Twisted Little Things and Other Stories Read online

  Copyright 2016 Amy Cross

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.

  Kindle edition

  Dark Season Books

  First published: August 2016

  This book's front cover incorporates elements licensed from the Bigstock photo site.

  A man accidentally receives two dangerous wooden figures in the mail...

  A woman is preparing breakfast for her children when she hears a dangerous voice in her head...

  Late one night, an old man meets a strange girl on a canal towpath...

  Twisted Little Things and Other Stories is a collection of short horror stories. These are tales of the hidden darkness that can lurk in the modern world, threatening to lash out and destroy lives. Some of the stories are about ghosts, others are about the way evil spreads from mind to mind, and some are about vast and powerful secrets that exist on the edges of human perception. In each of the stories, a life is about to be changed forever, with terrifying results.

  Twisted Little Things and Other Stories contains the new stories Twisted Little Things, The Third Voice, The Ghost of Terry Willow, Victoria and The Towpath, as well as Table 9 and a revised version of The Ferry. This book contains scenes of violence, as well as strong language.

  Table of Contents

  Twisted Little Things

  Previously unpublished

  Table 9

  Originally published as a short story

  The Third Voice

  Previously unpublished

  The Ghost of Terry Willow

  Previously unpublished

  Victoria

  Previously unpublished

  The Ferry

  Revised version,

  originally published as a novella

  The Towpath

  Previously unpublished

  Twisted Little Things

  and Other Stories

  Twisted Little Things

  One

  My mystery parcel.

  That's what Katie called it earlier as she stuffed the note into my hand and told me to get out of the house for a few hours.

  “Do all those little jobs you've been putting off,” she'd added. “You're driving me crazy, sitting around the house like this all the time. So go check on your father, and get the tires fixed, and pick up the mystery parcel that arrived for you. And take the dog with you.”

  She probably had a point. I'd been getting slower and more lethargic lately. Slower to shower, slower to eat, everything just seemed to be taking a little longer.

  Maybe Katie had a point.

  Maybe I was in a rut.

  As I wandered down the steps outside the post office, I'd already started unwrapping the mystery parcel. I had no idea who'd sent me a 1.5kg package marked 'fragile' and 'collectible', but as I reached my car I finally pulled away the bubble wrap and found myself holding two wooden soldiers.

  “Huh,” I muttered, turning the soldiers around to get a better look at them.

  Maybe eight inches long and heavier than they looked, the soldiers seemed pretty old. Maybe even antiques. None of the joints moved, but they each had stern expressions painted onto their little wooden faces. One of the soldiers was wearing a dark blue uniform and hat, and the other was wearing a slightly different uniform but in gray. I've got to admit, it took me a moment but finally I realized they were dressed as opposing sides from the war. They wouldn't count as toys, not in the twenty-first century, but I figured that back in the day they might have been part of some kid's toy-box.

  “Huh,” I said again, opening the car door and climbing in.

  Immediately, I heard a whining sound from the back seat.

  “Hey Lucas,” I said, turning and patting the dog's head as he tried desperately to scramble over into the front of the car. “Calm down, boy. We'll be off in a minute.”

  He pawed at the side of my seat.

  “I know,” I told him. “You're desperate, but just hang on.”

  Still whining and whimpering, he was showing no sign of letting go of the scent. He'd been horny as hell for the past few days, driven crazy by the alluring aroma of some female dog in the neighborhood. It was hard to believe that the scent could be so overwhelming for him, yet completely undetectable for the human members of our family.

  Again, he tried to clamber through onto the front seats.

  “I get it,” I told him, gently pushing him back. “We've all been there, buddy, but you're not getting any action today.”

  As he turned and looked out the window, I saw his balls hanging between his legs. I was rapidly starting to change my mind about the whole castration deal, and I was seriously considering booking him in for an appointment at the vet's surgery to get snipped. His constant whining, which lasted for about a week every couple of months, often meant that I couldn't get any work done at home. He was driving me nuts.

  Pun intended.

  Setting the soldiers on the passenger seat, I reached into the remains of the package and groped around, hoping to find some hint about who had sent the damn things to me. Pulling out a piece of paper, I unfolded it and found a brief typed message:

  Hey Rich, here they are. Hope you enjoy them. These two little guys are certified fresh from the basement of the legendary John Spencer Baxter himself. Proof enclosed. Tom Dzucjak.

  I immediately recognized the name Tom Dzucjak. He was a collector and dealer who mostly specialized in comic books, and I'd bought a complete set of Dragon's Claws comics from him a few months earlier. It was clear that he'd subsequently sold the soldiers to some guy named Rich, but that somehow he'd accidentally printed off my name and address and mailed them to me.

  Mystery parcel solved, then.

  And a little disappointing.

  For a moment, I considered going straight back into the post office to return the soldiers, but Lucas was still whimpering and I figured I already had way too many jobs to get done that morning. I'd be in town again in a few days' time, so I could still mail them back before the weekend. Besides, Katie might appreciate it if I found another excuse to get out of the house out on Friday. Just as Lucas was driving me nuts, so I was fully aware that I was getting under my wife's feet.

  Behind me, Lucas let out a low, guttural groan.

  “I hear you, buddy,” I muttered as I reached into the package again and found that there was a photo inside. Pulling it out, I saw a black and white image showing some kind of dark, messy basement. The two wooden soldiers were clearly visible on a shelf, but something about the picture seemed a little off-putting. I'd never been one to dwell on gut instinct, but I felt as if I was maybe still missing part of the puzzle. Finally, I checked the note again and realized that Tom Dzucjak wasn't the only name I recognized.

  I paused for a moment, genuinely shocked.

  “The legendary John Spencer Baxter himself?” I muttered, before looking at the photo again. “John Spencer...” I paused again, before leaning back and staring at the two wooden soldiers. “Well holy crap...”

  Two

  “Hey Dad!” I called out as I pushed the front door shut and let Lucas off his leash. “Just us! Is the back door shut? Lucas is horny as hell, he'll bolt if he gets out!”

  Hearing no reply, I made my way through to the kitchen and checked that the door was shut, and then I wandered into the front room and found my father sitting on the sofa, reading a newspaper while bathing his feet in a bowl of murky-colored water. The whole place stank of t
obacco smoke, although I knew he'd deny it if I asked. Dad had regressed since Mom died a few years ago, as if he was determined to have a second childhood.

  “Just popping by to see how things are going,” I told him. “Figured I should be a good son for once.”

  In the hallway, Lucas was already whimpering and clawing at the door.

  “What's up with that goddamn dog?” Dad asked, lowering his newspaper.

  “He's horny.”

  “Again?”

  “Again.”

  “Well join the club,” he muttered. “We don't all go making a song and dance about it, though.”

  Suddenly Lucas barked.

  “Quiet!” I shouted, and a moment later I heard him let out a faint, frustrated whimper. I felt sorry for him, truly, but at the same time he was being pretty annoying.

  “Thanks for bringing your horny dog into my house,” Dad continued with a sigh as he set his newspaper down. “Why does he have to act so crazy?”

  “There must be a female dog in heat somewhere in the area,” I told him, looking down at his feet. “The scent's calling to him like a siren.”

  “I don't smell anything.”

  “Apart from the cigarette smoke?”

  “There's no cigarette smell in here,” he remarked grumpily. “How come that dog can smell stuff that I can't, anyway?”

  “Better nose,” I muttered, looking down at his sore, slightly twisted feet and feeling a shiver at the sight of his swollen joints. “How's the arthritis?”

  “Oh, it's lovely,” he said with another sigh. “Enjoying every minute.”

  “Katie said she can get your laundry done by tomorrow, so I'll take it today and bring it back tomorrow evening. Is that okay? I think she's looking for excuses to get me and Lucas out of the house as much as possible. Since I started freelancing from home, I've been something of an ever-present annoyance.”

  Frowning, Dad stared at the two wooden soldiers in my hands.

  “You noticed, huh?” I asked with a faint smile as I set them on the table facing the sofa. “I think you might get a real kick out of this. Do you remember that serial killer who was in the papers a couple of years ago? John Spencer Baxter?”

  “The one who cut up all those women in his basement?”

  I nodded. “You won't believe this, but some guy from Wisconsin sells memorabilia and collectible stuff online, and somehow he accidentally ended up sending me these things in the mail.”

  “Lemme see.”

  I slid the soldiers to him.

  “Huh,” he muttered as he picked them up to take a look. “Not bad. They look old. Good old-fashioned toys, for kids with a little imagination. Not like the flashy garbage in all the stores these days.”

  “They're from Baxter's basement.”

  “Come again?”

  “Those two soldiers used to belong to John Spencer Baxter,” I explained. “Apparently, they were in his basement when he was doing all his serial killing.”

  “Huh?” He frowned. “I don't get you.”

  “They belonged to Baxter,” I continued. “They were in his house, the same house where he took the woman and killed them. The same room, even. Imagine what those two little wooden guys must have seen and heard.”

  I slid the photo over for him to see.

  Frowning, he peered closely at the image.

  “Freaky, huh?” I added.

  Pulling out my phone, I brought up the web-page I'd checked earlier while I was in the car.

  “Between 2008 and 2014,” I continued, “John Spencer Baxter killed at least eight women in a sound-proofed basement that he'd turned into a torture room, before he was eventually arrested and found dead in a jail cell in a town called Warringham. Judging by the photos I found online, the basement seems to have been pretty cluttered, just full of junk, and those two soldiers were among the items. They were sitting in that room the whole time Baxter was killing his victims. Apparently there was loads of stuff in his house that ended up on the market. There's quite a trade online.”

  Dad stared at the soldiers for a moment longer, before setting them back on the table and turning to me with an expression of disgust.

  “What the hell are you doing with them, then?” he asked.

  “I told you. Someone sent them to me by mistake.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Like I said, Dad, it was a mistake.”

  “What's he doing sending them to anyone? They should be burned!”

  “I guess they're collectible. There are people out there who'll pay good money to own something that was once owned by a man like John Spencer Baxter.”

  “What kind of sick bastards trade in this sorta stuff?” he asked. “Who wants something that used to belong to a serial killer? Jesus Christ, what's wrong with the world? In the old days, we used to scrub away every last trace of these sick sons of bitches. We sure as hell didn't make them out to be heroes!”

  “I found a receipt in the package with them,” I told him. “The buyer was a guy in New York who paid four hundred dollars for the pair.”

  “Four hundred dollars?” Dad replied, his eyes widening with shock. He paused, staring at the soldiers as if they were the craziest thing he'd ever seen in his life. “There are some disgusting, wrong-minded people around, Michael,” he added finally. “I don't know what it's all coming to. Personally, I blame the internet. It lets these sick bastards find each other, and then they start thinking it's normal to be into that kind of stuff. Back in my day, freaks and weirdos were loners, and that's how things should've stayed!”

  “Well, I'm sending them back,” I explained. “I just need to find the time to wrap them properly and take them to the post office.”

  “You should burn them,” he muttered. “People who want to own stuff like that, they're sick in the head.”

  “They're just pieces of wood,” I pointed out. “They didn't actually hurt anyone. It's not like they absorbed anything in that basement.”

  “I don't care. They're tainted.”

  “Don't you think -”

  “Tainted, I tell you!” he added, leaning back on the sofa. “It's not right having them!”

  “I never knew you were superstitious,” I told him, heading out to the hallway where Lucas was clawing at the door. “Hang on, buddy. We'll be on our way soon.”

  “Why'd you bring that dog, anyway?” Dad called to me as I walked into the laundry room.

  “He's been driving us crazy at home,” I explained, tipping a basket of dirty clothes into a cloth sack. Rummaging through the trousers, I took a moment to remove the cigarette packets and lighters he'd forgotten to take out, and I slipped them onto the counter. “Lucy's off sick from school, so Katie's looking after her. I said I'd bring the dog with me so they could get a break from his incessant whining. Or my incessant whining. Or both.”

  After checking the laundry room for any stray socks, I hauled the bag over my shoulder and headed back out into the hallway.

  “It's not easy so far,” I muttered under my breath. “Working from home is turning out to be a challenge.”

  Lucas let out a faint, hopeful whine and got to his feet.

  “Hang on,” I told him with a smile. “We'll be off soon. I just -”

  “Get these out of my house,” Dad said suddenly.

  Turning, I saw to my surprise that not only had he finally risen from the sofa, but he was shuffling across the front room with the wooden soldiers in his hands. His arthritic feet were still wet from the bowl, and so twisted that they almost curled under themselves. Tottering closer, he almost fell and had to grab hold of the side of the door, but he seemed unwilling to let anything stop him.

  “Dad, doesn't that hurt?” I asked, setting the laundry bag down.

  “Get rid of them!” he said firmly, holding the soldiers out to me as he wobbled on his swollen feet. “Get them outside! I don't want them in here!”

  “Sure,” I replied, taking the soldiers and setting them on the tabl
e in the hallway. “Just pipe down for a moment, okay? Aren't you at least gonna offer me a cup of -”

  “I don't want them in my house!” he hissed, grabbing the soldiers and shuffling to the front door. Again, he almost stumbled a couple of times. “What's wrong with you? Why aren't you listening to me? I want these disgusting things out of here!”

  “Dad, just -”

  “I don't like them!”

  As he opened the front door, I barely had time to grab Lucas's collar in order to keep him from bolting.

  “Dad, wait,” I said with a sigh, watching as he started limping down the front steps. I could hear him letting out gasps of pain, but he was moving faster than I'd seen him walk in years. “Where the hell are you going?”

  “I don't want these things on my property!” he shouted breathlessly, sounding more worked-up than ever. He muttered something else, but he was already almost at the garden gate and I watched as he tossed the wooden soldiers out onto the sidewalk.

  “Don't you think you're being a little unreasonable?” I asked, struggling to keep hold of Lucas's collar. “Dad, they're just chunks of wood!”

  “I don't care,” he stammered, already limping back to the house. His still-damp feet were leaving patches on the concrete path, and as he got closer I realized he was sweating from the sudden burst of activity. To be honest, it had been years since I'd seen him move so fast. “I don't want those things in my house, Michael. You should have known better than to bring them in! What the hell is wrong with you, do you have no common sense at all?” He winced as he made his way up the steps, clearly struggling with pain in his feet. “I don't even want them near my house!”

  “What do you think is wrong with them?” I asked. “It's just a pair of dumb wooden soldiers!”

  “I don't care! I never want to see them again!”

  “Okay,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. “Fine. Whatever.”