Night Terrors Vol. 4-6: The Ultimate Nightmare Collection

Down the Stairs

By Lewis Brett Smiler

Ever since Frank and Judy bought the old Victorian mansion, locals had been reminding them that their home was cursed. During the past century, the mansion had been owned by five different families, and they were all victims of burglary. Legend had it that the owners’ valuables would mysteriously disappear without any sign of a break-in. It was as if the mansion itself had swallowed up their belongings. Yet, Frank and Judy had owned the mansion for eleven years and never had one valuable disappear. Judy once lost her keys, and Frank would occasionally lose a sock, but nothing of great importance ever vanished. Frank often joked that he had broken the curse although the locals were not convinced. They continued to insist that anyone who lived in the mansion would sooner or later lose their most valuable treasures.

Frank and Judy would be spending two years in Japan on business. It would be two years away from their Queen Anne mansion, but they were not going to leave their home unsupervised. Steve, Frank’s best friend since fifth grade, agreed to stay there as the house sitter. He promised that nothing in the mansion would vanish under his watch, but Frank was not the least bit concerned. He and Judy had many wealthy friends whom they played golf and dined with. Yet, when it came to watching their valuables, there was nobody whom they trusted more than Steve. Shortly after moving into the mansion, Steve would hear continual reminders from the locals about its supposed curse. He could not help feeling amused as his life already seemed cursed. The 45-year-old was laid off from his job, his wife had abandoned him, his young daughter barely knew who he was, and his bills were piling up. What could the mansion take from Steve? He had already lost everything that was important. Well, almost everything. He still had his friends Frank and Judy.

The couple offered to pay Steve to watch the mansion, but he would not hear of it. As bad as his finances were, he still had his pride. Frank and Judy were the ones doing him the big favor by letting him stay in their home rent-free. Steve told himself that this arrangement was only temporary. Sooner or later, he would have a job again and get back on his feet. The important thing was to be persistent and not give up. Steve was still the master of his own destiny, and no economic forces were going to bring him down.

***

After spending a few months in the mansion, Steve was feeling very frustrated. Try as he might, he was unable to find a new job. He had sent his résumé out to several employers, but he was lucky to get even one interview. Always supportive, Frank regularly called to check on him. He would ask Steve if he had witnessed any supernatural activity yet, but the question was obviously in jest. At times, Steve wished that the home really were haunted. It would offer some relief from the daily monotony. There was an old sycamore tree in the backyard. One of the neighbors had informed Steve that the tree looked to be dying, and there was a risk it might fall. After consulting with Frank and Judy, Steve contacted a tree service to have the sycamore removed. For one day, Steve had a little excitement watching the tree specialists at work. However, he knew that once they were done, his boring life would resume. At least that was what Steve was expecting.

One of the workers found a wooden box buried near the roots of the tree. Steve opened the box and found a key inside it. It was a vintage key, probably dating back to when the mansion was first built. How long was it buried in the yard? What was it for? Judy had mentioned that many of the mansion’s original locks had been replaced over the years. The key could easily have been for a lock that no longer existed. Steve assumed that was probably the case. Nevertheless, there might still be a few original locks left in the mansion. Steve tried the key in every single lock but to no avail. Why was he wasting his time? Still, he could not help feeling intrigued by the key. Why did someone bury it in the backyard? Was there something the person was trying to hide?

The Fish’r Men

By David Turton

What in the name of God d’ya wanna go there for?”

The landlord leaned away from the bar as he spoke as if to flinch from an unseen assailant.

I swigged my ale and grinned.

“I’m a writer,” I replied, wiping the froth from my lips. “More specifically, I compile the Great British Fish n’ Chips Almanac. I keep my ear to the ground, and I heard someone—a reliable source—say that’s where they did the best fish n’ chips he’d ever tasted. In a tiny inn on Asunder Island.”

“Never heard anybody say that mind,” the landlord scoffed. “There’s not much there, y’know? Why don’t I rustle up some fish n’ chips, and we’ll see if that makes it into your annual?” “Almanac,” I corrected. “And I’m sorry, but I always take tips from this source. I need to visit the island. I’ve come a long way.”

“I’ll draw a map for yer, but ye’ll regret it. No one ever goes out there anymore. Strange folk down there. I s’pose ye’ll find out for yerself if you take a wander down the cliffs. Now, think here, ask yourself this… is yer source a friend or a foe?”

I rubbed my eyes as the landlord walked behind the bar and out of sight. Of course, the source was a friend. Why would he stitch me up? Steve Burley was a chef, a trusted pal for over a year. He’d given me a hot tip in South Devon that turned out to be the best fish n’ chips I’d ever tasted. And now, this recommendation, up to an area I’d seldom been. It had taken me a full day of train travel to reach the Northumberland coast in the wild upper reaches of North East England, and I was getting tired. I’d been busy compiling the fourth edition of the almanac, the 1911 issue, for the past three months. I loved the job, the traveling, the writing, the exploring. Fish n’ chips, the British staple. And my almanac was selling almost as much as that glorious dish.

My trips mainly took me to secluded coastal locations, generally the fresher the fish, the better it tasted. But fishing villages were unfriendly, edgy places at the best of times. Gruff locals whose accents I rarely understood. Tough men as rugged as the rocky shores where they made their living.

“Here ye go,” said the landlord, returning with a ragged piece of paper. He’d crudely drawn a map in thick lines of pencil. “Walk half a mile from here, toward the sea. When ye come to the cliff top, look for a path. It’s steep, mind, but ye should be able to get down if ye lower yerself. Crawl on yer back if needs be.”

I nodded and gestured for him to continue. The landlord traced a stubby, tar-blackened finger across the map.

“When ye reach the shore, there’s a path to the island. If ye dinnit see it, wait an hour or two.”

I squinted at him. “A path? To the island? So, it’s not a proper island?”

“Aye and no. If ye dinnit see the path, wait.”

“Isn’t there a boat I can catch?”

“Oh, ye can take a boat,” the landlord replied, an eyebrow raised and the beginnings of a smirk growing from the corner of his mouth, “if ye wanna drown, that is.”

I laughed and took the scrap of paper. This was turning out to be an interesting trip.

“Ye won’t find it so funny when yer there, son,” the landlord warned, his smile vanished.

“Rough place is it? Don’t worry, I’ve visited a few parochial, unwelcoming fishing places in the past, my friend.”

“Ye could say that,” the landlord replied, rubbing his chin. “Last warning, don’t go. However nice those fish n’ chips are, I can’t think they’d be worth a trip to the armpit of nowhere.” “What’ve you got against the place?” I asked. “Honestly?”

The landlord’s face seemed to darken a little as the light dwindled outside. “Nowt, I can explain. Go down there, ye’ll see. And then ye’ll wish ye followed me advice.”