The Book of Kindly Deaths Read online

  The Book of Kindly Deaths

  Eldritch Black

  The Book of Kindly Deaths

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  PUBLISHED BY:

  Eldritch Black

  Copyright © 2016

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  http://eldritchblack.com/

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  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously

  For Lora, Mum, Gaye, and Nanna for your support, belief, and guidance, with much love.

  Contents

  1. Awakening

  2. The Collector Calls

  3. Dark House

  4. The Hidden Room

  5. The Book of Kindly Deaths

  6. Halfers Hollow

  7. The Watcher

  8. A Pocketful of Souls

  9. No Such Thing

  10. Into the Grimwytch

  11. The Wrong People

  12. Visitings

  13. Grim Shivers

  14. Over the Threshold

  15. Trapped

  16. The Malady Inn

  17. Shard

  18. Bound by Wyrd

  19. Malumdell

  20. The House at the End

  21. Grim Shadows

  22. Endings

  23. Monsters

  24. Into The Midnight City

  25. The Tower

  26. The Light House

  27. The Ghoul Triumphant

  28. Styxsturm

  29. Of Beast and Arrow

  30. Flight

  31. The Deal

  32. Through the Window

  A Preview of Krampus and The Thief of Christmas by Eldritch Black

  Krampus and The Thief of Christmas

  Afterword

  Also by Eldritch Black

  About the Author

  1

  Awakening

  On a desk in the room with the stained glass window sat a book.

  It was a thick volume with a worn and cracked black cover revealing a golden symbol; a slim rectangle within two circles that sparkled and flickered as if teased by ghostly fingers. Voices whispered from inside the book, a few human, a few not. As their distant howls and cries grew louder, the book rocked with such force that it flew into the air and hovered.

  When it thumped back onto the desk, the thick fountain pen next to it leapt into the air like a tiny brass salmon. As it clattered down upon the desk, a spark shot from the pen’s nib, playing over the book and sending its pages flying open.

  One by one, the pages flipped, faster and faster, an animated blur of neat blue writing seeming to jump with the book as its dusty pages turned.

  Beyond the room with the book and the stained glass window, the room that had no business being there, the dark, sprawling house was silent.

  Like a cat, tensed and still and waiting for its prey to make a move.

  The man in the old-fashioned suit awoke. He took a deep breath and filled his lungs, his eyes wide with the exertion as he muttered at the dull ache in his borrowed joints. He had no idea how long he’d lain on the cave floor. How many days and nights had passed in that black and dreamless sleep? He glanced down at his clothes, fussily wiping spots of mildew from his cuff with long, thin fingers.

  All he knew, as he scrubbed, was that he felt a terrible yearning for the book. And that it had fallen from his grasp many, many moons ago.

  He walked, taking large strides, stretching the ache from his long legs as he went. At the cave’s entrance, the remains of its original occupant stared lifelessly, its large, curved teeth yellowed in its broken skull. He kicked the bones as he passed. Whatever creature they’d belonged to hadn’t dared confront him, not even in his deep, dreamless sleep.

  Beyond the cave, a small graveyard. More bones.

  One of the graves stood empty, a smashed coffin lid beside a dark hole. The grave where he’d found his new body. The man’s flesh was still weaving itself together as he raised his mottled hand, shielding his eyes from the soft, insipid daylight.

  He climbed the hill above the cave, and the farther he got, the more treacherous the ground became. He began to slide and slip, throwing out his hands and grasping at tufts of brown grass. He splayed his fingers, remembering how strong his previous incarnation had been, allowing the memory to give him the strength he needed to continue.

  Eventually, he made it to the summit and looked out over a body of cloud-gray water. Far in the distance, a string of twinkling lights strewn across the horizon drew his eye to the mainland. He shook his head, fighting to control his voice. It was a struggle to speak and would be until the body he’d dug up was fully his to occupy. “When…I?” he asked, the words ragged and guttural. He tried to swallow. “When… am…I?” He pointed a pale white finger toward the coast. “Whenever…am. I…been tricked.”

  Eliza Winter stood in her grandfather’s garden for the first time in six years.

  Flowers towered above her, the few petals left on their stems curled, dead and withered. She stamped her feet against the chilly January day while her parents fussed around the car, removing bedding, blankets, and backpacks.

  Eliza would have offered to help, but as she spotted the agitation on her mother’s face, she thought better of it. She gazed along the path, at the tufts of grass glittering with frost, remembering how her grandparents, Tom and Susan, had always kept the garden so pristinely tidy. Eliza wondered what they’d make of it if they could see its state now.

  She glanced up at the wide, sullen sky with sadness as she thought of the people who had lived here. The people she’d barely known.

  The house reared before her, taller and darker than the other houses on the street. As her gaze fell upon the small tower jutting from the side of its sloping roof, Eliza recalled standing in its room as sunbeams filtered through all four windows. A stark contrast to this drab and bitter winter’s day.

  She looked past the tower to the chimneys, tall stacks of dark-red bricks, and wondered when smoke had last risen from them.

  Three months? Three years?

  Her mum had only told Eliza of her grandfather’s disappearance a few days ago. And while no one knew exactly how long Tom had been missing, Eliza got the feeling her parents weren’t expecting to see him again.

  “Miss Winter!” She jumped at her father’s voice. He grinned, balancing a large bag on his head and swaying across the pavement like a clown. Behind him, her mother threw worried glances at the neighbors’ windows.

  “Miss Winter,” her father repeated as he tossed her a ring of keys. “Open up, would you? And get the kettle on. Before we die of thirst and hypothermia.”

  Eliza forced a smile and walked through the garden. As she neared the house, she glanced at its windows and was relieved to find them empty.

  The man in the well-tailored suit hiked down the hill, a grim sense of purpose in his crane-like strides. His eyes were set on those distant lights, an unpleasant sneer playing over his thin, cracked lips.

  A cliff yawned below him, and again he let the memory of his old body fill this new, borrowed vessel. It may have been a worn old thing, he thought as he looked at the bones he’d stitched together, but it would suit this world. He slithered over the edge of the cliff and wove his way down the rocks like a spider, his gnarled fingers grasping the crevices and cracks. Eventually he stood on a shore, the sea breaking over the dark-green pebbles and rocks at his feet.

  The man in the old-fashioned suit took a deep breath, fixed his
eyes on the coast across the sea, and stepped into the icy waters.

  Eliza walked up the steps leading to the tall, looming red front door and did her best to ignore the knocker. It was just as she remembered it. Just as ugly and just as strange. A vile brass gargoyle with a malevolent grin. Eliza tutted, glancing into its mocking eyes. “It’s just a door knocker.”

  But still her hands trembled as she lifted the key.

  “Come on, you’re twelve years old, not six!” she chided herself.

  The phantom of a forgotten memory crossed her mind. A ghost of an event that had occurred the last time she was at this house. Although the recollection was fleeting, she still felt an icy sting of dread.

  In the distance, her parents’ voices jarred her, her mother’s irritation slicing through Eliza’s thoughts, lending her the strength and certainty to reach up and unlock the door.

  The book on the desk leaped and flipped, and the stained glass window above the desk shuddered as a strange, pungent breeze wafted through the cracks in its ancient glass.

  Far below, in the house, beyond the hidden room, a lock turned.

  As the front door opened, the book crashed back down upon the desk, its cover shut, its pages silent.

  2

  The Collector Calls

  Despite being in her grandfather’s house for two days, Eliza had explored very little of it. The place made her feel restless and uncomfortable. It was strange and utterly creepy, unlike her own home with its bright magnolia walls and the constant tang of bleach and order. Where everything was in its right place.

  But as dark, cold, and dusty as Tom’s house was, at least it felt lived in.

  As Eliza browsed through the bookshelves she recalled her mother’s specific instructions. “Leave the books alone, they’re just twaddle and silly imaginings. There’s nothing here for normal people.”

  Eliza didn’t question her mother’s advice; she’d learned well over the years that curiosity and questioning led to punishment. And the punishment, more often than not, was a lengthy spell indoors, which was pretty much the last place Eliza wanted to be.

  But as she peered at the bookshelves while her parents worked outside, Eliza felt a temptation to pick up one of the books, to find out exactly what it was that her grandfather read and collected. Instead, she sat once more before the roaring fire her father had made and picked up the book her mother had approved for her.

  From outside came the sound of her father shouting. Eliza smirked as she pictured her parents cataloguing the garden shed, their fear of clutter matched only by their terror of spiders. She imagined a great furry beast running over her father’s arm and then up into his hair, and smiled.

  She slumped back into the sprawling chair, which was as old-fashioned as everything else in the house, another relic from a bygone age.

  An empty seat sat next to Eliza’s, and she pictured her grandparents occupying them, wondering what they might have spoken about in the evenings as they sat before the fire. Two strange people in their strange house, cut off from their family.

  A painting sprawled above the fireplace, and there was something about it that left Eliza feeling quite unsettled, although she couldn’t say exactly what it was. It showed a large black tower looming above a city, a sea of distant rooftops below. And although there was nothing remarkable about the tower or the houses, something about the buildings didn’t feel right. It was as if they existed somewhere, but not in this world. Which was, of course, utterly ridiculous, and yet a part of her was certain it was true.

  Eliza looked away, taking her focus back to the fire and away from the dark city.

  Moments later, she jumped as two loud knocks filled the house. Eliza stood and glanced through the window into the garden, but her parents were out of sight and presumably still in the shed. Two more knocks cracked the air, and now Eliza could see an image of that repulsive brass gargoyle crashing against the door.

  “Who in their right mind would touch that thing?” she whispered. As she reached the front door, Eliza gazed at her hands, wondering why they were trembling so badly.

  The first thing she noticed about the man at the door was his height. He seemed almost too tall. This consideration was followed by a series of other observations that struck her like blows. He’s a locust, she thought. A human locust in a suit.

  She stepped back as a powerfully irrational fear swept over her; that at any moment he would leap at her like a grasshopper and devour her until all was darkness. Eliza looked up at the top hat crowning the strands of white hair that bisected his long, narrow face. Why was he wearing a top hat? Was it a costume? Was he a charity collector?

  No, he was no collector for charities, there was no warmth in that stare. His eyes were so red she couldn’t tell their color within the weave of broken blood vessels. They were set into an elongated, yellow-white face and his paper-thin flesh was stretched tautly over his skull, like an old drum skin.

  He grinned, revealing a mouth full of monstrous yellow teeth, and coughed into his gloved hand, looking as if he might be about to say something but had accidentally swallowed his words.

  “Can I help you?” Eliza asked, despite her better instincts, which were screaming at her to slam the door in his face. She could smell the sea, salty water, rotten fish, and seaweed. Perhaps it was coming from his dark, moldy suit.

  The man nodded briskly, tottering forward, and coughed out his reply. “Mr. Eustace…Fallow. Book Collector.”

  “Oh,” Eliza replied. It sounded like a made-up name. “Listen, we’re really busy today.”

  “I…look for the book.” Mr. Fallow extended his hand for her to shake, his gloved fingers as thin as pencils. He reached forward with surprising speed and snatched her hand, shaking it furiously as he gave an awkward bow. “You fetch the book now. Yes.”

  Eliza tore her hand free, stepping back into the house. “There aren’t any books here. Look, I have to go.”

  He shuffled after her, his glove splayed on the doorframe like a spider. “Just one book. Black cover, gold symbol…a thin rectangle inside two circles, a door inside two worlds. Make you rich.” He delved into his jacket pocket and produced a pouch, which he shook. It sounded like it contained pebbles as he promised, “Full of coins.”

  “Look,” Eliza tried to close the door, “there’s nothing for sale here. Go next door.”

  He pushed back on the door, his foot edging towards the threshold but shying away. “Need book. Then go.”

  “No. You’re going now. And don’t come back. Please.” Eliza slammed the door with all her might, closing her eyes, expecting to hear the sound of snapping fingers.

  But no sound came.

  She opened her eyes.

  The door stood where it should and beyond it, an uneasy silence. Eliza bolted it and ducked into the next room, running towards the curtains, desperate to close them and block the world out. What had just happened?

  She peeked through a gap in the curtains and watched Mr. Eustace Fallow lope down the street, a smile playing on his lips as he gazed ahead. I can see you, that smile said. I know you’re there.

  Eliza snapped the curtains closed, cloaking the room in darkness. Behind her, the books seemed to move on their shelves, watching her, a silent audience. She fled to the living room where the fire still blazed, but it offered little comfort as Eliza gazed through the window into the garden, wondering what to do.

  Should she tell her mother? Was it worth opening that Pandora’s box?

  No. No need.

  She’d wait until her father was alone and tell him about Mr. Fallow. And even though he’d make a joke of it, he’d maintain a watchful eye on the house and keep her story to himself. He knew how to tread on eggshells just as well as she did.

  The grandfather clock in the hall struck the hour, and now Eliza felt an overwhelming urge to find her father. She grabbed the back door, wrenched it open, and crossed the garden, heading for the dark bulk of the shed. She stood at its door, watchin
g her dad root through a pile of tools. He gingerly picked each one up as if expecting a spider to scuttle out as behind him, her mum stood with a notebook and poised pen. She glanced at Eliza. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I just thought I’d see how you’re doing.” Eliza smiled. “The house seemed a bit empty.”

  “We’ll be back home in a couple of days,” her dad said. “Provided we make it out of this shed without being eaten alive.”

  “You don’t look well, Eliza.” Her mum dropped the notebook on the workbench as her large brown eyes flitted over Eliza’s face. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. Honestly.” Eliza laced her fingers behind her back, torn between standing before her mum’s inspection and going back in the house. “I’m just tired. And bored.”

  “We’ll eat soon. Your father’s cooking tonight. So it will be bacon. Again.”

  “With a garnish of tomato-based sauce,” her dad added, affecting a posh voice. “And an accompaniment of organic butter luxuriously spread across a bed of wholegrain bread.”

  “Can’t wait.” Eliza forced another smile. She gazed at her father, ignoring her mum’s searching eyes. “I’ll go and turn the oven on if you like.”