on your guard for nosey people who will ask what you’re doing, or the dreaded if you’ve got permission. Why do people do this? I don’t know. It’s more satisfying to shoot back if they own what you’re taking a picture of,” comments like this made Mark a favoured lecturer, halfway between teacher and student, “but just stick to the facts, it’s easier – it’s for an assignment.” Laying down the camera next to a box of other SLR’s that were to be picked up on the way out he gave one last briefing. “There’s no right way, but there is integrity to your work, so I’ll be asking questions. Two weeks, okay? If it’s a day late 10% gets shaven off, if it’s a week late 20% and if it’s a month late, Peter…,” they both smiled as everyone else laughed, “it gets capped at 40%. Okay? That’s it. See you again Thursday.” And with that the first year of photography exited the lecture hall with their new cameras.

  It was the third spring day in a row warm enough to hang about. Most of the class did that to discuss this new assignment save for Peter and his buddy who made a beeline for the student bar. A few members of this temporary circle looked inside their camera bag. One took it out. “It’s gonna take time to get used to these.” He frowned while turning it around in his hands. “They’ve got loads of options,” another responded. “That’s okay, it’s not like we need to know everything. The assignment is pretty straight forward.”

  “Yeah, I’ll probably just take a few pictures tonight at random stuff to get used to it.”

  “It’s cool we get to choose where we go,” said another. The three quietest all said “yeah” at the same time. Chris nodded along in a more reserved manner.

  “So where’s everyone thinking of going?” asked the one who kicked off this discussion.

  “There are a couple of churches nearby – maybe I’ll do one of them.”

  “Meriam Park for me.”

  “St. Nichols Square,” (a lazy part of the city centre with interesting modern buildings).

  “Argh, I was thinking of that one!” replied the person next to him which started a separate conversation.

  “What about that old fairground on Beasley’s coast?”

  “Fairground? Oh yeah the closed one. No, that’s miles away.”

  “You have to get two buses to get to Beasley,” confirmed one of the quieter students.

  “What about yourself, Chris?” asked one of the girls who may or may not fancy him. A few more stopped examining their cameras to listen in. Most knew he was something of an experienced photographer having impressed in those early group activities (designed by Mark to stop cliques forming). “I’ll have to give it some thought, but yeah, it’s a good assignment.” In truth the idea of making the trip to that fairground was reeling him in by the second. He’d never photographed one plus it would likely stand out from everyone else’s work, ideal to show off. Two minutes later the conversation dissolved into banter and he got moving.

  His student digs, a high-rise complex, offered three to four room apartments. He lived in a three room one, bunked with a Jack the Lad type whose large friend circle made every night a heavy one and a sitcom-loving anorak who was courteous enough to smoke cannabis outside his window so the place didn’t reek of it. The last two had enough in common to chill together. Chris had chosen to keep them on more of an acquaintance basis. A couple of times they had twisted his arm enough to have a few beers though not enough to show a different side to him.

  Once inside he checked out the kitchen where the resident party animal was still hungover, making himself something - he didn’t know, only that its base ingredient was going to be pasta which he grimaced at. After a hello of sorts Chris went into his room, quite tidy compared to the status quo with the walls covered in photographs. The two largest, blown up and laminated, were his own. You could say that was kind of egotistical but Chris thought it better to big yourself up than downplay your efforts. Opening up his camera case he turned it on, checked its settings and took a few shots from high up. He then plugged it into his computer, observed how they turned out and tweaked the camera settings once more.

  As he went into the kitchen to make his evening meal he saw the party animal (Tom) put the finishing touches to his meal which meant grating cheese on top of hot pasta.

  “You alright mate?” said Tom.

  “Not too bad,” replied Chris while going through his cupboard. He noticed how he was still weighed down by his condition and decided to ask the daily question, the one that led to indulged recitals.

  “So how was last night?”

  The spaghetti he was consuming was bit in half so he could begin right away. “Ah mate, it was a bit of a mad one. It took forever for us to just get out of the taxi. None of us had any change so the taxi driver starts giving us shit. Luckily Johnny sorted us out and we started queuing for Dead Penguin.” It was a cheap dance club. “Beedy was already wasted from the pre-drinking games and went off to puke somewhere. We
got in ten minutes later and almost got chucked out straight away for moshing.” Tom laughed to himself and had another mouthful of his awful dinner. “Arr no, but you should have seen the girl Beedy got with.” He looked away ashen-faced, shaking his head. “Until last night I didn’t believe in sasquatches.” Chris laughed and remembered that Tom could sometimes be funny. A few standard questions came his way before they both went into the lounge to watch a popular comedy show. Tom was falling asleep near the end of it which said to Chris that he could do with an early night, to get up fresh tomorrow. Before turning in there was a quick internet check to establish what buses were needed to complete the 15 mile journey. He could now see it was a good walk from the edge of the beach to the fairground itself.

  2

  Twenty minutes on bus 45 followed by half an hour on the 57 placed Chris in Beasley. His camera was already around his neck and he began to take a few warm-up pictures of a trashy looking town, trashy in a good way, a place overstuffed with arcades machines, takeaways and bingo houses, the kind of location synonymous with old women cackling in fancy dress and gaudy imagery slapped on every kid-baiting store. For a moment Chris was occupied counting how many fish n’ chip shops there were before swerving left where more of the coast opened up. Between hoping it wasn’t too far he checked the camera’s battery and intermittently stopped to take a picture which he would then delete. Halfway around this gradual turn he could see the fairground come into view like some old looking palace suspended above water.

  This morning was a rainy one. Cars hissed on the road before whooshing past; a noise that softened the further Chris went along the bridge. This wooden path rose to about twelve feet. Beach goers could walk underneath the supports. Chris stopped after fifty yards and glanced either way, taking in the not-so inspiring view of grey skies and pale sand. The fairground still looked a way off, hazy in this rainfall. A large tent-like structure was the most prominent feature. Fortunately it wasn’t cold and when Chris got within 100 metres of his destination the rain stopped completely. He slowed down and felt hesitant as seagulls squawked overhead. Sure, people must walk along this path but the fairground looked more inaccessible than he had imagined. It wouldn’t have surprised him had someone appeared to inform this area was off-limits. He kept moving though until he got close enough to read the entrance banner.

  “Mr Tindall’s Magical Pier,” Chris said to himself with a smile. Beyond that lay a number of arches, empty ticket booths and rusted turnstiles. Then came an area which gave you a choice, to go straight inside the main roofed area or either side for game stands. Chris spotted a carousel and dodgems amongst the floor of attractions, admiring how decorative they were. Everything looked many generations ago. Actually the cartoons and imagery reminded him of the 1950’s, the brylcreem hairdos, polka dot dresses, crazed smiling and the odd Stetson-wearing geezer advertising cigarettes. Chris was so charmed by the exterior it took a few seconds to cotton onto the fact he was looking at this through a mesh fence which prevented entry, at which point he cussed. Well that was F-ing annoying. Deflated he turned around and stepped in the other direction. He stopped to let out a big sigh and started again, then stopped. No. He had come this far. He was going to try and get in. Going back to the fence he looked at its four corners with a tensed brow. He went to the bottom right one for examination to find it was wedged into a rubber block, not bolted or welded. He moved the camera so it hung down his back, grabbed the fence and let out a little laugh before giving it everything he had. The corner of the fence lifted but not enough to be released at which point he pushed his foot into the fence and resumed as best he could. Yes! Almost! Out it came to nearly swat Chris in the face. A few moments were needed to catch his breath. The camera automatically went into his hands and he lifted up the loose part of the fence to push through one of the turnstiles.

  With small steps he entered this marooned venue. It felt like the owner would soon yell at him to get out which made it all the more enticing. Taking a left he strolled by those game stands designed to infuriate. One of them included three narrow stands, presumably where coconuts used to be knocked off. Next to it a Cowboys & Indians themed game that used a pellet gun, still there. Chris briefly aimed it at the faded illustrations. Many of the games involved trying to rebound balls into hoops. A Ferris wheel was around the next corner, right on the edge of this pier. It had definitely seen better days and creaked under the wind. The best area was under the centre roof where most of the rides congregated, where it was darker and begged to be lit up again. He ambled between staples of any self-respecting fairground, the carousel, dodgems and waltz, looked at the ripped upholstery on the latter and mused over how long ago it must be when they were considered state-of-the-art. Opposite the Ferris wheel and similarly exposed to the wind was a mouse roller coaster, the ones that attempt to throw you out at each turn. At the back of the fairground were money-eating machines including those with that limp claw mechanism. Once he had got the lay of the place there was no more anxiety, just a strange sensation of walking around the past, like a giant jigsaw piece which had been cut out, preserved then punched back into the modern world. All this time he had been too engrossed to remember he was here to take pictures.

  “What was it again? Six pictures of each?” Chris muffled to himself as he made sure the camera was on the right settings. During the next two hours he took 243 photos which would later be whittled down to the magic six. There was still enough space on the SD card for another 200 hundred photos, and Chris would have been happy to wait until night closed in, but the fact was he did not have his stand with him which was essential to keep the camera steady as it took in light. He agreed it was time to head home. There was a final look back from the turnstiles, and a curious smile.

  3

  When Chris had made it back to his digs he was just about finished with a kebab and scrunched up the greasy paper. A moment was needed. That sure was a lot of walking. It would be good to sit down. Coming into the living room pictured Rob (the stoner) with a cuppa soup as his favourite show blurring away. He looked over in that meek way of his and gave a nod.

  “How you doin’ mate?”

  “I’m good,” replied Chris as he took a seat. Rob nodded to that same slow rhythm before pushing out another question.

  “Been up to much today?”

  “Just been taking pictures for our latest assignment.” He may not have been interested in the specifics but Chris was happy to talk about his favourite subject. “Been to a fairground, an old closed one. Got loads of atmosphere. I’ve taken my day time pictures but I’ve got to take some night time ones as well.”

  “Did you like try to get on one of the rides and make it work again?” joked Rob.

  “Ha, no, but I wouldn’t want to do that to myself because you’d probably get told off if you were found in there.”

  “Where is it?”

  “On a pier in Beasley.”

  “Sounds kinda dangerous.”

  “It could be, if you did something stupid.”

  Rob nodded and Chris let out a reflective “Yep…what about yourself?” It was an ads break now so he had more of Rob’s attention. “Not much mate, just tryin’ to sort my room out a bit. It’s always a mess.” He straightened up as he prepared to say something with more substance. “I was thinking, I probably need to get fitter. If I start doing something like a run a week, but I just never seem to get round to it.”

  “You need to just mark out a day and do it. Have a good breakfast, grab some shorts and go. You don’t have to go fast, that’s the point, you build it up, and then you start feeling a lot better. I run about twice a week and feel great.” All throughout Chris’s reply Rob kept repeating “yeah” in the same tone. It felt like that “yeah” was deflecting all of his advice, stopping it from being considered. Annoying. Then again, Rob probably felt the same whenever he would make some bizarre observation to which Chris could not hide the fact he was totally lost. When the show came back on Rob was en
grossed. Chris said goodnight.

  After opening his door he shook his computer out of sleep mode and plugged in the camera. 243 photos filled up a new folder. Three hours passed carefully deleting the excess 237. Some water was needed after that but Chris was happy, no retaking necessary. It actually left him a bit stumped for what to do before sleeping and without any films on his mind he began browsing the internet. After checking the essentials he re-examined his perfect six. They triggered something. He opened a new tab and typed in Mr Tindall’s Magical Pier which led to a website on the history of Beasley, very basic HTML. There was an in-depth article on the fairground.

  “Opened in 1956, Mr Tindall’s Magical Pier went from a local oddity to one of the country’s best loved attractions in the space of two years. Families in their droves made their way across the long bridge for a thrilling day out while the beach offered the perfect timeout for dizzy heads. But more than a place of recreation Mr Tindall’s Magical Pier became a symbol of Beasley, something that helped introduce the town whether you visited or received a postcard.” A few old shots with captions displayed the first rides being installed. Then came a lengthy chunk on the mastermind behind it all, Charlie Tindall; a renowned gambler with a history in toy making. His long term goal had always been to build a fairground which he got the chance to after winning big in a Texas hold ‘em tournament. The article then quoted a report done at the height of the fairground’s popularity.

  “He is of middle age but dresses a few generations ago. Looks turn into stares as a distinct gait advertises his person. The countenance is on the verge of smiling, a sign of one who knows how to enjoy the moment while keeping an eye on space for improvement. Strolling in between excited children he picks the right spots to approach and ask them what they think the best or worst ride is. Sometimes he finishes by telling them he’s the owner, gives them a wink and carries on, often looking back to see them bickering about whether that could be true. One-on-one he is the perfect gentleman though it is readily apparent, in his punchy replies, that he is a seasoned businessman who has bared his teeth to ensure his dreams become a reality. When our time is up he checks everything is right with his office and goes back out to pick customers’ brains. Some locals consider Charlie himself an attraction. He virtually lives in the fairground.”