The Kid's Got Talent

The ad popped up on screen.

He saw it and rubbing his smiling face button he smiled.

Horrors in Your Home Inc. We Build Horror Locations in Your House! Film Sets, Props, Icons, Modern and Classic. Testimonials available. Visit our site. It's Beastly!

He was intrigued. 

Things had been really tedious for some years.

This just might liven things up a bit.

For his guests. 

If he played his cards right it could be a real hoot for horror movie buffs like they all were.

So best get organized.

It was nearly October 31st.

He sat down at his laptop and having fun, he checked everything he wanted on the 'Horrors' drop down menu from flicks old and new with a few add-ons and party food chucked in:

A pet cemetery. One grave open. Old Gravedigger needed.

An attic full of snuff videos. One running and screening with terrified projectionist.

A bedroom window teeming with flies. Optional tormented priest requested.

A steaming wall in the cellar. A half-mad actress required to repeatedly scream 'these are the Gates of Hell'.

A Bates Motel neon sign outside. Optional flickering and knife-wielding Son dressed as Mother maniac requested.

A dark office with a metal filing cabinet. Bespoke files and Panicked Snoop required.

All to happen on Halloween. 9pm.

The watershed! He smiled at that!

The full order was placed and after paying the thousand dollars he sat back feeling great and began to draw a sketch of a very hairy face. It was one of a hundred he'd already done that week.

The kids got talent! 

He kept saying it over and over in a New York accent and chuckled before cooking up a rabbit.

Next he sent out invites to his five friends.

It was going to be legendary.

Halloween came and a team from Horrors in the Home Inc. Turned up in good time to get everything ready as per the customer's specific requirements. For a relatively new business it was the biggest Halloween job they'd got so wanted to pull out all the stops for their top customer.

All was set. The actors were all in place throughout the house and garden. It was quarter to nine.

The guests could be seen walking past the house and up the drive. Five of them all wearing masks and gloves. Various other Halloween truck or treaters loped by and shouted their admiration for the costumes.

The five sort of trundled through the door and gathered in the front room.

They nodded at the house owner and all of them looked through the window.

The was a full moon.

The Horrors in Your Home supervisor came into the room and stopped dead. The guests looked so damn real with their fur and talons. Only the customer wasn't in costume.

You've done a great job pal. Are all the actors in position? 

Yes. Just as you wanted. 

Brilliant.

The customer gave each of his five guests a location card for each 'house horror' where they were to visit. Basement, attic, garden etc.

The supervisor thought that was a neat idea and made a mental note to produce cards himself.

OK.

OK.

Hey, pal. You ever see the transformation scene in the Howling?

Er, yeah, sure. It's a classic. Even on a par with the one in American Werewolf in London.

One of the guests grunted.

Well, pal. I thought you might like to see it again.

Er, what?

Yeah, here, live. Just for you.

Er, OK.

The supervisor readied himself for what he thought was going to be an epic Halloween prank and shoved his hands in his pockets.

The customer smiled and stared at the full moon outside.

Immediately he began to change. His bones started to snap and crack and his body grew thick fur all over. His face elongated into a snout and his hands and feet developed massive razor-sharp claws.

The supervisor was in shock. He'd never seen anything so damn realistic in his life and automatically began to wonder how much this guy would want to join his company.

What did you think of that pal?

The customer, on all fours, stared at the supervisor, bared his huge fangs and snarled.

Amazing! So classic! How did you do it? With squibs and rubbers?

Not really. You see it was real. I really am a werewolf!

Get away! C'mon Sir, show me how it was done.

Oh, I'll show you alright!

At this, the enormous werewolf growled and leapt onto the hapless supervisor, whereupon he ripped him to shreds and devoured all his torn limbs in several large greedy gulps.

The rest of the party were all excited now and began frothing at the mouth. 

Happy Halloween guests! Come and meet me in my special office once you're done.

The customer nodded to his five. They each loped to their set location from where terrible screams could be heard, followed by wet loud tearing and violent munching.

The customer crawled stealthily to his own set, which held a nostalgic charm for him all of its own. It was from his favourite scene in his best movie and one in which he felt he'd excelled in every way. Even the Doc had thought so too.

Arriving in the moon-lit office set up just as he's specified, he glimpsed the actress rifling through the top files in the cabinet. Just as he'd instructed. He was very impressed.

As the actress pulled out the first folder and studied it, the customer placed his huge furred paw on the cabinet top and began to tap his dreadful claws, just as he'd done in his star turn.

Recognize me young lady?

The actress was startled by just how genuine the client's wolf suit was. 

She smiled.

Look at the file.

She stared at the name. Edward Quist. It seemed familiar and then she saw it. The name of the film.

The Howling! 

Ah, I see you know who I am.

Fabulous costume Sir!

Oh but it's not. Not a costume. Read the other film names out. On the other files.

An American Werewolf in London.

A huge wolf crept forward and grimaced, it's face fur matted with gore.

Werewolf of London.

An older wolf came out of the shadows and grinned, whilst still chewing sinews.

The Curse of the Werewolf.

A muscular beast stood up growling, a human arm in its paw.

The Legend of the Werewolf.

A young werewolf snarled, wiping the grue from it's mouth. 

The Wolf Man.

Slowly an enormous creature stepped out from behind the door and bared his formidable and dripping red teeth.

The rest of the wolves bowed.

You go first Lowrence.

No, please Eddie. It's your show. I Insist.

Well, thank you.

The client reared up in front of the now petrified actress and clawed her to pieces.

When he'd finished eating he offered the leftovers to his applauding guests.

David Kessler raised his talons.

The kids got talent!

They all laughed heartily and from the house could be heard a pack of wolves howling excitedly as the moon drifted in and out of crimson clouds.

It was Halloween.

No-one batted an eyelid.

The Doctor of Tears

Avenham Harris was a doctor of the eye.

An eminent oculist of the highest standing, a giant among the ophthalmologists peering into the pupils of the Capital.

A specialist of nasolacrinal systems and their hydrology, he was the foremost expert in diagnosing and treating conditions and predicaments of what the layman would call 

.... the tear ducts.

To his patients he was a god, a nimble-fingered olympian who could rid them of every conceivable agonising blockage and excruciating encrustation. 

His waiting list was legendary and King Edward himself had sought the doctor's solace with a regular royal drain.

This regal approval and his general aloofness made Harris's peers both respectful and resentful in equal measure.

Professionally Harris was a known quantity, known somewhat cruelly as the Ductor, but his private life was another matter entirely.

It was just that, entirely private and his colleagues along that most prestigious of medical postcodes had no idea as to what he did behind those sumptuous mahogany doors of his enviable address of No.1 Harley Street.

What they did know was that tragedy had struck Avenham Harris some years earlier. 1898 to be exact when, taking the air together, his own beloved wife Florentine had died suddenly and terribly one dreadful Autumn Sunday, when a brewer's drey ran amok in Knightsbridge brutally robbing her of her tender life and Avenham Harris's one true love. She had died in his arms, her skull crushed and her vision gone. Her final bleeding tears seering his mind shut as they fell down his cheek into his tortured mouth.

Since the accident Dr. Harris had withdrawn completely from the soirees and balls of  London Society Florentine had enjoyed so much and was never seen again outside of the walls of his pre-eminent practise. He chose to work industriously and grieve alone becoming a mere misted shadow of his former self.

His patients respectfully kept quiet about his deceased wife, their English reserve protecting them from any embarrassing discourse with the good doctor. Besides, he was far too diligent an oculist to veer from medical matters, so much so that he focused ever more on the hydrological cycle of the eye. The grainy sleep, the sludgy rheum, the crystalline discharge, the subtle fluids. 

But above all of these issues he coveted a singular secretion more than any other, namely, hemolacria, the uniquely rare tears of blood, the tears his darling wife Florentine had wept as she lay fatally wounded in his hands.

To Avenham Harris these were sacred tears, the very essence of grief and a beautiful life cut profoundly short. They were the red veils of Heaven and the iron footsteps of his Wife's path and the very waymarks to her grieving soul.

His too. 

His and her salvation lay in those crimson waters and he would do anything in his power to re-capture that terrible euphoria of tasting Florentine's tears of blood.

As he assiduously collected the watery deposits of his many patients in meticulously labelled glass phials, a rumour spread among them and eventually the medical circle too, that the esteemed Avenham Harris was displaying signs of odd behaviour and in the vernacular of the time, losing his marbles. 

Little did they know that the eye specialist had indeed developed strange occupations and the strangest of all was the body in his cellar.

The body of his dead wife Florentine.

Having duped the funeral director with a sack of sand in the coffin, Harris had secretly procured her corpse from the morgue almost immediately after the accident and hidden it deep below his practice in the Victorian basements. 

In God's name to what end his curious peers might enquire should they have known, but the answer would not have been pleasant for them to hear or indeed envisage, for Dr. Harris had been collecting Florentine's red tears ever since she had passed in his arms that fateful day in Knightsbridge. After tasting this holiest of waters, his compulsion began at the scene itself and taking a small empty bottle he had in his jacket he decanted his first divine volume from Florentine's tear ducts, which he consumed that evening sat by the fireside in her favourite seat and recited her most beloved prayer.

Inevitably as decomposition set in, the Doctor's clandestine milking began to suffer as the pipes and runnels of his Wife's broken skull started to harden and dessicate. Since he drank the fluid the same day, in the evening by the hearth, his supply was empty and he felt the first pangs of a new sorrow and the physical strictures of withdrawal from his necessary libation.

His lachryphagia was unquenchable.

Harris was beside himself with anguish and torment, his soul aching for continued reunion with his darling Florentine and his palette screaming for its ferrous rheumy nightcap.

With no expense spared the once-esteemed medic commissioned the services of restoration men to drain the tears of the mortuary's fresh incumbents, the more violent the end the better.

Chatter abounded about the wild look in the Doctor's eyes these days, his awkward siphoning of his patients' weeping as he explained, cruelly, that there was nothing he could do save store a sample for some future research.

When the red vineyard of the district's dead did nothing for his compulsion, Avenham Harris turned to a more select and altogether more dangerous source, those shadowy figures who for a price procure rare and nefarious relics for the curiously wealthy of the Capital, the rich collectors of the arcane who ponder the Pit behind varnished desks.

Bring me the tears of a Stigmata.

Harris handed over the bag of cash and the bargain was set late one night in the darkness of his porch.

He waited and waited until at last the nocturnal purveyor knocked and gave the twitching Doctor a clear receptacle containing purportedly the devout grue from a believer's pious puncta.

Avenham Harris waved the man away and shambled into his unkempt parlour, the glass phial quivering in his hand. 

He devoured it's contents.

And felt nothing.

In pain, both physical and of the spiritual mind, he retreated to the cellars and begged his decaying love for some comfort, some sacrifice, some tears.

In that darkness, the gut of the building's reeking foundation, the assailed medic gave in to his distemper and fierce slaps of hopelessness punished his flailing mind.

I am indeed in Hell's dominion and I fear I am losing you Florentine my darling.

He wept and as his own sorrowful drops mixed with the entropy of his beloved his thoughts turned to darker regions still.

Yes.

If not there in Heaven then here.

But we will need a harbinger, a confluence, a carrier of souls.

That's it.

Once more the now maddening Doctor reached out to the dealer of relics and made a request of such enormity, such danger that the sum of a thousand pounds was required forthwith.

The following night the familiar knock and another decanter transfered.

I do not wish to see you again my good man.

Nor I Doctor. I shall be leaving London this very night. It's not safe here anymore after getting you .... That!

The manic Harris staggered to his wife, unwittingly knocking over an oil lamp, which set the ancient timbers alight. 

Oblivious to anything else, Harris tipped some of the dark bubbling liquid onto Florentine's still lips and then frantically into his own.

He slumped down by the gurney, where his spirit finally collapsed and he thought he glimpsed the rising flames of their dreadful destination.

Look Florentine, look, the fires! It's worked!

Together! 

We shall be in Hell together forever!

It's marvellous! Look! 

I gave him everything I owned, everything so we could drink the rarest of all the world's wept issues my darling, yes, the damnably bloody tears of .... 

Satan himself!

Ha ha ha ha ha!

Monsters Brawl

There were strict rules around monster brawls.

No mixed monsters.

Stick to your own.

Go up the table.

Everyone knew it.

Everyone stuck to it.

Everyone except Hearse.

Hearse was the killer king werewolf, the best of his beastly kind. The Topper most dog.

He was bored with moon-kind and thirsty for blood that wasn't wolf. 

What he craved was vintage vampire.

Victorian kingpin vampire blood.

God how he dreamt of it's iron theft, the vineyard of its myriad victims. It must taste like layer cake. A tart of bites. Oh God, Yes!

Hearse was obsessed but the monster code was clear. No mixed monster fights. No exceptions. 

Well fuck the rulebook! Gentlemen be damned!

He'd get some top vamp blood no matter what. He had to. Or he'd go insane with vein lust.

As luck would have it however, he overheard something that very night.

Something interesting. Something seductively juicy.

It was in the tavern, the Old Neck, where he was unknown to the mirror-shy clientele.

Dressed in a disguise of cloak and wide hat, Hearse sat by himself in the corner guarding his stout. It was a non-moon night so he could concentrate and enjoy himself.

His lupine ears pricked up.

"You 'eared about King Roma? He's been stood up again. No brawl means he loses pints.  It's that old fucker Globin who bailed. Roma's livid. He's ready to take on any other sucker to keep the crown. The gauntlet's been thrown! They've just to leave word with the landlady."

"There'll be bloody hell to pay for anyone who takes Roma on!"

"You're not fuckin' kiddin' mate!"

At this the two rickety old vamps finished their 'tomato juice' and sidled off into the depths of London's teeming night.

Hearse had heard everything. 

His sensitive features twitched with excitement and a nasty ruse formed in his furred brain.

Tightening up his black cloak and tipping his hat, Hearse went to the bar and taking a quill, he hurriedly scribbled a note.

It said:

Butchers Wharf.

Midnight tomorrow.

A contender.

Grunting, his face shadowed, he whispered.

Give this to Roma.

With a flourish Hearse left the Old Neck and threw the hated garb in the brazier outside the door, the burning wooden crucifixes the sign this was vampire turf.

Fuckin' suckers! Can't fuckin' stand 'em, but by God do I wanna drink their guts! And Roma, old King Brawler himself will do very nicely thank you!"

Hearse chuckled like a big dog and sloped off to his quarters behind the Elephant graveyard on the edge of town, where he lived with a girl ghoul called Carrion, who kept the place clean. She was company too on moonless days. Werewolves had a hard time making friends. He'd never eat Carrion either. She'd taste like shite.

But Hearse hadn't been alone in his curiosity in the Old Neck that night.

Another stranger was watching at the bar, minding his own business in the gloom of a broken gaslamp.

He'd seen Hearse writing his note. He'd read it's contents. He'd memorised them.

He would be there too. Butcher's Wharfe. 

Kronack. The Beast Hunter. The Monster Killer. Doing God's work and ridding the world of heathen devils for good.

Yes, he'd be there and kill two birds with one stone!

The following evening was a miserable slur of rain and smog from the Capital's chimneys. 

If monsters don't kill Londoners, the factories will, mused Hearse as he quickly made his way to the station, where the milk train would deliver him onto Butcher's Wharfe by the sickly Thames.

He had to hurry to board before the moon was full to its brim. He mustn't turn yet. 

He took a cheap seat and drew the window blind. Hunkering down, Hearse focused on saving his change until the last crucial minute on the Wharfe.

A carriage in front sat King Roma, intrigued by the challenge left at the bar and savouring the rising tide of fury swirling round his stolen blood. His finger bones cracked like pottery as his reverie crescendoed in a dream of welling gore.

In the car behind sat Kronack, his felt hat low over his scarred face, the gas declined to shadow. On his lap lay the weapons of his trade, his blessed spear and blade, the arsenal with which he would smite the two fell kings and deny them their spattered crowns.

As the Milk train rattled like a crate of blood, the enormous smoking temples of industry towered by the river's banks, their incessant spew of sulphurous plumes a vision of man's own monstrousness. From the innards of these factories puked soups of wastes and arsenics straight into the bubbling Thames, now but a thick slow eddy of death, as it crawled to the desperate sea.

As if being shuttled through Hades itself, the trio of strangers peeked behind the blinds to glimpse this stygian stream, oblivious to the fate that awaited them on the abandoned Butcher's Wharfe.

As the locomotive slowed it's steaming heart to stop, the conductor roared down the mostly empty string of carriages,

Butchers! Next stop Butchers!

The three disembarked into the Wharf's insipid darkness, each disappearing behind stacks of mouldy crates and rusting derricks.

From the farthest carriage a fourth alighted too, a tall, hooded and veiled woman wrapped in a long sable velvet cloak. 

She too slid into the blackness of the jetty and as she moved her hood writhed.

As midnight approached, Roma flexed his pallid digits and ran his ancient acrid tongue across his fangs.

He hissed in anticipation of a skirmish with his kind, a ruckus to keep his bloody crown, King Roma, Vampire Brawler. 

The pounding of twelve strikes echoed along the dying Thames from Big Ben up river and reverberated round the derelict docks like a death-knell.

It was time.

Time to step out onto the cobbled Wharf.

Roma strode into the moonlight, his terrible pulse beating deliciously quick.

He heard the loud growl first and then, as his challenger emerged, his dessicated heart sank. 

Snarling viciously at the bright moon, a hateful creature of legend crawled onto the stonework.  

Not a vampire at all but a werewolf. 

A wolfman of enormous proportions.

Hearse. The King Wolf warrior himself!

A mixed monster brawl!

Vampire verses Werewolf!

Sacrilegious!

Mutinous!

Roma was appalled, but quickly realized he had to fight in order to save face. And to survive!

Baring his terrifying canines, Roma took off his cape and shirt, hunched and readied for the blooding.

As the grimacing Kings circled each other, sizing strength and power, a third figure entered the glowing stage.

Greetings Creatures of the Night!

It is I, the Monster Killer, here to vanquish you both to Hell once and for all!

Roma purred. Another one!

Kronach! You human scum! It is you who will perish this night and join my legion of the vampiric dead!

Hearse roared too.

Kronack! Roma! It matters not how many there are! You shall all end up between my jaws and believe me when I say, I'm hungry!

The three mortal enemies faced each other.

An iota of time to bolster themselves before striking.

It would be the mother of brawls.

Roma lunged first, his long craven fingernails scraping Kronach's forehead, dark hot blood flinging across the flaking capstans.

The Killer winced, then pounced, his sabre slicing off the dark King's pointed ear and quivering cheek. It all fell into Hearse's open palm, who devoured it ravenously, sputum drooling as he smiled, before leaping into the fray, furiously raking the vampire's leathery back with massive razor-sharp talons. 

The blood King wailed and unleashed himself fully, hurtling through the gore-fogged air, landing on Hearse's shoulders, where he bit deep and hard into the werewolf's pulsing neck. 

The warrior wolf howled as the tensile fangs entered its flesh and began to feed. Hearse reached back and grabbed onto Roma's oily head with his gargantuan paws. Both tensed in a rictus of power.

Kronach seized the moment and expanding his telescoping spear of silver, ran full pelt at both beasts and pushed it's brutal tip first through Hearse and then through Roma, the long sharp shaft impaling both and exiting out of the other side.

The fiends reeled and shrieked in agony as they writhed on the blessed lance pinning them together, it's caustic sacristy dissolving their demonic flesh.

Kronach bellowed in triumph as his quarry visibly wilted upon his sacred weapon and he flicked bottled holy water across their hissing forms.

It was at this moment that the fourth passenger from the train glided past the dreadful fray, the mysterious hidden woman.

Who goes there! 

Kronach brandished his fearful sword.

Show yourself!

.... Now!

The being halted and exiting the wharfe's shadows, seemingly floated into the moonlit ring, where she stopped dead.

Reveal yourself woman! Believe me, you are in the wrong place! 

Kronach barked as the two flailing monsters, gnashing and spitting behind his back, freed themselves from the cursed pole and held it aloft.

Unperturbed, the secretive lady slowly pulled down her undulating hood and gently removed her veil.

It was then that the Monster Killer regretted ever asking, for he at once recognized her vile and fatal face. 

Holy Mother of God! 

Medusa! 

But how? You were imprisoned in the British Victorian Museum's store of ancient myths.

The question froze on Kronach's lips, his last ever thought, as his spear slid through his gut just as his body petrified on the spot completely. 

Hearse and Roma, gnashing their hideous teeth, leapt loping madly towards the woman creature, hell-bent on the interloper's cruel demise. 

As quickly as they crept they both choked. Their gutteral snarls stuck fast in their throats like the rest of their stiffening frames.

They turned entirely to stone at Medusa's feet, the monsters' drool setting solid as it fell.

The Gorgon looked upon her impromptu work dispassionately and pulling up her hood and veil returned on her passage of escape across the dark wharves towards the steamer, moored in the far distance, bound for her ancient homeland of Greece.

In the morning the few sleepy vagrants who frequented the old Butcher's dockland were amazed and frightened in equal measure by the sight of the new statue stood on the cobbled yard by the river.

A hateful but clever statue group, apparently hewn overnight in moonlight from solid stone, depicting a terrible epic battle between vampire, werewolf and hunter. 

A monsters brawl.