Perfect Little Monsters and Other Stories Read online

  Suddenly there's another loud bump from the kitchen.

  I look toward the doorway.

  “Bartleby?” I whisper, feeling a growing sense of fear in my chest, as if a knot is tightening. I pause for a moment, before slipping my hand out of his head and making my way around the chair, heading to the door. Forcing myself to look out into the corridor, I see no sign of movement at all, but a moment later I hear the sound of something brushing against the kitchen wall.

  I wait.

  Something's definitely in there.

  My heart is pounding, but I know I have to go take a look. I glance up the stairs, but there's no sign of Rachel or Lucy waking up so I start making my way cautiously toward the kitchen. With each step, the boards creak slightly beneath my feet, but the rustling sound is getting stronger in the distance. Stopping just before the kitchen door, however, I suddenly realize that I was wrong earlier. The sound isn't coming from through there at all; instead, it's coming from the basement.

  Reaching out, I slide the latch across and open the door, revealing the steps that lead down into the depths of the house. I don't know how many times over the past few weeks Rachel has begged me to fix the light down there, but right now I wish to God that I'd listened to her. I even remembered to buy a new bulb at the store last week, but somehow I just never quite got around to it. Almost as if I wanted the basement to stay dark.

  The sound is clearer than ever now and I take a step forward, carefully placing my bare right foot against the first wooden step. Already, I can feel that the basement air is much colder than the rest of the house, but I take another step, while telling myself that there's no reason to be scared.

  “Bartleby?” I hiss. “For fuck's sake, man, are you down here?”

  I grab the cord and give it a pull, hoping against hope that the light at the bottom of the steps will miraculously flicker to life. When that fails to happen, I take a deep breath and start making my way slowly down into the basement, while reminding myself that I need to get around to buying a goddamn flashlight. Once I'm halfway down the stairs I pause, listening to the faint rustling sound which now seems to be coming from the basement's far side. There's definitely something down here, but I tell myself that at worst it's some kind of wild animal, maybe a raccoon or a badger that somehow got through the grate at the far end of the bare cement-walled space.

  “Bartleby?” I continue, heading down a little further. “Seriously, this is about -”

  As soon as I put my left foot on the basement's concrete floor, I feel something cold and wet soaking through my sock. I flinch, before reaching down and carefully peeling the sock off. There's a faint smell of that cleaning fluid that I was using on the car last week, and after a moment I remember that the can was leaking. Rachel asked me not to leave it sitting around, but I was too busy to come down and move the damn thing. Setting my soaked sock on the steps, I carefully make my way around the puddle and step forward into the darkness. There's very little light down here at all, but my eyes are slowly getting used to the darkness as I look around.

  The rustling sound is just a few meters away, over in the corner.

  “Bartleby?” I whisper. “Is that you?”

  I take a few more steps forward, poised to turn and run if some kind of wild animal suddenly comes charging toward me. I spend my days writing horror stories, so it'd be somewhat fitting if a black cat leaped out of the shadows.

  “Bartleby? What the hell was -”

  Suddenly I feel something cold and wet against my bare left foot. Looking down, I'm just about able to make out what looks like a long, thin worm, and there are a couple more on the ground a little further ahead. Just as I'm about to start wondering where the damn things came from, one of the worms twitches slightly at one end. I move my foot away and watch as the worms start retracting toward the far corner, and slowly I come to realize that they aren't worms at all.

  They're long, thin, dark tentacles.

  “Bartleby?” I ask cautiously, staring ahead as I start to make out a shape standing against the far wall. “What are you doing down here? I really need to go back up and write my five hundred words, can we just -”

  Before I can finish, I realize that the figure isn't quite human. Instead, there's some kind of large, gelatinous orb suspended in the air, roughly at head height. Whatever it is, it seems to be just floating there like a jellyfish, and I can see creases and folds deep within its body. The tentacles, meanwhile, are protruding from its base, dangling down to the floor and twitching occasionally, as if they're poised to react to any kind of external stimulus. I take a step closer, transfixed by the bizarre sight, and I watch in wonder as faint flashes of light start to ripple through the creature's body, like little bursts of lightning.

  “Bartleby?” I whisper, so close now that I could reach out and touch the creature. I can see a small, pitch-black dot floating in the forward part of the blob's main body, and the ripples of light seem to be focused on that area. I feel several tentacles slithering across my arms and legs, but I don't pull back. Instead, I stay completely still, convinced that somehow this thing is exploring me, getting to know the feel of my shape.

  I wait, and slowly I start to feel some kind of intelligence reaching out to me.

  “Bartleby?” I whisper, leaning closer. “Is that you?”

  Six

  “What the -”

  Sitting up suddenly, I feel a sharp pain in my head as blinding daylight streams into my office. Rachel is over by the window, tying the cord to the hook on the wall. Evidently she just pulled the blinds up, and I have to cover my eyes with my hand as I look around the room. My laptop is still sitting open on my desk, with an empty, stained wine glass next to it and a small pile of paperbacks.

  “Long night?” Rachel asks, her voice sounding cool and detached.

  Still blinking in the light of day, I look around the room. My head is pounding and I have no idea how I ended up here on the office floor. I remember Rachel going to bed, and then I sat up and drank wine for a while, and then...

  And then what?

  “It's 9am, in case you were wondering,” she tells me, heading over to the door. “I already got Lucy up and gave her breakfast and took her to school. She was a little quiet, she said she had a bad nightmare but she didn't want to talk about it. She's not the only one.” She stops and looks down at me, and I can see the disappointment in her eyes. “Don't worry. I managed to get her out of the house without letting her see you passed out in here. I'm getting good at doing that, although I think she knows something's not right.”

  Sighing, I sit up. The very last thing I remember is that I opened a second bottle of wine, and then...

  “I must have fallen asleep,” I mutter, slowly and stiffly getting to my feet. “Sorry, you know how it is when I get into the zone.” I force a smile. “I warned you that marrying a writer would be kinda tricky.” I wait for her to reciprocate the smile, but she simply stares at me for a moment before heading out of the room. Again, she seemed on the verge of saying something, but apparently she thought better of it.

  As she makes her way to the kitchen, I stumble around the desk and slump down into my chair, letting out a sigh in the process. I'm far too exhausted to work right now, and maybe still a little drunk, but I tap my laptop's track-pad and find myself staring at the Scrivener file from last night. To my surprise, I see that I ended up writing another couple of paragraphs, and when I read them through I find that they're not too bad, although apparently I decided that the best way to liven up that chapter of the book was to have the protagonist encounter some kind of...

  “Floating jellyfish creature,” I read out loud, “with long tentacles dangling to the basement floor?”

  I pause for a moment.

  “Huh.”

  Leaning back, I think about the idea for a moment before deciding that, sure, I can make that work. It means the book will go in something of a new direction, and I'm pretty sure it won't just be about zombies now, bu
t sometimes the best approach to a stalled narrative is just to throw something completely random into the mix and try to get things moving. Rubbing the back of my neck, I realize that I'm definitely going to have to take a nap once Rachel heads out to the store. That'll put me behind with my word-count for the day, but I guess I can maybe work a little tonight, once she and Lucy have gone to bed. Not ideal, I know, but as I get to my feet and wander past the desk, I figure I'll just -

  Stopping suddenly, I see the armchair over on the other side of the room, facing the window. There are three empty red wine bottles on the floor, along with a stain on the rug, but it's the chair that interests me the most. Making my way over, I look down at the cushions and feel a faint sense of familiarity start to creep through my chest.

  Bartleby was here.

  How the hell did I forget?

  I swore I wouldn't let him in again, but Bartleby came and we -

  I take a deep breath, trying to remember. Damn it, Bartleby's visits always fail to stick in my mind properly. I'm pretty sure he was here for quite a while, and at one point we went upstairs. Apart from that, though, the whole night is kind of a blur, although obviously I managed to sit down for a while and hammer out those five hundred words. Pausing for a moment, I feel a grumbling sense of nausea in my belly, and I'm not entirely convinced that I'll be able to keep from throwing up. How the hell did I end up drinking so much wine? I guess Bartleby must have had a few glasses, but still...

  “There's a note for you on the kitchen table,” Rachel says as she heads to the front door.

  I turn to her, but she's already out on the porch.

  “What note?” I ask.

  No answer.

  “Rachel?”

  Still nothing, but I can hear her getting ready to leave.

  “I'm going to take a nap!” I call out.

  I wait, but a moment later the front door swings shut and I'm left alone in the house. Looking out the window, I watch as Rachel wheels a suitcase to the car. I don't remember her saying anything about going somewhere, but I guess my memory isn't so good right now. Grabbing the three empty wine bottles, I stumble out into the hallway and make my way to the kitchen, while promising myself that tonight when I stay up to write, I definitely won't drink a drop of alcohol and I definitely won't let Bartleby disturb me. I drop the bottles into the recycling bin and then I spot an envelope on the kitchen table, with my name written on the front in Rachel's handwriting. I don't know what it's about, but I figure I'll read it later, after I've had a little rest.

  Feeling distinctly queasy, I head back to the hallway and then up to the bedroom. I'll just nap until lunchtime, and then I can get some work done during the afternoon. No matter what else happens, I pride myself on always hitting my word-count.

  Twelve hours later, I'm back at my desk. The house is quiet, and Rachel's letter is over on the bookcase. I've read it several times, and I tried to call her around dinnertime, but I think she's ignoring me. She'll come around soon, though. She always understands eventually, and she knew when she married me that sometimes I have to work long hours to get my work finished. There's no way she'll stay at her mother's forever, and when she comes home I'll really make a fuss of her, maybe even take her out somewhere one night.

  Trying to put the letter out of my mind, I take a sip of red wine and lean back, staring at the laptop screen. The cursor is flashing, waiting for me to add to the paltry 122 words I managed this afternoon. The last thing I wrote was a section about the book's protagonist finding some kind of jellyfish creature in the basement. I have no memory of what I was thinking when I came up with that, but I'm sure I can figure out some kind of follow-on. As I stare at the screen, I take another sip of red wine, before suddenly realizing that my glass is almost empty.

  Sighing, I get to my feet and head over to the cabinet, but I stop as soon as I see that there's a figure sitting in the armchair by the window. I hesitate for a moment, before walking to the cabinet and filling my glass, then filling one for him too.

  “How many words do you need to get done tonight?” Bartleby asks. “Five hundred?”

  I hesitate for a moment, before realizing that there's no point asking him to leave. “Three thousand. I'm kinda behind today.”

  “Ouch,” he replies. I can tell he's smiling, even though I can't see his face from here. “Better get started then. Sounds like we're going to be even busier than last night.”

  Also by Amy Cross

  THE ISLAND

  (THE ISLAND BOOK 1)

  “The revolution never came. We all waited, but it didn't happen. Eventually we just had to accept that the world was never going to change.”

  In the near future, it's not hard to end up on the wrong side of the law. Every lie counts, every minor mistake. Build up enough points, and you'll be hauled off to work for the government. The only possible escape is the island, a remote wilderness with no rules and no laws. But if you choose to go to the island, you can never come back.

  Everyone knows that only crazy people go to the island.

  Arrested for a crime she didn't commit, Iris soon discovers that she already has a long criminal record she never knew about. When her world comes crashing down, she makes the ultimate choice and invokes her right to be sent to the island. There, she quickly discovers the horrors of a land where anyone can do anything they want, free of all rules and laws. She also meets Asher, a mysterious girl with a dark past and a crazy plan to establish her own town in the midst of the island's chaos. First, though, they both have to face a deadly group with a taste for human flesh.

  The Island is the first book in a new series, about two people trying to establish their own order in a mad world, and about the horrors that take place when humanity is let off the leash.

  Also by Amy Cross

  THE FARM

  No-one ever remembers what happens to them when they go into the barn at Bondalen farm. Some never come out again, and the rest... Something about them is different.

  In 1979, the farm is home to three young girls. As winter fades to spring, Elizabeth, Kari and Sara each come to face the secrets of the barn, and they each emerge with their own injuries. But someone else is lurking nearby, a man who claims to be Death incarnate, and for these three girls the spring of 1979 is set to end in tragedy.

  In the modern day, meanwhile, Bondalen farm has finally been sold to a new family. Dragged from London by her widowed father, Paula Ridley hates the idea of rural life. Soon, however, she starts to realize that her new home retains hints of its horrific past, while the darkness of the barn still awaits anyone who dares venture inside.

  Set over the course of several decades, The Farm is a horror novel about people who live with no idea of the terror in their midst, and about a girl who finally has a chance to confront a source of great evil that has been feeding on the farm for generations.

  Also by Amy Cross

  ANNIE'S ROOM

  1945 and 2015. Seventy years apart, two girls named Annie move into the same room of the same remote house. Their stories are very different, but tragedy is about to bring them crashing together.

  Annie Riley has just broken both her legs. Unable to leave bed, she's holed up in her new room and completely reliant upon her family for company. She's also the first to notice a series of strange noises in the house, but her parents and brother think she's just letting her imagination run overtime. And then, one night, dark forces start to make their presence more keenly felt, leading to a horrific discovery...

  Seventy years ago, Annie Garrett lived in the same house with her parents. This Annie, however, was very different. Bitter and vindictive and hopelessly devoted to her father, she developed a passionate hatred for her mother. History records that Annie eventually disappeared while her parents were executed for her murder, but what really happened to Annie Garrett, and is her ghost still haunting the house to this day?

  Annie's Room is the story of two girls whose lives just happened to be thrown together by an
unlikely set of circumstances, and of a potent evil that blossomed in one soul and then threatened to consume another.

  Also by Amy Cross

  ELI'S TOWN

  “Someone really should go check on Eli...”

  Every year, someone from the Denton family travels to the town of Tulepa, to check on weird old uncle Eli. This time around it's Holly's turn to make the journey, but when she arrives she discovers that not only is Eli missing, but the locals appear to be hiding something.

  Meanwhile, a strange curse seems to have struck the town. Every day, at exactly noon, one resident drops dead. Is the string of sudden fatalities just a coincidence? If it's something more sinister, why does no-one seem to be trying to uncover the truth? And what do these deaths have to do with the disappearance of Eli Denton, a strange old man who has barely even left his house in more than a decade?

  Eli's Town is a horror novel about an eccentric but seemingly harmless man who discovers a new way to live, and about his niece's desperate attempt to uncover the truth before she too succumbs to the town's mysteries.

  OTHER BOOKS BY

  AMY CROSS INCLUDE

  Horror

  Asylum

  Meds (Asylum 2)

  The Farm

  The Border

  A House in London

  At the Edge of the Forest

  The Devil's Hand

  The Cabin