OCTOBER TERROR 2018 Short Story Award – Entry #37 “Those old urban legends” by Callum Pearce

When we listen to scary stories around the campfire we tend to fill in a lot of the gaps ourselves. We have to picture the environment where the horror occurs and fill in the blank faces with features we imagine fit the character. No matter what the storyteller gives us, it comes naturally to fill in the blanks with things familiar from our own life. We disregard descriptions that don’t fit with the images we are building in our own mind. The most gripping parts of the story can come from what we add to it with our own experience.

Peter McColl had loved to listen to such stories when he was younger. Nothing was better than communing with friends in the woods on dark nights. They would whisper tales of murder and the macabre, those old urban legends of killers creeping into the back of people’s cars. Tales of deranged monsters lurking somewhere in the house slowly edging closer to their victim and teasing them with every step. When he listened around the campfire or when those tales crept back into his mind as he walked alone past parked cars on a dark night, he would imagine somebody lurking in the back seats but he would be unable to turn his frozen neck to assuage his fears. Other times he would see the shadow of a man behind a curtain in a home he was passing and remember the story of the babysitter getting calls from inside the house. When he thought of the hidden stranger he always found himself picturing the same face.

The killer always looked exactly the same. The same face in his imagination when he listened to the stories and in the nightmares that they inspired. He didn’t know where the image came from but he knew this character well. He knew him as though someone from his past or perhaps a vivid, regularly revisited dream. When he thought of him he could smell the grease in his long, dirty, brown hair and straggly, unkempt beard. He smelled the damp leaves and earth clinging to his clothes and above those smells the tobacco that had given his teeth streaks of yellow and brown also staining his dark tipped fingers. He pictured those wide wild eyes, dark green and glaring. He had eyes that you wouldn’t dare turn away from.

At the age of thirty-five, Peter had come a long way from those nights of tales around the campfire or deliberately scaring himself to make a lonely walk home more entertaining. There was no way on earth that he could be stood in Liverpool city center in broad daylight staring across the road into those very eyes. There was no rational way that face could have escaped from his imagination to be here exactly as he had imagined it, but here it was. Had he just glimpsed the face in passing, he would have been unsettled but he would likely have quickly explained it away to himself. He would have passed it off as a trick of the light or an over-active imagination, but this man was stood across the road from him at the entrance to an alley. He was looking straight into his eyes. The stranger looked almost as shocked as he was. Perhaps it wasn’t shock, perhaps it was just the way his face was built and the effect of those glaring, wild eyes but he was staring right back at Peter. Those feelings from years ago took over his body, a slither of ice gliding up his spine, the hairs on his back and neck rising and bending to follow it and a shiver that wouldn’t quite come all the way out. His muscles were filled with chills that even those old campfires couldn’t melt away. He stood perched on the edge of a reaction, the rest of the shiver, fight or flight, something had to happen next but he couldn’t move. His legs felt rooted to the spot, his arms stayed hanging at his sides. It was as though the connection between his brain and body had been completely severed. He knew with an awful certainty he was staring into the eyes of the man who would kill him.

Peter managed to force his head to turn away. He looked up to the liver birds perched at the top of the liver building. A beautiful symbol of his city, a symbol of the reality he was trying desperately to cling to. He waited for the stranger to approach. He couldn’t look back and he couldn’t move. His breath caught in his throat but he sensed someone walking determinedly towards him. Somebody barged into him and he stumbled backward

 ” Dick head!”

The woman who had shoved him out of the way. The woman stalking ahead cursing him under her breath had jolted something in his mind so that he was back in control of his body. he turned back to the alley to see the man had gone, looking around for any sign of the monster from his nightmares he found that he was nowhere in the vicinity. Peter knew for certain he hadn’t imagined him and he also knew for certain that he had just seen his killer.

He continued to his friend’s bar, the place he had been on his way to before this weird encounter. He was still a bit shaken but starting to feel more in control of himself as he got closer to his destination. All the way there he had tried to rationalize what he had seen. It had to be a coincidence. Maybe upon seeing somebody a little bit similar, he had retrofitted his memories making the man a perfect match. Maybe he had seen an older relative of this man as a child and fitted him into his nightmares. That was a ridiculous idea but then so was the man from his dreams, the man he imagined as the killer in all of those old stories actually being here in the real world.

CC’s bar is one of those old-school gay bars, a hangover from a less enlightened time. It was tucked away down an alley with no windows to let in natural light. It was a place that retained a kind of sticky grubbiness even after a deep clean. Being himself from those aforementioned less enlightened times he always found it quite comforting to be here. CC, his best friend,  the flame wigged drag queen who owned the place was now already rushing towards the entrance. He stepped through the door and waited for his eyes to adjust the bar lights.

“You’ve heard the news then,” she shouted over the music. She was grabbing him and leading him to the bar,

“What news? I’ve just come from work.”

“little Joey,” she said choking back a lump in her throat

“Joey that used to work here?”

“He was found dead last night, stabbed in the alley outside the Rainbow club,” Peter slumped into the stool next to him at the bar shocked, CC’s eyes filled up as the image of her friend lying dead and alone in an alley refused to leave her mind.

“That’s the fourth this year,” Peter mumbled

Four gay men had been found dead in just the last six months. The deaths were supposedly unconnected but like the old campfire stories rumors swirled around the gay scene. Everybody held another little piece of the story. Like those old urban legends, everybody had a cousin or friend linking them directly to the tragedies. Things had come a long way in terms of gay rights and acceptance but every few years you would hear about a spate of beatings or murders. A reminder that we still had a long way to go. Until now none of the men had been known to Peter, not until little Joey. Joey was a lovely lad, about thirty years old but his short stature and pretty face made him seem much younger. He was a sweet kind man whom everybody felt the urge to protect. Joey had always called CC mum as a bit of a joke but she had acted accordingly. She hovered around him like an overprotective mother watching him on dates to see that he was being treated well. She would even make sure he was well fed if she suspected he hadn’t been eating enough. Peter could see CC was heartbroken but he knew she wouldn’t let the tears flow now, not here in full drag in front of everyone. The tears that had welled in her eyes were swiftly wiped away and she signaled to the barman to bring them both a gin.

“I assumed you had heard already,” she sniffed

“You looked like shit when you came in, well even more than normal,” she gave him a sly grin as she ran a folded tissue carefully along her eye to remove the moisture without destroying her make up. They had a couple of drinks together chatting but carefully avoiding talk of Joey or creepy strangers. Eventually, CC had to get up on stage to Introduce the night’s acts. She talked a little bit about Joey, holding herself together admirably and suggested that once the funeral was being organized she would arrange a vigil or some sort of memorial. She was determined that people on the gay scene who knew him would have a chance to reflect on his life together. She hovered by the stage for the first act whilst she finished her gin. When her glass was empty she went up to the flat above the bar to change back into her man drag.

Peter leaned over the bar to pick up the newspaper. Joey had made the front page, ‘Out gay man found dead in the city’s gay area’ the paper declared. He started reading the article ‘Peter McColl an openly gay man was found dead last night in the gay area of the city,’ he rubbed his eyes and read again. He was horrified to see that the story still contained his name he looked further down the page to see a photo of himself staring back out from the paper at him. It wasn’t even a very flattering picture. Dropping the newspaper on the bar the color drained from his face and his hands started to shake.

“Oh I know,” the new barman said picking up the newspaper

“Poor Joey,” he looked again at the paper the barman was now holding and saw that it was indeed an article about Joey. The picture attached was his sweet face, not Peters.

He took a large swig of his gin and lemonade and looked around the bar. It was fairly busy for a weeknight. Little clusters of people were dotted around the place, some laughing, some engaged in clearly enthralling gossip and others hanging around the edges checking out any new young people that came in. Little Joey sat in the corner looking at him with tears rolling down his face, little dead Joey sitting there across the dance floor looking at Peter. He shook his head slowly and then stepped back into the shadows disappearing. Peter felt the sudden urge to vomit after seeing the apparition. He rushed to the toilets pulling the cubicle door shut behind him and clutching his stomach. Realizing that he wasn’t going to throw up He looked down and saw blood pouring through his fingers on the hand he clutched his stomach with. He lifted his shirt but couldn’t find a wound anywhere even though his hands and shirt were still wet with blood. Stumbling out of the cubicle he rushed to the sink and turned a tap on to clean himself up. The blood was gone when he raised his hand to the water but there was worse looking out from the mirror. In the mirror, he could see his own face but swollen and bruised as though he had been hit by a truck. Peter was hardly recognizable aside from his bright blue eyes glaring out at him. He touched the cuts and bruises and felt the pain shoot through his whole body. The mirror slowly darkened and filled with shadows. The shadows blocked out the image of his battered face and the bathroom. Out of those shadows stepped four men looking out at him frightened and desperate. Joey was one of them, he assumed the others were the other men that had been found dead recently in these streets he walked every day. He watched their beautiful young faces and bodies twist and bruise in front of him. Living corpses peering out of the mirror at him trying to tell him something. The lights in the toilets flashed off and then on again and he was standing alone. He was looking at his normal face again in the reflection. Now there were no signs of the blood that poured from him before or the bruises that covered his face and no signs of the dead men that he had just looked into the eyes of.

He went back into the bar intending to get his coat and make his way home but he saw CC was back perched at the end. He was mostly out of make-up and fully out of character so he was now able to let the tears flow. He sat at the bar sobbing between puffs on his cigarette and swigs of his gin. Peter dragged his stool closer and sat next to him ordering both of them a fresh drink.

“Do you believe what the police are saying? That there is no connection.” CC mumbled through his tears,

“I used to when it was just a couple,” Peter replied

“but now I’m not so sure. Something feels wrong.”

He thought about telling CC about the things that had been happening to him tonight but knew that it wouldn’t achieve anything. All it would do is make CC more upset and scared, that was if he could even find the words to describe it without making himself sound like a total lunatic. He could barely understand it himself. He kept thinking about the men in the mirror, the bruises, scars and twisted bodies telling a gruesome story of the crimes committed against them. All of them waiting there in the dark, waiting for what though? For the crime to be solved and the killer caught or for Peter? Lost boys standing between life and death waiting for more of us to join them.

Somebody pushed in next to him at the bar, the smell of hair grease, tobacco, and damp graveyards wafted under his nose and he saw a filthy hand reach past him to wave to the barman. Fingers tipped with dark brown tobacco stains from years of smoking, sticking out from earth caked fingerless gloves. Again he found himself frozen, sitting at the bar terrified to turn and face whoever it was beside him. He imagined the man from his nightmares standing over him watching him intently for one wrong move.

“Hiya Charlie love,” CC shouted from where he was perched. Wiping his tears away and sitting up he turned to the barman,

“Hey Mike can you get the charity box for the homeless shelter for Charlie, I think I put it next to the phone earlier. “

Peter almost laughed out loud with relief and turned to say hello to Charlie. Charlie was one of the homeless men that used a local charity. He would be sent out every time the donation box was getting full and take it back for them. CC would always give him a can of coke and probably something to eat whilst he was there.

“I think we’ve got some sandwiches left out the back Charlie from earlier, do you want to go and see if there’s anything left you fancy,” Charlie smiled gratefully and with a few mumbled words of thanks rushed along behind Mike into the kitchen area.

“Are you okay? you looked like you were going to collapse when Charlie came in. In fact, you still look the color of boiled shite.”

“Yeah, I think I’m just still in shock over Joey, I feel like I should be crying or shouting but I just feel empty,”

“I know what you mean, I’ve been getting it in waves since I found out,” CC said topping up the drinks,

“One minute I’m just keeping busy, keeping it at the back of my mind then the next I’m a blubbering wreck.”

“Maybe you should take a few days off, just until the funeral is out of the way,” Peter suggested.

“I think I’ll be better here. Once things are being organized for him I’ll be keeping busy helping his family with that.” As CC lit another cigarette Peter realized he was running low himself.

“Oh shit I need to get some cigarettes before the shop shuts, I’ll be back in a second,” he stood quickly and rushed out of the door.

He stepped into the alley hearing the door swing shut behind him. It took him a moment to notice that he wasn’t standing outside CC’s bar at all. He was somehow standing in the alley further down the road looking at the rainbow bar. He felt something damp against his cheek and raised his hand to feel long greasy hair resting against his face, beneath that he could feel a long unkempt beard. He stood and watched as Joey came out of the bar locking the doors behind him. Peter was filled with disgust and anger. He had never in his life felt this level of hatred for anything but here looking at his old friend through somebody else’s eyes, the rage overwhelmed him. It wasn’t just in his mind either, it was as though this whole body was consumed with burning anger and loathing. In his hand, he held a small flick knife which he turned a couple of times. He rolled it around stroking his thumb against the blade to test the sharpness. The killer was itching to use it. He watched Joey put the keys in his bag and rummage around looking for something.

The part that was still Peter forced himself to turn away only to find himself standing on Dale street. Now he was outside another bar, watching a different scene unfold before him. Some other man was struggling to get his keys into the lock on his car door. This time the hand that had held a knife now held a large broken house brick. He was moving towards the man the brick raised above his head and the same all-consuming feelings filling his body. Standing right behind his victim he brought the brick down hard smashing into his skull again and again. He turned his own face away so that the warm blood splashed against his cheek. Another strike and this time the blood splashed across his eyes. He used his free hand to wipe the blood away but when he brought his hand back down he had been transported again to another place.

Peter didn’t know the dark street he was now standing on. He could see two men kissing each other goodbye as they both went in separate directions just ahead of him. He felt the urge to throw up, the rage and nausea only increasing as he realized he couldn’t follow them both. If he had gotten here a bit sooner he could have killed them both together. They would truly be able to see where their disgusting lives had led them. He would have left them lying together bleeding out, but now he had to pick one. Today it would be the one walking off to the left, maybe he would see the other one again another time. He really hoped so. The man walked along the road his head filled with thoughts of the boyfriend he had just said goodnight to, the friends they had been drinking with and all of the fun they had had tonight. He had no idea of the monster slowly following along behind him. Peter in the killer’s body looked around for a useful weapon, he had come out unprepared, he hadn’t expected to see such a disgusting open show of perversion out in the street like this. He promised himself that he would always come out prepared from now on. As he moved closer to his prey he noticed a load of old wires sticking out of a bin outside a house he was passing. Grinning he reached in and pulled out a long piece, he was slowly winding it around his hands. His victim turned into a small street ahead of them with his brutal future edging closer. The killer slipped into place behind him and put the wire over his head. He pulled him by his neck behind some bins left out outside the shop on the corner. Bringing his hands together he pulled the cord tighter. His victim at first struggled and clawed at the cord around his neck. Both predator and prey knew how this would end though. It seemed as though the man had stopped fighting back long before his life was finally strangled out of him. Even after he slumped to the floor the killer started kicking his body. Peter felt every hard kick landing. The kicks were hurting the perpetrator more than it ever could the lifeless corpse on the floor. He was mercifully a long way past feeling the abuses heaped upon him now. The killer’s mind was filled with images of the kiss he had witnessed and the rage kept building for a long time after he had exacted the ultimate revenge. A light turned on upstairs in the shop and the killer turned to make his getaway.

Now he was standing on a packed street in town, it looked like Victoria street. Lots of people were brushing past him, every accidental touch filled him with revulsion. Peter and the killer occupying the same space watched as painted queers marched down the street. They were holding and kissing each other. He glared at banner-waving faggots. They were everywhere, cluttering up the pavements like glittered dog shit. Rainbow flags and dragged up perverts were filling the streets of his beautiful city. Flaunting what they are for all to see. There had been three years of this so-called pride festival so far. Each year was bigger and more repulsive than the last. This year it was also slipping into other parts of the city. No longer confined to the gay area, he had noticed rainbow flags popping up in all kinds of shops and businesses. It seemed everybody was eager to cash in on this festival of depravity. His blood boiled as everywhere he turned he saw something that offended him more. He found himself staring at a couple of people stood on the corner. Peter recognized them instantly, himself and CC laughing and downing gin from plastic cups. They pointed at people in and the march and chatted happily. He felt the loathing the killer felt just looking at him. This man who knew nothing about him aside from his sexuality detested him completely. He was already picturing what he would do to Peter if he could get him alone right now. Peter could see how mocking his laugh seemed through the eyes of this monster and how grotesque he looked when seen by this hate-filled killer. Someone shoved past him on the street that was the last straw. He turned to see a skinny queen staggering down the street, drunk already in the middle of the day. He didn’t even stop to see who he just rudely barged out of the way. The monster decided right away to follow him and teach him a lesson. Peter was willing the man in front of him not to stray from the crowds, to stay where no harm could come to him. His heart sank as he watched the drunken queen turn into an alley unzipping his pants to take a piss. He turned the corner so that he was out of view still pursued by the killer. Within a second he found himself standing over the boy. He was already beaten and lying on the floor. His fists ached and knuckles bled from delivering the beating the boy had clearly received. He couldn’t tell if the boy was dead or just unconscious but the killer didn’t care he just felt contempt for the thing on the floor. All that mattered was acting on his rage. As he stood over the boy he noticed other people filling the alley at least twenty different people. They were all beaten and scarred like the men in the mirror all looking at the killer with tears trickling down their faces. One was very familiar. Peter stood at the front of the group covered in blood and bruises. He had missing teeth and swollen eyes, his clothes were caked in blood and dirt. He knew now what these specters around him were. He was looking at the future victims of this violent killer. So many people, so much pain for them and their families. He could think of no way to stop it. The fact that he too was part of the crowd suggested quite strongly that he wouldn’t be the one to stop this horror.

Peter was no longer occupying the body of the killer. He had now taken his place in the crowd of future victims. Staring back at the empty damaged man wearing the face from his nightmares he shivered. Even with the unbearable pain in his battered body, he at least felt relieved to no longer be sharing the revulsion and bitterness he had experienced inside the monster that stood before him. He had told stories with his friends as a kid and imagined this character even dreamed of him later. He had never until today felt the level of bitterness and malevolence that filled the creature. He didn’t think he had until now even known that it was possible to feel such strong and vicious emotions about anybody, least of all people he had never met. He had encountered homophobia before but this was something else. This was a person made entirely out of rage, misery, and pain searching desperately for someone to blame for his feelings or just someone to punish for them. Gay people would do for now but if they didn’t exist he would have found somewhere else to put all of his hatred and loathing. He would have to put it somewhere. Nobody could hold in so much aggression and survive themselves. The scene faded around him and he found himself still standing outside CC’s bar.  People passed the entry to the alley chatting as he stepped out on to the main road crossing over to go to the night shop. He got his cigarettes and walked back to the bar as though in a daydream. His head was full of the faces of the victims. They called out to him from the past and the future, lost, frightened and broken people. So many lives needlessly destroyed to satisfy this beast. He struggled to organize his thoughts. Why was this happening to him? Was any of it real? It felt incredibly real so the only answer could be that he was going insane.

He noticed Charlie shuffling away down the alley in front of him. He was gripping the charity box like a precious treasure. Peter turned into CC’s. The bar was getting quite empty now just a few people hanging around chatting, a couple of them clearly trying to get as many drinks down them before the bell would ring signaling an end to the evening. CC was sat in the same place quietly drinking and looking around to work out which if any of the customers were going to be difficult to get out at the end. He tried to guess who was most likely to rush the bar when the bell rang for last orders. He got up and walked around collecting the empty glasses as Peter took up his old place at the bar and waited for CC to return to his drink.

“Not long now,” he said as CC sat back next to him

“I bet you’ll be glad when Today’s over.”

“Yeah, it’s definitely been a rough one. Somehow I don’t think it will be the last of days like this if the police don’t start taking it seriously. How many more will there be before something is done?”

Peter tried to shake the image of what he had assumed to be a crowd of future victims out of his head. He tried especially hard to forget the image of his own broken, battered face. He pictured CC opening the paper to see his photograph as he had seen it earlier. All of the details of his last moments would be spelled out for the world to pore over. Part of him almost felt guilty at the thought that any day now he could become the reason for his best friend having another day like today. A day filled with sorrow, fear, and regret. After everything he had seen tonight, it felt grimly inevitable. He felt as though from the moment he had seen that face earlier he had started down the path toward the end of his life. He felt that anything in between including the murder was now just a formality. He hated feeling like this but it wouldn’t go away. Since he had first stared into those wild green eyes he had felt slightly outside of himself as though watching a film or listening to one of those old urban legends. The killer was creeping closer, the fear in the victim rising. You would almost want the gruesome death by the time it finally arrived just to end the building tension. He remembered what it felt like to be inside the killer. It broke his heart to think that anybody could look at him and have such strong and violent urges simply because he was gay. He thought about what the killer was thinking when he looked at him and CC on that pride day, his fantasies of what he would do if he could get them alone somewhere. The mind was so damaged and raging he couldn’t find memories when he was in there just the overwhelming emotions. He couldn’t imagine what had happened to this man to destroy his brain so much or what made him pick the targets he picked for all of his pent-up anger in the first place. All that the killer knew was emotion and reaction.

“That’s going to have to be the last,” he said as CC put another gin and lemonade in front of him,

“I’ll never get up for work tomorrow if I don’t head home soon.” He knew if he tried to put off leaving for too long he would end up staying drinking with CC until the morning. He didn’t like the idea of being alone again. He didn’t want to be vulnerable to more of the visions he had been assaulted by all night or alone with his fear but he had to get on with his life, however much of it he had left.

“Do you want me to phone you a taxi?”

“Nah I’ll just wave one down on Dale street when I’ve finished my drink, It should be quite quiet now.”

“Well just make sure you get straight home and make sure you text me when you get in. I don’t want to be a drama queen but considering everything…”

“I know, I’ll text you as soon as I get back.” he gave CC a big extra long hug as CC got up to potter around getting the bar ready for closing.

After his drink was finished he lit one more cigarette to put off being alone for just a few minutes longer. He tried desperately to rationalize the things that had been happening as a combination of shock over Joey’s death, fear that the deaths hadn’t just been brutal unconnected assaults and his vivid imagination. Nothing else made sense in the world he thought he knew. He didn’t believe in ghosts or premonitions and no matter how vivid these dreams had been that was all they could have been, vivid daydreams brought on by shock. Even the face he saw before he had heard about Joey he could rationalize that perhaps he had seen Joey on the front page of the paper during the day and just not processed it. He had probably been thinking about those old stories and imagining a killer stalking gay people so he had recreated him in the real world. There had to be a rational explanation and he felt pretty comfortable that the one he was making up now would do. He put the very real feelings of pain, the smells and sensations he felt during the visions to the back of his mind and left the bar. He turned on to Dale street to get a Taxi.

The street was completely empty. No cars passed, no people stumbled out of the pubs, it was just him. He waited for a few minutes next to the road hoping a taxi would come along soon. After tonight all he wanted to do was get straight home and get into his favorite chair to mull over the day that lay behind him. He noticed he was paying more attention than normal to the entrances of alleys and dark doorways. No matter how much he tried to put it to the back of his mind he found it impossible not to think of the nightmare man’s face or to imagine him lurking in every dark part of the street waiting to stride out of the shadows. That dirty , evil man would reveal himself and reveal the brutal future for Peter in one step. Nobody stepped out of the shadows but Peter knew he was just going to have to start walking toward home. If he didn’t he would likely scare himself to death here on this lonely street without anyone ever having to raise a hand to him. His heart was already beating far too fast as the visions from this evening tried to force themselves back to the front of his mind. He walked slowly down the street checking every alley, every so often glancing behind him to see if a taxi was coming and also to confirm that the feeling that he was being followed was just another figment of his imagination.

He tried not to picture the killer walking slowly behind him, checking his pockets for a weapon and waiting for the best moment to strike. He tried not to think of those men he had seen broken and beaten, covered in blood and dirt. He knew that was just how they would have looked when some poor bastard stumbled across them the day after the brutal attack. He couldn’t help thinking of little Joey locking up the bar after a long night with no idea of what lurked in the shadows behind him. Somebody would have found him the next day, probably at first assuming him to be a pile of rags or some garbage bags left in the alley. He imagined the police trying to compare the photo on his driver’s license to the hideously disfigured mess the killer had left behind. He reflected on the feelings that had filled the killer when he had occupied that body earlier. He had to stop and literally shake the thoughts out of his head so that he could continue his journey home and get there without driving himself insane. Filled with fear and sadness for the lost boys he had seen tonight, he felt as though he was walking at a snail’s pace, as though every step took more effort and more time. He needed to stop torturing himself and focus on getting home.

He tried to think about something else. He pictured CC finishing up in the bar with the doors safely locked. He would no doubt take a bottle of gin up to the flat with him and sit for a while processing his thoughts about Joey and the other men. Maybe he would go over all of the things that had happened in the bar, making mental lists of stock he needed or things he needed to do. Peter felt much better if he pictured CC safe and warm at home and couldn’t wait to be feeling the same himself. He longed to be home sitting in his favorite chair with his last drink before bed. The heating would have turned on when the temperature dipped so he knew the house would be warm already when he got back. He allowed himself a little dark laugh as he pictured the queens in the bars over the next few days spreading their rumors. Painting themselves as experts on the killings and trying desperately to tie themselves into the story somehow. There was nothing like a tragedy to get everyone chatting shit and trying to elevate themselves to most informative, most interesting and most riveting storyteller.

“Another drink for Graham lads… He’s going to tell us all about how he knew that Joey lad from the Rainbow… I’ve heard he knows who the killer is.”

“Well as you know I’m not one to gossip,” Graham would say. The long elaborate story that followed proving the lie of that first sentence. He would regale people with his tales and his deductions as he watched his table filling with drinks. People with eager hungry faces pulled up chairs around him. Just like those old urban legends but with glasses of gin and ashtrays replacing the campfire. After a few days, all of the victims just became stories. The people who embellished the most became the bearers of these tales for the next generation and the world continued. It would be as though these poor young men had never been real people in the first place. Now they would be just cautionary tales about going off with strangers or walking alone at night. The killer would become the real character the living breathing thing that the story hung from. He would become supernatural in his ability to cross generations as he was linked with random killings he had had nothing to do with. He would become imbued with phenomenal strength, eyes that could see in the darkest of alleys, preternatural speed that meant not one victim would ever see him coming before it was too late. Knowing nothing until they were feeling his powerful hands grabbing them. He would lift them out of the life they had known in an instant, bringing them into a world of pain and torture. The killer would have motives attached to him and a history that explained his hatred. The men who had died would just become the decoration on his story. A gripping tale about a monster lurking in the dark waiting for you. A corpse or two just to keep the story interesting. Everything those men were before that would be forgotten by most.

He saw Joey again standing in a shop doorway ahead of him. He was waving his hands at Peter and pointing. Peter refused to look behind him to where Joey was pointing. His neck was frozen again and his heart raced as sweat broke out all over his body. The tingle of an icicle creeping up his spine again. He couldn’t turn around and he didn’t want to look at Joey so he kept his head down and tried to walk faster. He felt like he was pushing through treacle with heavy boots on. When he passed the part of the street he had seen Joey on he allowed himself to look up ahead of him. His stomach churned and rolled and his legs felt heavier with each step but he kept pushing forward. He tried to picture himself in his warm home with a fresh drink next to him, the sound of some random program drowning out thoughts of the day. He saw himself sat at home knowing that all of the doors and windows were locked. He wanted to picture himself safe and comfortable, miles away from here. The image of his face from the mirror earlier kept forcing itself in front of his other thoughts. He remembered the feeling of the blood pouring from his stomach the stickiness of it covering his hands, bits of the wool from his jumper stuck into it.

Now he could see himself from behind walking slowly and carefully. He watched himself pushing ahead through the eyes of his killer who was now determinedly following along behind him. He had no way of controlling the body that he watched walking like a tortoise ahead of him. He was walking far too slow. He was getting closer and closer in this body but only creeping gradually forward. The killer was enjoying the thoughts of what he would do when he finally caught up with the staggering queer in front of him. He already pictured his hand around his throat and was slowly turning his dirty rough-edged knife in his hands waiting for the chance to use it. He stopped for a moment enjoying watching his prey stumbling along, knowing that at any moment he could end the worthless life in front of him. He grinned as he started again creeping slowly forward. He was going to enjoy this one. He had seen this little shit a few times around town, often hanging around with that disgusting looking drag queen and always laughing that awful grating laugh. He wouldn’t be laughing soon, not at all, quite the opposite in fact. Would he make this one beg for his worthless life and then take it anyway or would he just let the beast out and rip the disgusting creep to shreds cutting and punching and kicking like a wild animal. Peter felt every bit of the monster’s loathing and every bit of pleasure he had at picturing the torture he was about to inflict.

Back in his own body stumbling along struggling to control his legs and his mind. Everything in him told him that this could not be happening. He thought about all of the impossible things that had happened tonight. He thought again of how it had felt in the killer’s mind and wondered if this was what a descent into madness felt like. He wondered if he had truly lost his mind. He struggled to understand why any of this was happening to him. He thought of CC hearing the news of his death. It broke his heart to imagine the news sinking in and his friend slumping into a chair sobbing. He would blame himself for not getting Peter a taxi. CC would forget that Peter had insisted he would get one himself. If he would remember that he would feel so angry at his dead friend for not just doing as he was told and waiting there in the safe bar. It occurred to him that if this was fate. If this was already destined to happen then maybe that would have just put everybody else in the bar in danger. His death had felt all night like a certainty and now with the killer approaching it felt that way more than ever. He tried to get his legs to work to start into a run but he tripped over a paving stone and stumbled forwards putting his hands out to break his fall. His scraped hands and knees stung as he tried to push himself up from the ground. After he had stumbled forward a few more steps he felt the hot breath on his neck.

” Faggot,” The killer sneered. Grabbing Peter and turning him around he plunged a knife into his stomach. Peter knew the relief the killer would be feeling now. He was finally unleashing the monster inside him, finally able to be the wild animal he knew himself to be. Peter fell back to the floor as punches and kicks rained down upon him. Some of the punches came from the hand with the knife in it causing rips and cuts all over his body and neck, every part of him was in agony. Thoughts of escape or even fear had already left him at this point. He knew that he would never get away. He knew that he was going to die here and now. He tried weakly to fight back against his killer throwing punches if he could or lashing out with his feet but he knew he couldn’t stop this. He just wanted to try to do some damage in return, something for this bastard to remember him by. His head became cloudier and more confused. Random images from his life flashed in his mind as his brain was destroyed by the punches, kicks, the lack of blood and then he felt nothing at all. He felt and saw nothing and knew only that it was over, his life was over. He found it harder now to hold on to anything, sadness, anger, all feelings were lost to him now. Emotions were things he had needed to survive in the body but now released he felt and needed nothing. He struggled to even remember who he had been before this moment. Now he was nothing residing nowhere. No thoughts, no feelings, no pain at all. He could just barely feel something tugging him gently. Something was trying to coax him back to the scene he had just left and he tried to resist it. That world was over for him now, he just wanted to fade from existence here

As Peter died on the empty street in a pool of his own blood, some of his teeth lying on the ground nearby he felt his spirit pulled back from that empty place. He wasn’t pulled back to his broken useless body, he was back in the body of the man from his nightmares. The man who had just moments ago stabbed, choked and beaten him to death. Now he stood over his own twisted lifeless corpse and tried to come to terms with occupying the killer’s body again.

The corpse turned its grotesque face towards him and began to laugh. It didn’t move anything except the head it just stayed lying there, dead eyes staring up at him. It laughed a loud deep laugh.

“That’s another thing about those tales I used to listen to around the campfire, there is so often a twist at the end.”

That laughter again as Peter struggled to understand what was happening. No not Peter, that wasn’t his name. He had never been Peter. His memories belonged to the body he occupied now. The rage he felt and disgust toward his victim was entirely his own. Peter had been dead for years, a nameless victim among all of the others. Only now for the killer he had been given a backstory, friends and a name.

“What did you expect from Hell foolish man, Hell is other people. All of the people you have affected with your brutality and cruelty. You will experience every bit of pain and fear that you have caused throughout your worthless, miserable life and as a little extra bonus you get to live the lives of the people you fear and detest the most. At least that is until they encounter you.”

As he listened to the corpse other people started to step out of the shadows around him. They were mumbling their stories under their breath. His broken rage-filled brain had long ago lost count of the people he had killed but here they were surrounding him. All of them were waiting for their turn to show him the pain he had caused. Even some people that he hadn’t murdered with his own filthy hands, soon he would see exactly how his actions had led to pain and misery for those people and eventually their deaths. Even in his clouded dysfunctional mind, he felt as though he understood one thing,

 “So this is justice?”

 “Oh no, no, no,” laughed the corpse

 “We don’t concern ourselves with such things down here, It’s just fun,” as the corpse laughed the scene around him faded and another victim’s memories, thoughts, and fears started to fill his head.

[bctt tweet=”OCTOBER TERROR 2018 Short Story Award – Entry #37 ‘Those old urban legends’ by Callum Pearce – Enjoy all this terrific, disturbing material you have in your hands, lots of horror stories at your disposal for your dark delight and vote!” username=”theboldmom”]

BACK TO THE STORIES

On October 23rd we’ll close submissions and open a poll for the readers to choose their favourite one! You’ll have a week to make your choice and on October 31st we’ll announce the winner!!!