The May Featured Writer is Kenneth O'Brien

Please feel free to email Kenneth at: kvob@btinternet.com

THE CHORERS SOCIETY
by Kenneth O’Brien

Sammy Rutherford strutted around me, his jerking head synchronized with the staccato movement of his legs. With arms bent at the elbows, he waved them in an up and down motion—mimicking the wings of a bird.

“Chick-chick-chick-chick chicken!” he sang.

I could feel my ears burning and knew that my face was scarlet with embarrassment. “I’m no chicken!” I countered angrily.

I’d only met Sammy a few days ago and, until this moment, found myself getting on well with him. He didn’t go to Port Linton Elementary and said that he went to a school in Edinburgh instead. I think the strangest thing about him was his clothes. It seemed odd that a boy roughly the same age as me would dress in such an old-fashioned way.

We’d encountered each other on one of those late autumn evenings at the end of a school day. My regular friends had all gone home but I decided to stick around for a while longer. I’d always felt that, sometimes it was good to have only your thoughts for company, but then Sammy Rutherford appeared out of the shadows and I was no longer alone. Since that initial encounter, we began to meet regularly and I offered to introduce him to my other pals but he said no. I understood his reasoning; a boy from a different school wasn’t always welcome. Anyway, he said, he had friends of his own—more like a gang—he added mysteriously: The Society of Chorers.

Sammy screeched, doing his best to imitate the sound of a hen. “If you’re no chicken, then climb through the in the fence and grab some apples.”

“I can’t. My dad says it’s stealing.”

Sammy ended his dance and looked at me with a frown. “Choring apples isn’t stealing.”

“Yes, it is,” I said. “If you take them without the owner’s permission, then it’s stealing.”

“That doesn’t count for apples.”

“Why not?”

“Because no one ever picks these apples. If we don’t take them, they’ll just fall to the ground and rot. Might as well be in our belly than some slug’s. That’s why it’s called choring—because it’s different from stealing.”

I opened my mouth to reply but simply closed it again. I felt there was a point to his argument. Could you steal something that nobody wanted?

“I’m still not going through the hole.”

Sammy leaned against the fence. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

“Cluck, cluck, chicken!”

“I’m not chicken!”

“Then go through the hole.”

I knew that if I didn’t do it, I’d be the butt of sneers and jokes for months to come. Gritting my teeth, I turned my attention to the small gap in the high, wooden fence and the gloomy building beyond.

It was getting darker and I was unable to admit to Sammy that he had been right: I was scared. We stood at the top of a deep, grassy depression known as The Hully. Legend had it that a German bomber shedding its load to escape pursuing Spitfires had formed this area. One of the bombs landed and created the hollow that, over the years, became a gathering place for children to play games of football, Kick the Can or Deserters.

On this particular night, only Sammy Rutherford and I were present and I knew that what I faced was, in reality, an initiation. Sammy was a member of the Chorers and obviously had been set the task of gauging my worthiness for inclusion into the society. He said that it was considered a great honor to be accepted into this brotherhood.

“Come on, Tommy,” he goaded, “just get in there, grab a few apples and come back out. There’s nothing to it. And afterwards, I will introduce you to my friends.”

I looked up and could see the branches of apple trees just beyond the wooden barrier. “Have you done it?” I asked Sammy, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Of course I have,” he snorted. “What do you take me for?”

“In and out? Just like that?”

“That’s right.”

“What if I get caught?”

“You won’t, and even if you do, The Count’s far too old to run after you.”

“The Count?”

Sammy shrugged. “Don’t know what his real name is. We call him that because he always wears a black suit like Count Dracula.”

“Does he have a cape?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“He’s not a…”

Sammy laughed. “Now you’re really being stupid.”

I bit my lip and nodded.

As I crouched next to the hole and prepared to enter, I noticed the lengthening shadows of the overhanging trees begin to creep down the wooden slats like dark talons. I couldn’t afford to let my imagination get the better of me so took a deep breath, gripped the edges of broken slat and hurled myself through the gap into the dark undergrowth beyond. I immediately yelped as I found myself tangled in the thorns of a bramble bush.

I managed to untangle my body from the thorns but received a few scratches for my trouble. I got to my feet and found myself on a narrow track that meandered through the thick, overgrown garden. Sammy had already explained to me that the apples overhanging the fence were Cookers. He wanted Eaters, which grew closer to The Count’s home.

The shadow of the building loomed menacingly over me as I made my way along the garden path. Half expecting to be ambushed by some strange beast, I struggled against the rising fear that fluttered in my stomach until, a few steps on, I saw the trees that were the target of my mission and gave a sigh of relief. So far so good, I thought.

Their branches were heavy with fruit but just out of reach when I tried to stretch up towards them. I began scrambling up the trunk until I felt that I was close enough to get hold of the apples but found them still beyond my grasp. I leaned further out when the inevitable happened. Dropping headfirst,  I stretched my arms out in order to break the fall, squealing in agony at the pain in my left wrist as I hit the damp but solid ground.

The porch lamp came on and I was bathed in harsh electric light. A figure silhouetted against the glare appeared at the front door and moved to where I lay nursing my wrist.

“What’s going on here? What are you doing, boy? Were you trying to steal my apples?”

He was dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt and bowtie. His hair was jet black and slicked back revealing a high forehead and intense, dark eyes. His voice contained a hint of an accent that I didn’t recognize but it was enough for me to understand that he wasn’t born in these parts.
I groaned still holding my wrist.

He stepped outside. “You’re hurt,” he said, kneeling beside me and helping me to my feet. “Come inside. I’ll get you fixed up.”

“No, that’s okay; I’m fine,” I said, but felt his hand on my shoulder guiding me towards the old house.

His voice had lost its harshness and now contained a note of concern, “You fell on my property so I am responsible to see if you’re hurt or not.”

With a slight pressure from his hand, he gently directed me into his house, across the threshold, through a long, dim corridor and into a large sitting room. A pair of leather chairs sat near a massive fireplace where logs crackled as they were consumed by flames. There hung a number of paintings on walls covered in red and black-patterned paper. The pictures depicted a variety of characters in different historical garb, all bearing a distinct resemblance to the owner of the house. I also noticed a sickly scent that made me feel giddy. There was something else in the mix of the odor—an unpleasant undercurrent of decay—like dead flowers. For a moment, I thought I could hear an odd scratching sound coming from beyond the walls but, before I could properly decipher it, it was gone. It seemed like everything was happening in slow motion and I felt a knot in my stomach.

“If your wrist is broken, I may have to call your parents.”

I gave him a look of apprehension. I knew how much trouble I could be in if my mother and father became involved.

He gestured for me to sit in one of the old chairs. “Wait here,” he said. ‘I’ll get something to strap your wrist, and perhaps a glass of apple juice?”

I nodded and watched him exit through a door opposite the one we had entered. As I waited for him to return, my attention became focused on a small crystal sculpture on the mantle. It was out of place for the décor, and seemed almost alive as it glowed with colors that regularly grew and diminished, only to be replaced by other hues.

“Here’s your drink. I looked up to see the Count was standing beside my chair. He offered me a large glass. I took it with my good hand.

“How’s your wrist now?”

I flexed my fingers and became aware that the pain had decreased quite significantly. I took a large swig of the juice. It was delicious.

He spoke. “I am Marco di Tenebre.”

“They say you are a count.”

He gave a sharp nod. “Indeed I have that honor.”

“That crystal,” I said, pointing at it.

“It’s The Ghost Caller,” the Count told me.

I looked up at him with a quizzical expression.

“One can gain much power from it. The crystal transfers life and harvests that exquisite moment of terror just before death.”

That was enough for me. “I need to go home now.”

He seemed to pause. “You will have to find your own way out.”

I felt both afraid and angry. I could hear my mother’s words in my ear: Beware of strangers.

And you couldn’t get any stranger than the Count.

I stood up and quickly made my way to the front door within the dim corridor. My apprehension grew as I discovered that it was now locked. I peeked behind me and was relieved that the Count was not standing behind my back.

I looked for an alternative way out and noticed another three doors in the passageway. I opened the nearest as gently and quietly as I could but stepped back in surprise as that sickly sweet scent hit me once more. The odor was much stronger beyond this opening and the underlying sense of decay more pronounced. As I opened the door further, I could see the yellow glow of some form of illumination.

Afraid that the Count might appear at any minute. I stepped inside and gently closed the door behind me. I stood in a room where black, velvet curtains covered the walls. I saw a lump that gained definition as I crept forward, peering through the flickering shadows and candlelight. I put my hand to my mouth in horror as I discerned that the object was a shriveled head.

I could hear the Count’s voice. “Let’s play a game. Where are you, boy? Here I come, ready or not!”

I looked around frantically for a window. I was terrified beyond comprehension. I knew that I would never leave this house if he caught me.

The Count’s voice sounded closer—a malicious, almost musical whisper. “Come out, wherever you are.”

I could feel my heart pounding against my ribs and felt certain that di Tenebre would hear it. I became convinced that my own dread might give me away. I wanted to whimper, crawl and beg for my life, but I knew that was too risky. There was no doubt in my mind now that the Count would kill me and shrink my head.

I heard footsteps—soft, measured, deliberate. He was coming in the room.

Feeling like a child, I ducked behind the curtains. I grabbed the window sill but it was painted shut. I tugged at it with my whole being. It was my only chance to survive.

Oh God, please let this window open!

And then, the smell of his fetid breath assailed my nostrils and I sensed that he stood just beyond the curtain. His breathing was shallow, shivering in an almost orgasmic fashion and I got the impression of a ravenous, unnatural beast.

Fearful imaginings began to form in my brain of what he was going to do to me. My mind was screaming that maybe he was a real vampire after all.

I stood in feverish trepidation within the soft dark folds of the curtain’s material, waiting for a hand to rip through the fabric and clutch at my face but it never came. The footsteps receded and only when I heard the door close did I dare to draw breath and relax slightly.

But why had he changed his mind? I was an easy target; an easy victim.

Alone once more, I gathered my wits. I would never be able to open the window, so this room was a dead end. I had to find another way out so I peered through the curtains to make sure that the coast was clear. Satisfied that The Count had really left the room, I crept to the door and opened it as gently as I could. Checking that the corridor was empty, I moved to the room at the far end of the hall.

I heard the scratching sounds again as I fumbled down a set of stairs in the darkness. Was there another child in this house? Was that why the Count walked away, because he had another victim?

I was surprised when I managed to reach the bottom of the stairs without falling. Immediately, I searched the nearby walls with my hands for a light switch and soon found one. After a satisfying click, the room was bathed in light and I shuddered in revulsion.

On the floor of the cellar lay a row of a dozen or so half-devoured, desiccated and headless small corpses. I noticed that one body wore the tattered remnants of clothing similar to Sammy Rutherford and I realized that it was indeed Sammy.

Around these dead children, the ground milled with rats. Some of them feasted on the human remains while others scratched and chewed at the walls. When I stepped back from the horrific sight, I sensed another presence close by and turned to see the black, burning eyes of Count Marco di Tenebre.

“This is the end of the game, boy,” he said. “You lose.”

*****

Sammy Rutherford is gone and I stand in his place as the usher of the gap in the fence on dark nights. I am a member of The Chorers Society, complete with its weight of ghostly chains. Only when I lure another unsuspecting child to steal apples for a changing of the guard, will I be able to rest in my grave.

Kenneth O’Brien is lucky enough to live and work in the south of Scotland. It’s an area rich in history and legends and is where much of the inspiration for his writing comes from. 

Recently he has had stories in Dark Eclipse Ezine issue 36 and an anthology called Malevolence: Tales From Beyond the Veil (published by Tickety Boo Press).