Night shoot, p.1
Night Shoot, page 1
Night Shoot
David Sodergren
This book is a work of fiction.
Any resemblance to names and people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the author. All rights reserved.
Cover art and illustrations by Connor Leslie
Graphic design by Heather Sodergren
Copyright © 2019 David Sodergren
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 9781718170278
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Afterword
About the Author
Coming Soon
Praise for The Forgotten Island
"Lots of sex, violence, gore and laughs - this one is sure to be a hit with classic and modern fans alike!"
Sadie Hartmann, Scream Horror Magazine
"This book read like a blood-drenched love letter to Lovecraft, and didn't hold back on the splatter factor. But what impressed me more was Sodergren's masterful control of dread[...]this book is handled with impressive authority and confidence."
James Fahy, author of The Changeling series
"Nothing is going to prepare you for the mayhem Sodergren throws at you once he shows his cards. A novel packed with with old movie references, gore, violence, humour, wit and originality."
Gavin Kendall, Kendall Reviews
To Boris,
For sitting still long enough to let me write.
1
October 1976
He was late.
My God. My God!
He was late, and so he ran, the ruin of his car far behind him now, curled around a pine tree and belching black smoke into the atmosphere. He shouldn’t have been driving so fast, not at night, not when it was raining, but he was going to be late, dammit. Late!
Branches whipped across his face as he hurtled through the ancient forest. He chanced a glance at his watch and saw it was almost eight.
You’ll never make it, he thought, silently cursing himself. You’re too damn late.
The woods were dark, impenetrable to most, but he knew where he was headed. His foot caught a root and he crashed to the forest bed. Scrambling to his feet, he spat out a mouthful of pine needles and continued his mad dash, ignoring the pain that flared through his arm, his heart pumping. The forest was his only chance, a shortcut. The road was safer, but tonight safety took a backseat to punctuality. It had to.
It simply had to.
A light flickered in the distance, faint at first, then growing brighter. Nearly there! The trees parted and he was out, free from the grasping branches that tugged and tore at his suit, free from the claustrophobic forest he had spent his childhood exploring. His feet skipped over the grass, kicking up dirt as he raced towards the building.
Crawford Manor.
It had stood for centuries, a brooding sentinel overlooking the North Sea, long enough for old mysteries to settle and gnarled roots to creep insidiously into the earth. Within the dank walls of Crawford Manor, secrets were given time to breathe.
To atrophy.
To fester.
He knew this all too well.
Another light went on, then another, all across the manor, and a great pit opened in his stomach.
From inside, the grandfather clock tolled eight, the melancholy chimes bleeding through the walls and echoing throughout the clearing.
It was time.
Rummaging in his pocket as he bounded across the lawn, he drew out a set of keys, readying the large rusted one without even looking. He took the steps two at a time, three at a time. His shoulder hit the door and the key found the lock, turning fast, and then he was inside, making sure to slam the door behind him. He paused a moment, listening, hearing nothing but the waves crashing against the shore and the thump-thump of his heartbeat. Then he heard the scream.
As ever, the sing-song voice in his head mocked him.
Late, late, late. Always, always late.
He lurched forward on unsteady legs, leaving a trail of muddy bootprints across the expensive carpets, the screams (tortured, horrified) ringing in his ears, and he knew he would hear them forever more.
‘Please,’ he croaked. ‘I beg you…’
He headed for the dining room, the ungodly shrieks gaining in pitch, piercing his eardrums like hot needles. He stumbled, unable to continue, yet forcing himself to his feet. He had to see.
He had to know.
The door was closed. He faced it the way a boxer would an opponent, except now the fight had left him. His body sagged in defeat.
Late, late, late. Always, always late.
‘Shut up! Shut up!’ he raged.
The screams stopped.
‘Lord in Heaven, forgive me,’ he whispered, then turned the handle and let the door swing open. The lights were off and his trembling hand searched for the switch, found it, flicked it, and bathed the room in a sickly orange glow.
‘My God,’ he said, shaking his head and slumping against the wall, sinking to the floor. His hand shot to his mouth as his vacant eyes darted around the room. He wept.
‘My…God.’
He was late.
He was very late indeed.
2
43 years later
Elspeth Murray awoke in the greatest possible way — to the sound of Kermit the Frog gently crooning Rainbow Connection in her ear.
‘Shhh, frog,’ she whispered, eyelids either half-open or half-closed, it was hard to say.
‘That’s your alarm,’ groaned Sandy Beaumont from the other side of the bed, her eyes definitely shut, and that was the way they would stay, thank you very much. As Kermit reached the chorus, Sandy rolled over and nudged Elspeth with her foot. ‘Get up. Get up. Get up.’
The pressure was too great, and Elspeth caved. ‘Fine,’ she grumbled, grabbing her phone and rudely interrupting Kermit’s ballad. It was a poor choice of alarm anyway. Too relaxing. She always considered changing it to a song she hated, to give her more incentive to switch it off, but the thought of waking up to Coldplay was unbearable.
The room was pitch black, no morning light peeking through the blinds into the small flat the two girls shared. Elspeth shuffled from under the duvet and sat on the edge, wondering why it was so dark, and why was the heating not on, and what day was it, and — she glanced at her phone — why the fuck was her alarm going off at 5am?
‘Damn you, Kermit,’ she whispered, still lost in the delirium of a waking dream.
‘Get up,’ grumbled Sandy. ‘You’ve got to pick up Deek.’
The shoot! Elspeth wiped the sleep from her eyes. Yup, today was the first day of shooting their final student movie. She had to be at Deek’s for six and on location by seven-thirty. That left a full hour to shower and eat breakfast. Elspeth snuggled back under the covers and put her arm around Sandy’s waist.
‘Get up,’ said Sandy, sounding like a broken toy.
Squeeze her waist and she says her famous catchphrase — Get up!
Elspeth slid out of bed and lazily searched for her slippers on the cold wooden floor.
‘I made you a packed lunch. And your bag’s by the door.’
‘You’re turning into my mum.’
Sandy twisted onto her back. ‘You just made it weird,’ she said, as Elspeth fumbled around in the sock drawer. ‘Oh, and don’t worry about the noise, Ellie, I was already awake.’
‘Sorry,’ laughed Elspeth, not sorry in the slightest. ‘Guess you won’t mind if I put the light on then?’ She hit the switch before Sandy had a chance to respond.
‘I hate you.’
‘You love me.’
‘That too.’
She showered, and when she finished Sandy was sitting in bed reading the script.
‘Oh, don’t,’ groaned Elspeth, trying to snatch it out of Sandy’s hands.
‘But it’s so good,’ said Sandy. ‘I can’t wait to see’ — she checked the title on the cover page — ‘The Haunting of Lacey Carmichael, by Robert…Cawford? Oh my god Ellie, he can’t even spell his own name.’
‘I don’t want to know.’
‘This is it, Ellie. This is gonna be your big break, I can feel it.’
‘Don’t be facetious,’ laughed Elspeth. ‘It’s not attractive.’
Once again Elspeth tried to grab the script but Sandy leapt out of bed, reading aloud now as she ran round the bed in her pyjamas, Elspeth in hot pursuit.
‘Lacey strips and we see her breasts. There is a spooky noise, an d she goes to the window and looks out, her breasts pressed up against the glass.’
Elspeth chased after her. ‘Stop it!’
Sandy evaded Elspeth’s grasp and jumped back onto the bed, leafing through the pages until she found another ‘good bit’. It didn’t take long.
‘Lacey is naked. She admires herself in the mirror, plays with her breasts. Then Rex comes in. He is not naked, but they have sex. It’s very sexy.’ At that line, Sandy doubled over with laughter.
Elspeth followed Sandy onto the bed and tackled her, forcing her down and lying atop her. She wrestled the script out of her laughing girlfriend’s hand.
Sandy giggled. ‘It’s worse than I imagined! You can’t show this film in uni.’
Elspeth laughed too. She was helpless not to. ‘I didn’t write it!’ she grinned, pinning Sandy down.
‘You sure? It reads like your wildest fantasies.’
‘My only fantasy is you shutting up.’ She placed one hand over Sandy’s mouth, the other sneaking up her pyjama top and tickling her. Sandy screamed and fought, but Elspeth was stronger. After enough torture had been dished out, she let her go. Sandy pouted, her face flushed.
‘You’re horrible.’
‘I thought you said you loved me?’
‘Not anymore. Shouldn’t you be away? This masterpiece isn’t going to make itself, and I want to go back to sleep.’
Elspeth rolled off Sandy and lay next to her. The bed was so warm, so comfortable. She never wanted to leave it. But she had to. Her fourth year dissertation was already complete, and this shoot was all that stood between her and a Bachelor’s Degree in Film and Photography.
‘Yeah, I’d better go. Duty calls. Unless you want me to stay a few minutes longer…’
Elspeth spider-walked her fingers up Sandy’s thigh.
‘I’ll still be here when you get back,’ said Sandy. ‘Now go, and make sure Robert doesn’t exploit the actress, okay? You know what that sleaze bag is like.’
Elspeth rolled her eyes, kissed Sandy on the lips and smiled. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, grabbing her packed lunch and bag and heading for the door. ‘I’ll keep him in line.’
She left the flat, blissfully unaware of the nightmare that awaited her.
Things would never be the same again.
Two hours later, Elspeth navigated the narrow track in her Fiat 500, mindful of the steep drop that separated the road from the forest. Tall pines swayed in the morning wind as the wheels of the Fiat scratched over loose gravel. She had taken the turnoff from the main road six miles back and figured she should arrive at her destination soon. So far there had been no sign of Crawford Manor, just endless trees blurring past and the occasional deer staring at her through startled eyes.
The car hit a pothole and, in the passenger seat, Deek Gareth stirred. He had slept for most of the ninety-minute journey from Aberdeen, which wasn’t bad going for an adult. Was Deek an adult? Elspeth decided she was feeling charitable, so sure, why not? He had recently shaved his head in a bid to stop getting ID’d when buying booze, but he still looked younger than his twenty-one years. With his round face and puppy fat, he resembled a comically oversized baby. In comparison, Elspeth thought she looked like a withered old hag. But hey, who looks their best at seven-thirty in the morning, especially if they’ve been up since five?
Deek’s snoring grated on her nerves, so she turned up the volume on the radio, but not even Spandau Ballet’s Gold could rouse the slumbering boy.
She drove on through the fine morning mist. The rest of the crew would be there already, Robert pacing back and forth with a cigarette and a curse on his lips. Well, Deek could take the blame for that. She had been waiting outside at quarter-to-six, exactly as planned. It was Deek who had still been in bed. She had to buzz his flat and cop an earful of abuse from his mum while waiting for Deek to trundle down the stairs and collapse into the car, before drifting back into the welcoming arms of sleep, leaving Elspeth to enjoy or endure the entire journey unencumbered by conversation.
The sky was an angry grey and water dripped from the pine needles of the trees. It was going to be another rotten, stormy Scottish day. She wondered how many exterior shots Robert had planned.
‘Are we there yet?’ murmured Deek, his eyelids flickering like moths.
‘It’s alive!’
Deek rested his head on his shoulder and a thin trickle of fluid dribbled down his chin. ‘I’m tired.’
‘Well, we’re almost there,’ she said, sounding like his mother, though having now met the woman in question, she wasn’t sure which of them she felt most sorry for.
‘All I can see is trees.’
‘Can’t see the forest for the trees, huh?’
‘What?’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ smiled Elspeth. ‘Try to wake up. Should only be another mile or so.’
Deek rubbed his bleary eyes and stretched, his hands hitting the roof of the car. ‘Robert said it’s massive. A proper mansion, like Downton Abbey or some shite.’
‘Never figured you for a Downton fan.’
Deek made a face. ‘My ma watches it.’
‘Aye, sure.’
They fell into the comfortable silence of old friends. Well, that or Deek was asleep again. Regardless, they continued down the track, until the forest abruptly ended and Crawford Manor revealed itself in all its ageing, decrepit splendour, the trees deferring to the structure like peasants kneeling before a nobleman. It was about as remote a place as Elspeth could imagine on the Scottish mainland, surrounded on one side by thick woodland, and on the other by the sea. As she carefully steered the vehicle over the rough terrain, she felt like they were driving back in time, the forest a portal to a bygone era. She half-expected to see horse-drawn carriages wheeling through the fog, lit only by the flickering flame of an oil lamp, Jack the Ripper scurrying through the shadows, blood-stained knife in hand.
It was enormous, a sprawling gothic mansion in the middle of nowhere that would surely outlive them all.
Now there’s a lovely thought for a cold November morning.
Elspeth smiled.
Deek finally noticed Crawford Manor and sat up, his jaw slack.
‘That’s an absolute fucking unit.’
‘Sure is,’ said Elspeth. Crawford Manor was an absolute fucking unit, the sort of place her parents would take her to visit on the weekends when she was a kid, a stately home for rich weirdos. To think it belonged to a relative of someone she knew, someone she called a friend, blew her mind. She had grown up in a council flat on one of Edinburgh’s roughest estates. Every morning she had to watch her step in case she stood on a discarded needle or a sleeping junkie. Even now, at twenty-five years old, she was unaccustomed to such displays of wealth.
They drove past decrepit stables and a coach-house, a faded KEEP OUT sign nailed over the entrance, the buildings having long ago fallen prey to that most deadly of tenants; neglect. Broken planks jutted from the roof like splintered bones, a thick carpet of moss coating the walls. Elspeth didn’t think the sign was necessary. You’d have to be an idiot to go exploring in those condemned death-traps. On second thoughts, there were plenty of idiots out there. Hell, there was one in the car with her. A nice idiot, but an idiot nonetheless.
‘Oi, be careful,’ yawned Deek as the Fiat shuddered over a bump, his black sports bag rattling in the back seat, hundreds of pounds of borrowed audio recording equipment safely ensconced inside.
‘I’m trying to be,’ she said.
There wasn’t much she could do about it. To call the dirt track a road would be an insult to roads, and it had been like this since the turnoff five or six miles ago. She looked at the fat clouds in the greying sky, hoping the rain wouldn’t be too bad. Her poor Fiat would never cope with the mud if a storm hit.
