Dare to Read: 13 Tales of Terror Read online

  Chris had some more water then scrolled down to see why it closed. Because Mr Tindall didn’t have any close friends or a partner many rumours circulated about bout his change of character and scruffy appearance. The most popular were the ones which made the most sense – drinking and gambling. The fairgrounds sudden close in 1959 is generally attributed to a ludicrous bet Charlie made to try and get another project off the ground. Others believe high winds may have been the culprit and noticed the Ferris wheel creaking. No more than a year later came plans to free up the pier but enough signatures went on a petition to stop it because they considered it a classic part of Beasley’s landscape. Chris read a few more less informative articles until his eyelids grew heavy. Back into bed, he dozed off and starting walking along the pier.

  4

  Reluctantly Chris made it in time for Ms McCullough’s lecture who always reminded her students that attendance made up 10% of your mark, something he interpreted as blackmail just so everyone had to suffer her clunky teaching which included habits like asking for an answer only so she could butt in with the right one as you were answering. Looking at the clock didn’t help matters so he zoned out and observed his classmates, each in various stages of unrest. Something finally registered - “Right, that’s it for today.”

  Walking beside his classmates down the main path, Chris was informed that a few of them were headed to the student bar later, if he cared to join. It was actually Claire who had asked him which gave him a little boost, confirmation that she liked him. It was tempting but he was on a mission today and it’s not like she wouldn’t be at the next lecture. “I’ve got some stuff to do today,” smiled Chris after clearly giving it some thought, “but maybe next time.” That ‘stuff’ involved getting two buses.

  When he arrived back in Beasley it was with the camera and the stand making him more conspicuous. The agreeably trashy promenade was nice to walk down, a little warmer, drier. The outermost section of the pavement was sand encrusted thanks to the wind. Faint brush strokes detailed an otherwise cloudless sky. Chris purchased a chip butty and sat down with it to soak up the late afternoon sun. Once more on his feet he went through the same procedure of walking fifty metres or so, stopping to take a picture then deleting it. An old man and his dog were approaching. He had an uneven stride and what looked like a Staffordshire bull terrier. Chris hoped there would be no interrogation. He looked through his camera but felt the old man’s gaze.

  “You’ll want to hold onto that tightly around here.”

  Chris met his eyes with a half-smile, somewhat relieved he wasn’t asked to justify his picture taking. The excited dog got closer for a sniff then made its formal acquaintance by supporting itself on Chris’s leg. “Git down, Percy!” Chris didn’t mind and patted Percy on the head. The old man rubbed its head in a more vigorous manner as it came back to him. Getting back to the point with a concerned face and pointed finger, “If one of our hoodlums sees that come night time they’ll try and nab it.”

  “Thanks for the heads up. I’ll make sure to tread carefully, or run if need be,” laughed Chris.

  “So what you taking pictures of?” The dreaded question came off as friendly which meant this old geezer might actually be interested, or, more likely, just making conversation.

  “Umm, mostly the beach, and a few of that old fairground.” Chris loosely nodded in the direction, like he didn’t quite know, like a man who had not broken in there!

  “Mr Tindall’s Pier, eh?”

  Chris fixed his wandering gaze. “Yeah,” he said slowly, “that’s right.” All of a sudden he found himself reading the old man’s craggy expression. There was a little grin.

  “Spoke to him when I was a boy!”

  “Err, Charlie Tindall?”

  “Ah! So you’ve heard about him then?”

  “Well,” said Chris, not wanting to sound too clued up, “only a little bit I’ve read.”

  The old man nodded then held a smile, pleased he had found someone with whom he could share this classic encounter. “We all thought he was a magician; that all the rides had come on a boat from another world.” He cleared his throat with a smokers’ cough. “Anyway, so I was with five of my buddies, huddled around some game machines. We were all trying to pick up an action figure which never happened. When we refused to put more money in we noticed Mr Tindall looking over us, hands linked behind his back. He told us very plainly that we’d have more fun on the game stands. We just looked at him in silence, in awe of the way he dressed and held himself, a real tall guy. Then he asked what our favourite ride was. Most of us yelled out Crazy Mouse. He asked why. Now that I think about it he was obviously trying to figure out what should be his next ride. He was about to leave when we asked if he was the owner which is when he leaned in, said he worked for the owner and gave us a wink. Just a basic story but if you knew his reputation you would cherish it too.”

  Chris needed a moment to do a quick sum. “Wow, so, this happened about the best part of seventy years ago?

  “Geez, it really does sound long ago when you say it like that!” He glanced down at Percy who was content watching cars. The old man looked back at Chris again and smiled. “Yeah, about that long.”

  “Then the park closed in-”

  “59.”

  “And Mr Tindall’s fortune went under?”

  “Uh-huh, well, that’s the famous story. I think...,” he had to cough again, “Excuse me. I think it could have been something else. I know he gambled but I don’t think he went bust. Now I only spoke to him once but that wasn’t the only time I saw him.” Chris, now fully absorbed, titled his head up urging the old man to continue. “It must have been ’58. We went on the Ferris wheel before leaving. You know how they briefly stop?” Chris nodded. “Well it stopped about half way and I pointed out to one of my mates. I could see Mr Tindall. He had just stepped out of his little office, unmistakably him but very different, real scruffy. I saw him take some kind of medication before mingling about but there was no longer that smooth walk. He crept about, looked paranoid. I think I saw fear.” The old man indifferently shook his head and got a better grip of Percy’s leash. “Bizarre. I reckon some personal tragedy led to a nervous breakdown.”

  “So what happened to him?”

  “Some think he left to go into a different business. I reckon he died from his condition. He probably got someone to spread that gambling story. Like I said he was a bit of a loner so there’s no surviving relative with the nitty gritty.”

  “A weird story,” surmised Chris.

  “It sure is. I’ll have to be off now mate. Percy’s getting hungry.” He rubbed the dogs’ jowls, “Aren’t ya boy!?”

  “Take it easy.”

  “Keep hold of that camera, it looks expensive!”

  This talk had turned out to be a welcome interlude eating away at daylight. By the time Chris had made his way along the bridge it was darker still. The fence designed to keep people out was as he had left it, undone. This time he took a right to reverse the route he had originally taken. With the sun in its spring cycle it didn’t get so dark there was a cloak on everything but that rich detail was blurry. Once inside the giant tent-like structure only the lowest regions were visible before ascending into great blackness. For a moment Chris laughed at the prospect of everything suddenly turning on, for a brief a moment, until it jolted him, when that heightened sensibility which accompanies one in derelict places became just a little too active. Once he had steadied himself he got closer to the attractions, sticking his head inside the candy floss and fortune teller stores where nothing remained of much interest save for very low prices.

  It was next to the Crazy Mouse ride where Chris halted to connect camera to stand. Usually it was a pain carrying it around but the photos it promised eased that burden. For some contrast Chris thought he would snap the old, rusted machines, the ones where that old guy had spoken to Mr Tindall. Adjusting his zoom lens to get the right composition he spied another section in between
the last of the tent rides and this row of money eaters. A little green hut like you may see on a building site popped up. Furtively placed, Chris knew in his gut what it was and managed to find the narrow route which led to it. The door was ajar.

  There was something about the positioning of the objects in this hut that fell in line with what he knew about its owner and his peculiar taste. An antiquated desk took up the most space, atop of which rested an oil lamp, letter holder and an ink bottle holding a quill which gave this space an eerie vibe of occupancy. Keeping firmly hold of his equipment, Chris moved around the desk to further admire a chair with good arm rests. Directly opposite and hanging on the wall was a map of the fairground and some news report about a missing ship. A few moments longer and Chris noticed a drawer underneath the table; in it a small black book, a dairy. He didn’t feel right sitting down so instead browsed standing up. It was filled, not with appointments but the opinions of children, almost as if Mr Tindall believed to capture magic he needed to let their honesty guide him. “Mustard hotdogs are the best.” “They should build a ride like the Big Dipper.” “Ticket prices are okay.” “Crazy Mouse hurts your ribs…it’s still the best ride though.”

  This went on for many pages so Chris flicked through until he saw a different arrangement. It was nearer the back of the dairy where he stopped to read what looked like a stab at poetry. The themes were a bit incoherent. Rhyming was obviously not important. Some of it was downright bizarre and began to take a darker turn where it focused on a theme which was repeated, over and over.

  “Pry and they’re up in smoke. A different one will show. Hell is home.”

  Chris frowned at this reappearing passage. It didn’t help the unease which had grown during this find (the murmur of the shore putting these sneaky activities in context). He opened the drawer to put it back and in doing so saw a letter it was covering. Positive he would stick to the fairground afterwards he opened it up to discover a medical prescription for schizophrenia. Chris was at once shocked and impressed with how close the old man’s guess had been. That was enough. He closed the door, weaved his way through the dusky fairground and marched across the long bridge. Once home there was no sight of Tom or Rob. It was rather late. Chris went into his room. While uploading his new photos he decided to look up the symptoms of Mr Tindall’s secret ailment - Difficulty with minor problems, excessive writing, hallucinations - It seemed to add up. The night went on as Chris unsuccessfully tried to whittle down 231 to the magic six. He’d have to go back.

  5

  The next day had a good feeling to it as he made his way across the long bridge. He now knew the layout of the fairground and anticipated his best round of shooting yet, one that would dazzle his classmates when the time came. There was one other thing. After his morning lecture he had asked one of the groups if they wanted to go drinking on submission day. The question was mainly directed at Claire figuring he should underline his interest after rejecting that invitation. They all agreed. “Yeah we should,” said Claire enthusiastically which drew looks from those who hadn’t noticed. A bit of fun after acing his assignment would cap the day off nicely. Rain brought him back to reality. This spring weather couldn’t make its mind up. Not to worry. It might even benefit the pictures. Chris ducked under the open fence and joked “One please!” as he went through the rusted turnstiles.

  Aside from his potential date he had also thought about what would make for better shots. One in particular included the Ferris wheel and part of the great roof separated by the sea. Inspiration was in surplus. Each snap felt like a bullseye. The rain-speckled floor definitely helped. During breaks Chris would lean over one of the sides of the pier and look back at Beasley promenade where pedestrians made their way along like ants through a luminous tunnel, always with the accompanying thought that, no matter how hard he tired, he’d never be able to get their attention. A glance down showed the sea getting livelier. A time check read 8:12 p.m. (ignoring Mark’s curfew again).

  Chris had not gotten used to the noise his camera made, the way it cut through the silence; that hushed atmosphere we may associate with someone being purposefully quiet. It didn’t take long to finish up. While browsing his work he heard water lapping the supports. Perhaps a storm was imminent so he put the camera back into its bag and headed to the entrance. Before reaching the game stands there was a low humming noise, the source of which wasn’t a concern, then a strange visual as the faint outlines of shadows appeared to ripple as does a length of rope when flicked. When it happened for a second time Chris abruptly stopped. Yes, he had just seen that. The desire to leave shot up ten-fold though he was convinced making a dash would just tantalize whatever supernatural activity was going on here. With feeble steps he turned another corner and froze to see what was at the other end, idling at a game stand. Dressed in that same conservative manner featured in nearby advertisements, Chris perceived a woman and child. Instantly he leapt back. Was this some elaborate prank? Evidently not as fully peeled eyes watched another group stroll out of the large tent, joking, nudging each other. When he built up the courage to unpin his back he saw that the fairground was full of similarly dressed persons, ones that didn’t pay attention to him though evidently close enough to. His grip on reality slipped further to confirm soundless footsteps and conversations.

  It took half an hour for Chris to contemplate something other than the impossibility of this, his attention being pulled in all directions. The more he watched however the more his nerves settled, for there were familiar gestures, smiles and laughter which shed this paranormal episode of its hostile vibe. Curiosity urged him to walk among them. Making sure not to get too close to his disconnected neighbours, excitement replaced fear. They moved about with the ease of tour guests. Why is it that the paranormal should be malicious? he thought, therein growing conscious of how firm a hold he had on that SLR. His stand duly met wooden boards. The lens was aimed at a three-piece family who were admiring the Ferris wheel. Zooming in revealed something else, a type of static on the outline of the figures, like a miniature version of the ripple he had seen before. It made the desire to take a picture so great action swiftly followed. The sound of the camera cut through the night. There was no second snap. Little glances came over shoulders. Private conversations followed, evidently about the one who had disrupted. Perhaps to try and communicate was for the best. Before anything could be done a great rippling occurred all over their bodies, a precursor to dissolving into mist. Chris looked for it to disappear but the vapour like substances began to whirl around, gently pooling together near the entrance. More humming, a slight crackling…then nothing. Chris was about to move when something else did, something with heavy feet. He tried to cancel out each advance with a step back but kept his eyes forward until it made the turn.

  Ragged clothes (that was the first thing you noticed) torn at the knee, at the shoulder, and this bent posture. Walking looked to be of difficulty yet there was conviction in its uneven march. In one desperate moment Chris bolted to the old machines. It followed of course, just like he knew it would, that nightmares were in fact training for when their subjects leak into reality. A quick look overboard - the choppy waters were deeper here and could prove fatal. A look back and there it was, just ten metres away where it halted. All he could see were tufts of mid-length hair. Sinewy neck muscles worked hard to lift a misshapen head.

  It was sickly pale with a drained complexion, but they were mere footnotes to the black holes where eyes usually sit, swollen around the perimeter and bottomless which made staring irresistible. Underneath were dark stains as if tar had leaked from its skull. The corners of the mouth were wrenched back, like a creature in pain, but how still is was, unnervingly still. Chris mirrored this grotesque statue with a pulse that might fail. He could no longer think, only look into those dark cavities. For a minute there was no movement. He wasn’t sure if he was being held in place. That swollen brow began to twitch. Suddenly his eyes felt itchy. Blackness ate away the rest of
the picture when a trap door must have opened as he was sent into freefall, eventually submerged. The black veil lifted and he saw his camera hit the bottom of a fusillade. Many others were swimming towards the lone door. Awfully difficult with clothes on he swam towards a handle, some pulling it the wrong way. Desperation reduced everyone’s chances. Thirty seconds later all that remained was for lungs to inhale water. When there was no more helping the situation Chris breathed in, not water but air. Back he was in the fairground, prostrate, franticly trying to regain breath. Instinctively he grabbed his clothes which were mostly dry. That thing was gone. Ten minutes were needed to check if this episode was finished.

  All throughout the bridge walk Chris couldn’t stop shaking; not that there was anything wrong with the temperature. His mind was stuck in a loophole of unwelcome sights and sensations. Constantly looking at his hands and feet, presumably to concentrate on what was real, what belonged to him, he failed to notice a group of sketchy youths on the promenade. When he got near they apparently saw him and that expensive looking kit around his person. He was too shook up to care. In any event there was no heckling. Perhaps what they saw was a different kind of fear, one that threatened to transmit its cause. It’s doubtful anyone would have wanted to get near Chris that evening.