Uncle John's Bedtime Tales.

Uncle John's Bedtime Tales.

By

John Vault.

SMASHWORDS EDITION.

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PUBLISHED BY:

HiRisk Publications on Smashwords.

Uncle John's Bedtime Tales.

Copyright © 2011 by John Vault.

ISBN: 978-0-473-18131-4

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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 author's work.

Discover other titles by John Vault at Smashwords.com

HiRisc Publications has rated this work suitable for readers of 16 years or older.

It may contain frequent use of strong language, horror themes, violence or descriptions of a sexual nature. Reader discretion is advised.

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This work is dedicated to Gail, the love of my life.

Cover by Eleanor.

***

Introduction.

If you're looking for vampires, werewolves and all things nocturnal, turn back now because there are none in these pages.

Modern horror and dark fiction fans have stepped up their expectations. The horror icons that scared the wits out of our grand parents in silvery monochrome all those years ago are now the subjects of modern television romance, having been pimped with beautiful faces and chiselled, Greek god physiques. The visions of blood and gore that once solicited ear splitting screams are no more now than the filler between sex scenes, and having had our senses drenched in these we are immune to them. So let us cast them aside and ask the question:

What really scares us?

I don't know what scares you, but I know what scares me, which is why the tales in this book are loosely based around a common theme...

Madness.

Why madness? Because it's real. Because even you dear reader, have the potential to slip between the friendly fingers of sanity and plummet into the darkly splendid world of lunacy and obsession. For many of you it's already waiting, just a little way out of sight, in the shadowy spaces between your everyday thoughts. You wouldn't even see it coming.

So, if you'd like to dip a toe into the icy cold and dreadfully dark waters of insanity to see if you come back unchanged, these bedtime tales are for you.

In this book there are strange people in terrifying circumstances. There are buckets of blood, graveyards, old houses and horrific dreams. There are twisted tales of obsession where no-one is who or what they seem. What I can't promise you however, is a particularly good night's sleep...

Enjoy.

John V.

***

Chapter I

Tiw's Cup.

The mist was lifting, leaving only the bitter cold behind. It bit into his face with icicle teeth as he drew a deep breath and turned his stiffened neck to look around him. He couldn’t remember anything, not even his name.

Ethan, his own voice eventually told him. His name was Ethan.

Ethan sat, his back propped up against the mouldering dampness of the wall. The half light revealed something of his surroundings. An old room; empty and smelling of rot. Wires hung out of the walls like burst veins. Floorboards, dry like old bones. The windows dusty and pock marked with brick holes placed by the young engaged in dismantling the old.

And all this blood.

The survival instinct is a singular entity. Ethan didn’t care where the blood had come from, only that it wasn’t his. He felt no pain and was therefore gently reassured.

The mist lifted further. Ethan sat for a short eternity between thoughts. His body, rigid and heavy, felt no inclination to move. This pale mist, an odd composition of thickness and light felt almost tangible to him. In normal circumstances thick fog allows you to see that which is close up but obscures the distance. This mist, which filled the room, seemed to work the opposite way around. But it was lifting, Ethan felt sure. It was only a matter of time.

His cold mind though still somewhat solid and lethargic forced his eyes to rest on his bare feet. At least he assumed that they were his. These were dirty and misshapen, bulbous and swollen, but they seemed to be in the right place so they must be his. Damn this fucking fog! Where the hell was he?

This question was not uncommon in Ethan's life. Anyone else would have had grave cause for concern if they had been in a situation that prompted this question more than a few times in their entire span. But in Ethan's life this question came up a lot! Ethan was an adventurer, a spiritual warrior, a Byronic hero. Waking up in strange places with no memory of the previous night was what he did. From an early age he’d been considered intellectually gifted. He could speak intelligibly at six months old and read pretty much anything by the age of four. His parents positively celebrated him but they were inevitably missing something. He was beyond them in virtually every aspect by the time he was nine. That’s not to say that Ethan was arrogant or dismissive, far from it. He loved his parents deeply but his inner nature drew him into fundamental conflict with their orderly lifestyle.

He wasn’t going to university. There would be no PhD. No scientific breakthrough or miracle surgery. No concert pianist or prime minister.

Ethan had decided to live instead.

They had accepted his decision in grave silence, and their unvoiced disappointment had torn him down more effectively than all the anger, tears and emotional blackmail that they could have used had they loved him less than they did.

There was so much in the world to be appreciated and Ethan was spiritually inspired to appreciate it. He’d left home at eighteen with a rucksack and two hundred pounds. He’d picked a road at random and stuck out his thumb.

There had been women on his travels. He was known by name in almost every brothel in Europe it seemed. He’d shagged his way around the world, eaten every conceivable delicacy, stood atop mountains and drunk the oceans dry.

And then of course there were the drugs. Opium in China, hashish in Morocco, peyote in Mexico, LSD in San Francisco. You name it; Ethan had snorted, swallowed, smoked, popped, sniffed, chased or mainlined it. He had screamed into the face of God after drinking virola juice in Columbia and awakened ten days later emaciated and caked with shit, strapped to a stinking, bug ridden mattress in a far away hovel. He’d almost died of dysentery.

What a fucking rush.

But what if anything, had he learned? Ethan was quick but he still never quite figured it out. The big lesson, that hedonism dulls the senses. You can only take so many stimuli before the brain begins to close down and ignore them. So to get the same buzz you have to go further, take more, and do more.

So he did.

Spiritual greed is greed nonetheless. His body had suffered. At twenty seven he looked like a man of fifty. Only his eyes betrayed his true age. They burned in their darkened sockets like emerald flares. He would not live a long life. But it would be a life to make the Gods envious.

At the peak of his own self destruction he’d been sitting, or rather slumping in a bar in Reykjavik, listening to a silver bearded academic piss head rattling on about how the Viking invasions of Western Europe were still affecting world politics. His Absinthe glass was empty, this made him sad.

‘If we still had it’, the piss head slurred, ‘we could rule the world.’

Ethan picked his forehead up from the table.

‘Had what?’

‘Tiw's cup.’ Piss head belched. ‘Tiw's fokking cup!’

‘What?’

‘The Berserkers.’ Piss head's eyes rolled in their sockets. ‘The Viking warriors, feared by everyone. They drink from Tiw's cup and go completely fokking insane. They run into battle naked and kill everything that moves. The recipe was lost. If we still had it….’ His voice trailed off, his drunken stupor victorious.

Sometimes the smallest of things are significant. The discarded cigarette that begets the forest fire. The irritating glint in the foaming rapids that entices the salmon to the hook.

Ethan was caught. His bored spirit had found new hope in the small promise of a stone yet unturned. It stirred once again engaging the help of his rusty but still remarkable intellect. He spent the next few months in libraries, museums and internet cafes looking for references to the magical brew known as Tiw’s cup. He found manuscripts, extracts and historical notes that pushed him into lateral avenues of folk lore, botany and neurochemistry. There were new languages and dialects to absorb, places to go, people to see. Ethan's life turned around.

It took four years, but in the end a small sheet of paper held the sum of his relentless enquiries. He had it, ‘Tiw's Cup’, the recipe for divine madness. The ingredients were surprisingly easy to obtain. Common sense dictated that they had to be freely available throughout Western Europe. Psilocybe mushrooms formed the basic juice, Lobelia, Wormwood and Lopium followed although the quantities varied with each account, throw in a little Hemlock and garnish with a pinch of ergot of rye. There seemed to be no real complexity involved. The reason for this was simple. It didn’t work. He’d locked himself away in a hostel room and thrown the key out of the window because he didn’t want to risk hurting anyone. Having cooked it all up he downed it in one gulp, wincing at its bitterness. He’d buzzed for the next six hours, had a few strange visions, laughed until his ribs ached, vomited liberally and then fallen asleep. All in all it was nothing that he hadn’t done many times before.

There had to be some missing ingredient or at least an aspect of the preparation that formed a catalytic effect. For weeks he returned to his precious photocopies. Manuscripts, legends and the odd learned dictation formed the core of his research. After hundreds of ever decreasing mental circles there was one in the end that threw him a lifeline.

A photocopy of a single historical reference which at first glance had seemed too superficial to be of any importance, but being the man that he was he had copied it anyway. The key it seemed was in the phrasing. It said simply ‘the drink was made for each warrior…’ at least that’s the way he’d interpreted it. Ethan wasn’t that hot on the use of redundant Scandinavian possessive terms. This implied that the brew was customised to suit the individual. But how the hell was that supposed to happen? He threw the papers down and sat in silence. Ethan's intellect, powerful as it was, seemed lost. As his thoughts ground slowly to a halt a small light went on somewhere inside him and in the silence his heart screamed the answer.

Blood.

When he’d drunk the virola juice the shaman who made it told him to breathe into the mixture otherwise it wouldn’t work because the spirits of the tree wouldn’t recognise him. Ethan had laughed, but blown into the pot anyway. He knew nothing of spirits, he just wanted the buzz.

He’d read various accounts of druids and witches using blood to bind potions to specific people. It was common practice in medieval medicine and in some areas of the world it still is. There was a downside of course, the risk of severe allergic reaction. Everything’s fine the first time you take it, but take it again and you’re dead. The problem is that you don’t know whether you’ve reacted or not until it’s too late.

He knew he was right this time. He felt it with the firm certainty that always accompanied the solution to a difficult problem. He would make the potion again but this time he would add his own blood.

Over the next few days Ethan had found a more suitable venue for his grand experiment. He’d been out in a small patch of woodland hunting amongst the roots of the old birch for Psilocybe mushrooms. The September weather had put a thick layer of mud and leaves on his already distressed training shoes and the clothing that he habitually wore, jeans and a loose fitting sweater, were proving of little help against the cold damp air. As it started to rain he’d looked up from his quest to find shelter. He’d noticed the old house then, set back amongst the thickest part of the wood. It had been well and truly abandoned though Ethan could barely imagine why such a formerly grandiose place had been left to decay. Perhaps the owner had more money than sense.

On closer inspection the house proved to be empty as Ethan had suspected although still quite secure it seemed. This would be a good place. Quiet and secluded, away from everyone and any possibility of disturbance. And if he became sick well he’d just have to deal with it. A bottle of brine was guaranteed to empty his stomach within minutes if needed. He’d bring some with him.

He’d returned to the house two days later. It was twilight and the air was cold. He’d already prepared the brew minus the blood. He’d brought a razor blade for that job. Ethan wasn’t fond of pain but sometimes you have to make sacrifices. Unfortunately he’d found the house to be more secure than he’d initially estimated but there was an outhouse around the side that may have something in it that he could use to pry open a window. As luck would have it he found an old toolbox which held various bits and pieces that were perfect for a spot of breaking and entry.

Having levered open a small window he climbed inside. The smell of mildew greeted him as he sneaked into the hallway looking for the stairs. This house could be safely categorised as spooky or possibly borderline creepy. His mind flicked back to his childhood, watching TV with his parents. Tales of mystery and imagination. ‘Not for people of a nervous disposition’ the announcer had said every week before the program began. Talk about the power of suggestion. That single phrase had scared him far more profoundly than the incredulous rubbish that had followed for the next hour. Ethan chuckled to himself as he mounted the dark staircase. Adrenalin was already focussing his attention on the slightest of movements.

He checked out the bathroom. No water, just grime on the mildewed shower curtain and puss coloured lime scale where the bath tap had once dripped. There were dead flies on the windowsill and hanging by the legs from the rotting lace curtain. The toilet bowl was dry and coated with dirt but at least he’d have somewhere to shit and puke should the need arise.

The bedrooms were next. Each one was much the same as the others with its high ceilings ornate with intricate plaster covings and pale squares on the walls where pictures had once hung. He chose the one nearest the bathroom; it was as good as any. The window overlooked a small roof that would serve as an escape route if needed. He tried to open it but found his strength insufficient for the task. He went back downstairs for the toolbox and having loosened the reluctant sash frame he put the tools away in the corner.

He fished two tee light candles from the pocket of his jeans and placed them on the floor. He lit each one carefully with a dark blue disposable lighter that he’d carried around for months. He had to tilt the lighter right over to get to the short wick and he cursed aloud as he burned a finger on the tiny yellow flame. The house seemed to shudder at his voice as if sound itself had become a thing long forgotten.

As each of the tee lights warmed through their flames grew slightly brighter and the room became alive with dancing shadows and although they couldn’t possibly have had any significant effect on the temperature of the room Ethan would have sworn that he felt warmer and more comfortable.

He sighed heavily and the flames flickered and the shadows danced. He reached into his other pocket and retrieved a small jar. He was glad to take it out because it had been digging into his hip as he moved. He’d no idea of the dosage required or how much blood he’d have to put in. Perhaps only a few drops would suffice, perhaps not. He unscrewed the lid of the jar and placed both jar and lid carefully on the floor between the candles. He reached into his back pocket to claim the razor blade which he’d wrapped