Read Online The Spectral Book of Horror Stories by Mark Morris (Editor) - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mark Morris (Editor)
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heard him say the words ‘slape as fuck’ every time I stood at the first of those stones.
As I got to know the round, and memorised which customers had which milk on which days, and how much, and I learned where to park the van to minimise walking time, and I familiarised myself with a frankly bewildering variety of garden gate latches, I became quicker, which meant that I arrived at any given customer’s property earlier. As summer became autumn and the days grew shorter, more and more of my round was completed in darkness. Eventually, of course, this meant tackling the slippery path before dawn. That in itself didn’t bother me. But the first time the words ‘slape as fuck’ came to me from out of the impenetrable blackness of that wild and overgrown garden, I nearly had a seizure. For the first time, they felt real and audible; not like the memory that they were. If I wasn’t sensible enough to carry the milk bottles in a crate, I probably would have dropped them all. I think that because it was so dark—because I couldn’t see that he wasn’t there—I felt as if Eel was actually present. I wondered, for the first time, if he’d died immediately upon leaving the company and his ghost was lurking around trying to scare his old co-workers.
On that occasion I delivered the milk without further incident.
I should tell you a little more about this customer. His name was Bacon. He was a widower. All those spring and summer months, I never saw him. His house had once been the parish workhouse, and it still looked like a workhouse. It was large and grey and forbidding. It was set back from the road and had a wall around it. Both inside and outside of the wall was a deep sea of brambles. Driving down the long lane towards it, you’d see the wrecks of old cars submerged in that sea. Eel told me, before he left, that every car Bacon had ever owned was in there somewhere. Whenever he bought a new car, he just parked the old one up and left it. There were at least three old Jaguars and an MG being pulled apart by those plants. And close up to the house, it was evident that he didn’t care about the building much more than he did about his old cars. It was tired-looking and it smelled bad. It was overrun by cats, and in the back porch—where I left the milk—there were several bowls of meaty cat food too rotten and writhing for even animals to eat.
Sometimes, I’d find a fire burning in the lane, or even just amongst the brambles. Piles of cardboard boxes, old newspapers and magazines and even books, all just left out burning in the sun, unattended. It was as if Bacon wanted the house to get burned down. Once, a fire was burning on the slippery path itself. I had to hold my breath and jump over it, holding a crate of full milk bottles. Well, obviously, I didn’t. I could’ve left Bacon’s milk at the end of the path. But I didn’t want to risk pissing him off, because he might complain, and that would mean I’d piss the boss off. And that was a far scarier prospect than setting fire to my jeans. The boss was in a terrible mood, generally, because severed-tendon man was taking a long time to finish his round these days, and we were paid by the hour. I was pretty sure that severed-tendon man would be getting the sack soon, and replaced by somebody faster. But anyway; sometimes it seemed like Bacon didn’t even want his fucking milk delivered, it was so difficult to get to the actual porch.
All of which is to say that by the time I was delivering in darkness, the place was already creeping me out.
On the third dark morning, the moon and stars were intermittently obscured by clouds, and I could see very little. I ignored the ‘slape as fuck’, telling myself that however much it sounded real, it was obviously only a memory, a thought, something interior to me, and nothing to be afraid of. And I took the path slowly.
I crouched down to place the full milk bottles in the gloomy, stinking workhouse porch and
As I got to know the round, and memorised which customers had which milk on which days, and how much, and I learned where to park the van to minimise walking time, and I familiarised myself with a frankly bewildering variety of garden gate latches, I became quicker, which meant that I arrived at any given customer’s property earlier. As summer became autumn and the days grew shorter, more and more of my round was completed in darkness. Eventually, of course, this meant tackling the slippery path before dawn. That in itself didn’t bother me. But the first time the words ‘slape as fuck’ came to me from out of the impenetrable blackness of that wild and overgrown garden, I nearly had a seizure. For the first time, they felt real and audible; not like the memory that they were. If I wasn’t sensible enough to carry the milk bottles in a crate, I probably would have dropped them all. I think that because it was so dark—because I couldn’t see that he wasn’t there—I felt as if Eel was actually present. I wondered, for the first time, if he’d died immediately upon leaving the company and his ghost was lurking around trying to scare his old co-workers.
On that occasion I delivered the milk without further incident.
I should tell you a little more about this customer. His name was Bacon. He was a widower. All those spring and summer months, I never saw him. His house had once been the parish workhouse, and it still looked like a workhouse. It was large and grey and forbidding. It was set back from the road and had a wall around it. Both inside and outside of the wall was a deep sea of brambles. Driving down the long lane towards it, you’d see the wrecks of old cars submerged in that sea. Eel told me, before he left, that every car Bacon had ever owned was in there somewhere. Whenever he bought a new car, he just parked the old one up and left it. There were at least three old Jaguars and an MG being pulled apart by those plants. And close up to the house, it was evident that he didn’t care about the building much more than he did about his old cars. It was tired-looking and it smelled bad. It was overrun by cats, and in the back porch—where I left the milk—there were several bowls of meaty cat food too rotten and writhing for even animals to eat.
Sometimes, I’d find a fire burning in the lane, or even just amongst the brambles. Piles of cardboard boxes, old newspapers and magazines and even books, all just left out burning in the sun, unattended. It was as if Bacon wanted the house to get burned down. Once, a fire was burning on the slippery path itself. I had to hold my breath and jump over it, holding a crate of full milk bottles. Well, obviously, I didn’t. I could’ve left Bacon’s milk at the end of the path. But I didn’t want to risk pissing him off, because he might complain, and that would mean I’d piss the boss off. And that was a far scarier prospect than setting fire to my jeans. The boss was in a terrible mood, generally, because severed-tendon man was taking a long time to finish his round these days, and we were paid by the hour. I was pretty sure that severed-tendon man would be getting the sack soon, and replaced by somebody faster. But anyway; sometimes it seemed like Bacon didn’t even want his fucking milk delivered, it was so difficult to get to the actual porch.
All of which is to say that by the time I was delivering in darkness, the place was already creeping me out.
On the third dark morning, the moon and stars were intermittently obscured by clouds, and I could see very little. I ignored the ‘slape as fuck’, telling myself that however much it sounded real, it was obviously only a memory, a thought, something interior to me, and nothing to be afraid of. And I took the path slowly.
I crouched down to place the full milk bottles in the gloomy, stinking workhouse porch and
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