FR Jameson author Horror Thriller Books

      At the first glimmer of dawn the wind swirled-up and entangled brown leaves of autumn around their prostrate bodies. A dew had fallen, which varnished them with a freshness that – although not alien to the recently dead – was more invigorating than normally seen. There was a newness to them, a cleanness. Amidst the stone graves their entangled limbs gave off a vibrancy. Their stolen away youth set amongst the chipped and weather beaten old gravestones, gave the place a sense of life that belied this tragedy.
     Alison first heard the name Jacob Ravens from Mr Brownhill, her English teacher. Although largely forgotten, he was a gothic writer famed in the Victorian age for his tales of the supernatural. His books were now mouldering and out of print, but in his day he was one of the most successful – and critically respected – authors of horror. Indeed Charles Dickens hailed his story ‘On A Christmas Morn’ as the main inspiration for his own ‘A Christmas Carol’. (Both tales concern men on a wrong path visited by spirits. But whereas Dickens is uplifting, Ravens – as was his fashion – deals out an horrific punishment.) The reason Mr Brownhill mentioned him – which led her to go on-line to find a repository of his work – was that Ravens was buried in their town, underground with his wife in St Nicholas’s Church. Mr Brownhill was not known as an inspirational teacher, even Alison – who adored books – would drift away in his lessons, so it was safe to assume that this kernel of information was lost on Alison’s classmates. Alison however was hooked.
     St. Nicholas’s Church was old, beautiful and glowed at sunrise. She first visited on a sunny Easter afternoon, notebook in hand, determined to be inspired. Initially she was disappointed, she toured through the graves but couldn’t find his. She was also – as usual – disappointed by the living. Between two graves, mere inches from them, a woman sunbathed in nothing but yellow bikini bottoms. Her arms stretched out and almost pressed into the heavy stone of the dead. She paid no attention to Alison, no attention to her surroundings, no attention to her loss of dignity. What was wrong with people? Why were they so repulsive? Alison went to the other side of the church, sat on a bench and cried quietly. She’d wanted it to be beautiful, wanted to feel Jacob Ravens and be inspired by him – instead she once again witnessed the crudity of the living. People thought she was strange, at school they called her “weirdo”, “odd-bod”, “witchy” – but she didn’t care. Those words meant she was different from them, and if she could wish anything it would be to be totally and utterly different from them.
     She went back of course. She read more of his stories on-line, understood the logic throughout them, saw the same motifs recur. Death wasn’t final in his work, there was a world for the living and a world for the dead and “between is only a thin membrane, that most never breaks, but with the right tools any man could penetrate.” Her second visit was happier. There was no whore defiling the whole churchyard, and this time Alison found the grave. It was a small, modest. There were mill owners who’d been treated to a better remembrance, civic dignitaries whose egos had been carved in larger letters. Jacob Ravens’ was dignified and made no reference to his fame. It just said “Here lies Jacob Ravens. 1801-1846. Much Missed. Also Catherine Ravens 1808-1849, wife of the above.” She sat at his grave, notepad in hand, awaiting inspiration. She wanted that membrane to break, for him to reach out his hand and jot something on her page.
      There was one grave that was smeared with blood, it had sprayed there, her hands had rubbed against it. But in a trick of dawn all the gravestones appeared black. Even the whitest stone had a kind of a negative light, becoming midnight black at first glimmering. From a distance there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with them, they were just an amorous coupling who’d fallen asleep. The first people who saw them actually smirked and kept on their way. It was only when a lady became disturbed by their unnatural stillness – unnatural stillness in a graveyard – that somebody strode across the damp grass to investigate.
      As spring became summer Alison visited every day. She’d walk alone out of school and instead of going home she’d sit with Jacob Ravens. She was the only visitor. Other graves had fresh bouquets placed upon them – she assumed from the elderly to their much missed grandparents – and occasionally there’d be other people wandering amongst the graves, but she was the only one who made an everyday pilgrimage. She’d sit with her notepad, awaiting the moment the membrane might break. He had died young. He’d died without writing a proper novel – all he left were long and short stories, each marked with quality. If he could just reach out and help her write something like him. She’d always fantasised of life as a writer. She enjoyed the solitary, wanted to create, loved the idea of making a world just the way she’d like it. And so she sat and waited for him.
     When she went home of an evening – as unfortunately she had to go home of an evening – she’d sit with her notepad open and hope he’d reach her. She’d hope that as witching hour approached, his hand would uncoil from rigor mortis and guide hers across the page. She’d ignore the sounds of her sister and her sister’s friends, and hope her dead friend would commune with her. Her younger sister Kim was fifteen and had a lot of friends – she was a very friendly girl. She always invited them back: girls and boys, laughing and joking, drinking and kissing. Alison would occasionally complain to Kim – they never spoke civilly unless others were around – telling her the never-ending party was disturbing her quiet. Kim was an idiot, she thought her weirdo big sister (yes, she was just like all the others) had all the quiet she needed locked away by herself. They’d argue, and if their mother was there she’d intercede in that unsatisfactory way which meant she never took the side of either girl. There’d be name calling and swearing and slammed doors, and both sisters would vanish thinking they were utterly right. Kim went to God knows where (probably some boy’s house), Alison went to her graveyard – and now it was summer holidays – spent all day there.
     The rector took an interest in her. He approached her and said he’d seen her about, that she looked peaceful and he wondered what she was finding there. At first she thought he wanted to chat about God or some such thing, but he listened when she told him that she was a writer and was inspired by the renowned author Jacob Ravens. He smiled and touched her shoulder, then invited her back to his place to maybe read a story out loud one evening. She wasn’t so naïve, she could spot a sleazy old man. She hoped her lips didn’t tighten when she said sorry but she was still embarrassed by her stories, she hoped she didn’t offend him as she didn’t want things made awkward in her graveyard. It wasn’t that she didn’t like boys (as rumours suggested) it wasn’t that she liked girls (as other rumours suggested) it was just she’d never met anyone in the town who was clever enough for her, who appealed to her mind. And the rector certainly didn’t do that – he was old, ugly, had a great author in his churchyard and needed a teenage girl to tell him about it. Why would she swoon for him? She thanked him and said her stories just weren’t ready yet. Of course they weren’t ready, she’d not written a sentence.
     The lady who first approached them was named Barbara Kennedy. She’d been walking her dog and had smirked at first glance, but as she went a little further she became disquieted, and then alarmed. She later said it was like being in a vacuum, all the air seemed to be sucked out of the churchyard. She moved slowly towards the two young bodies. She thought she saw one of them move, if so she’d walk away quickly and leave them. But she wasn’t sure and so took another two steps, and in that strange autumn light she finally saw the colour of the gravestone. She saw how it dripped that colour, and then she ran.
     Alison had known the name Jake Ravens most of her life. He was the youngest son of a family living a few streets over, but it was only when he started coming to her sister’s parties that she made the connection between his name and the name of her inspiration. Why had it taken her so long? She guessed because Jacob Ravens never had any children, there were no descendants. But now, at her sister’s parties, was this boy with the same name – christened Jacob Ravens – as the great man. What kind of coincidence was this? What did it mean? The fiction of Jacob Ravens was filled with doppelgangers, but they never did any good, they were mostly the cause of the protagonist’s tragedy. What did it mean, having spent all summer with Jacob Ravens, that she now knew another? She started to visit her sister’s parties. She didn’t enjoy them, she didn’t feel happy – although she tried to look it. She just went to see him, see if she could spot what she needed to know when she looked at him.
     He was just – a boy. That’s all he was. A boy like all the others. She couldn’t pick out anything remarkable – he wasn’t any stupider than the others, or less witty, or even more repulsive. He was just a boy, nothing special other than his name, but his name kept enticing her back. Every day she looked at that name. Her notepad had that name scrawled throughout it, as the sentences failed to come she just copied what was in front of her. She wrote his name, then she wrote quotes from his work: “The people are a plague to the planet”; “The solitary man should be watched, the man in the crowd is known by every man, but the solitary man is set to surprise”; “Death is a glass window my friend, that barrier can be opened or – if necessary – broken.” She pored over his work, trying to find clues. Death was like a glass window, she just had to learn how to open it.
     The rector would talk to her. One day he brought biscuits, but he didn’t put them on a plate, he just kept them in the packet and wrestled his fat digits in to get them. He told her about himself. He’d never married, lived for the church, but did enjoy his wine (do you like wine my dear?) He said he was glad she came, that it was good to see a young girl taking an interest in the past. Once he put his arm around her, and she thought she was going to throw up. She avoided the churchyard for a few days, staying away from her beloved Jacob Ravens. She went to the library and looked through the musty encyclopaedias. One printed his obituary from The Times, it said: “This master of the haunted word will surely entertain for generations to come.” It hadn’t happened, she was the only reader he had. There may be others online – someone had certainly posted his fiction, but they’d left no identity. It was like the words had posted themselves, reached out to her across the internet. She was the only reader he had, the only friend he had. He was the only real friend she had. But there was a pane of glass between them and neither could figure out how to remove it.
     Barbara Kennedy banged the first door she came to, the rector’s. She smashed her palm against his window but there was no answer. Her dog barked and whined at his mistress’s distress. She screamed and ran out to the road, and was nearly knocked over by a builder’s van.
     They were returning to school, losing the indolence and promise of summer. Another school year, more lonely days in the classroom. A year from now she was expected to go to University, but was already dreading that – just imagining it as one of her sister’s parties that never stopping. She wanted to write a horror story, to collaborate with Jacob Ravens, to make a lot of money, to leave town triumphant, to remove that pane of glass. She read his stories, studied for clues. There were hints, ideas of what she should do.
     His story, ‘A Daughter For A Son’, was maybe the one calling her. Her life couldn’t go on as it was. There were dreadful days where she barely spoke to anyone, awful days where she just shuffled between lessons and the library, hard days where she heard the whispered insults and insinuations. Then at home with her sister so idiotically happy, her mother laughing raucously, and her thinking how alone she was.   She liked to stare out the window. She was constantly told off by teachers for not paying attention and just glaring to the outside world. But how could she help it? Their lessons were boring, their teaching style dull, their voices tedious. She was looking out the window at her future, desperately trying to see what it would be. What would happen to her? Where would she end up? She had to get out of this town, she couldn’t bear anybody in it and the feeling seemed mutual. She wanted to be successful, to be rich and special. How was she going to do that? How was she going to stand out? She’d gone to his grave, she’d spoken to him, but nothing was happening. Why was nothing happening? She cried herself into unconsciousness because of the insults that filled her day, because there seemed no way of answering them. She had to do something, had to make herself special. She’d printed out Jacob Ravens’ stories, her red pen marking every pertinent line. She kept returning to ‘A Daughter For A Son’, kept reading it and thinking how possible it might be.
     The evenings were closing in, but she’d still go to the churchyard for an hour and – when she had to – smile at the rector. He was such a lonely man, such a creepy man. One day he told her how much he liked her school uniform, and licked his lips. But she stayed friendly with him, chatted with him, called him Tom. He invited her around for dinner, and she said maybe – kept it as a possibility.
   Kim continued to have parties. She didn’t have them weeknights anymore (well, once or twice) but the weekends were still considered bright and hot enough for a good party. Jake Ravens was always there and Alison always noticed him, and he noticed her too. He’d smile when he saw her around school. One day he even came and talked to her. It was a nothing conversation, just “How are you? How are things going? What are you up to?” but she appreciated he’d made the effort. He did seem decent and kind, willing to step out of his way for people – but there was still nothing special about him. He did have a handsome (although young looking) face and a muscular (although still adolescent) body and she did quite like him, but there was nothing really separating him from all the other moronic idiots in school. She saw him sometimes running about, laughing at the most stupid thing, hooting at the kind of girls who appreciated being hooted at (her sister among them unfortunately) and there was nothing that could possibly impress her. He was just a boy, as foolish and as ridiculous as all other boys. All he had was his name, that wonderful, beautiful name.
     ‘A Daughter For A Son’ was written in 1840. It concerns Sir Humphrey Dillet, a proud man determined to ensure his family line, but who one day inadvertently causes the death of his only son.
     The last Friday of September approached. Their mother announced she was away for the weekend with her new man-friend, and Kim announced she was having a big party. As the week crawled on Alison stayed later at the churchyard, she chatted longer with Tom, she laughed at his pathetic jokes. Any doubts about the path she’d determined were rubbed out by a day at school. They sneered at her, yelled names at her, enjoyed seeing her hold back the tears.   But she was better than them and she was going to prove it. After school she’d walk to the churchyard with her copy of ‘A Daughter For A Son’ and read it again – even though she knew every word. Afterwards she’d go home and ignore her sister and mother, instead staring out the window at her future. It was easier to paint a future when it was dark outside, it was a blank screen on which she could make anything happen.
     There’s a striking funeral passage in ‘A Daughter For A Son’, in which Sir Humphrey shuns his wife and daughter. He staggers from the burial and goes wild, drinks too much at his London club and arrives at Deptford where he indulges in other vices. It’s there he meets a mystic who tells him what to do.
     She did a lot of things she’d never done before that Friday, and the first was to raid her sister’s wardrobe. They were a similar size but their tastes were too diverse for them to share clothes. But that day Alison stole in and took a skirt. It was short and she looked at her legs. She’d never much liked her legs, but she guessed in tights they looked okay – it was the kind of thing men liked anyway. Their mother had gone and Kim was too immersed in party thoughts to notice, and so Alison escaped to school. The day both whizzed and dragged by. It flew at those moments when Alison let the anticipation take over, when she thought of her future beyond that night. But in the minutiae of lessons, in library breaks, at lunchtime, it all moved so slowly. She wanted to be there now, wanted to be started, wanted her life as it was to be over.
     At the end of the day she was rocking back and fore in her seat eager for the bell. Mr Johnson – her teacher that last lesson – made a joke about her needing the toilet, and the class (predictably) laughed. He was an idiot and below consideration. When the bell finally rang she hurtled down the streets.
     She put her cardigan on the grass and looked again at the names of her deceased love and his deceased wife. Once more she held the story and once more she made her way through it. It was crumpled and strewn with red ink markings, but those creases and scribbles were now as important to her as the words themselves. She sat still but her heart zoomed when she heard Tom’s tread, she was so anxious and excited she thought she might actually pass out.
     He said Hello and asked how she was, asked how school was. They chatted about the weather, how it was still hot even though the sun was going down earlier. She smiled at him, he’d told her he liked her dimples and she was hoping to give him all the dimples he wanted. He smiled at her. She waited for him to say it, he always said it, but he always needed to work up to it. Did he always take this long? Did he always waffle so much? Finally – with her heart palpitating, with a giddiness that almost made her faint – he asked if she’d like to come to his for a drink, and this time she said Yes.
     He didn’t put his arm around her as they walked to his cottage, he was probably worried about his neighbour’s thoughts if they saw him escorting a young girl back in such a fashion. His house was small and tidy, with no books anywhere. He invited her to sit, but she came with him to the kitchen. She was nervous, he was nervous too. She watched as he poured out two glasses of red wine. She watched as he handed her a glass and put the bottle down beside her. He watched as she raised her skirt for him to see her knickers.
     In ‘A Daughter For A Son’ Sir Humphrey is told he can get his son back, that there is only a thin membrane between the living and the dead.
     She arrived at Kim’s party breathless. She’d run, on fear and adrenalin. She was so afraid. This was the part of her plan that could go wrong. What if he didn’t notice her? What if he wasn’t even there? She had to be calm, cool, think of what lay ahead. She had to remember not to give up. She walked into the party, walked into those cretins who were her sister’s friends. She toured amongst them, in the short skirt, the top three buttons of her blouse undone – she got a wolf whistle from one of the boys, though she didn’t know if it was sarcastic or not. Where was he? Please let him be there. And then there he was. Her sister was lost in the lips of another boy, and Jake Ravens watched them jaded. Alison smiled at him and he forced himself to smile at her. He gave a rueful look to her little sister and then came over. He asked her how she was, she asked him for a walk. He smiled, picked up a fresh drink and they left.
     The churchyard wasn’t far, but the moment they were outside he was all over her. He grabbed her – angrily – swooping his mouth down onto hers, feeling up her arse and tits. She wrapped her arms around him, but then pulled away. She pushed him off. She knew he just wanted her because of her sister, she knew it meant nothing, she knew she had other things she needed to do. He went for her again and she pushed him away again. She told him to wait, said she had somewhere to take him first. He smiled and said she could take him anywhere. She clutched her school bag and let him wrap his arm around her waist. She’d wanted to just hold his hand, but he needed more if he was to be led.
     He talked the whole way. He told her he liked her, told her he knew she liked him. Kim had told him about that notebook, the one with his name written in it again and again (that little bitch, prying through her things.) He told her he found her interesting (what did that mean? Interesting?) He held her waist and stole kisses of her cheek and she said nothing. She was too full of thoughts for any word to escape, if she did speak she might never stop, she’d say too much. She let him hold her and found she liked to be held, and she led him on and hoped afterwards he’d forgive her. If it worked it would be so remarkable, such a miraculous event – she’d amaze and overwhelm him. Of course he’d forgive her, of course he’d kiss her again.
    The churchyard was locked from dark till dawn, but that night she had the key. Tom had leant in to kiss her neck – like a senile old vampire – and she’d smashed his head with the wine bottle. He wasn’t going to complain, he wasn’t going to admit he’d brought a teenage girl back to his cottage. She opened it up. “A graveyard ay?” said Jake. “Kinky!” He curled his hand around her arse and she slipped away from him. She led him to her favourite spot. “Oh right,” he said. “That old prick Brownhill said about this. You wanna do it here do you?” She kissed him, her heart speeding, her bag on her shoulder.
     “Sit down,” she said.
     He dropped down, reaching his hands up her legs as he did.
     She knelt beside him.
     “Close your eyes,” she said.
      He closed his eyes and she reached into her bag and drew out a carving knife. She sliced open his hand. It gave a little puff as the blade ran down his palm, a soft and pleasant sound, like air escaping a slow puncture. Then there was the blood – rich, young fluid that glowed in the moonlight. She jammed his hand onto the grave.
     In ‘A Daughter For A Son’, Sir Humphrey is told he can break the membrane by sacrificing like for like. He kills his young daughter at his son’s grave and brings the boy back to life.
     Jake screamed, howling into the night air. With both hands she pushed his palm down to the grass, letting the blood seep into the soil so it would reach the coffin. He screamed and shoved her away. He tried to get up but she couldn’t let him go. There wasn’t enough blood, they hadn’t broken the membrane. He couldn’t go. She had to keep him there, had to make sure it would happen. She grabbed at him with the knife still in hand, and it was dark and so fast and she slipped and the blade went through his throat. She severed his windpipe, it made a sound reminiscent of a twig snapping.
      There was no death rattle, no gurgled scream, no flailing or clinging to life – he just fell to the ground. How had this happened? He was supposed to walk away, he was supposed to see what she’d done and be amazed by her. She grabbed the slippery knife handle and jerked it from his body, she pushed his throat forward so his blood ran into the grave, and then she cried. How was she going to explain this? How was she going to live her life after this? It was all wrong, her clever plan had turned wrong. But maybe it would still work, maybe she’d still hear Jacob Ravens and it would all be worth it. She tried to be quiet, tried not to sob, tried to listen for his voice. She pushed her bloody hands against his gravestone and rocked back and fore. She waited for the glass to shatter.
     In ‘A Daughter For A Son’, Sir Humphrey fails because his reanimated son hates him for killing his beloved sister. Alison had only wanted a bit of blood, she didn’t want to bring him back, she’d just wanted to hear his voice, wanted him to tell her what to do. She hadn’t meant to kill Jake, she’d just needed a little of his blood – and what was a little blood when compared to such a great man, such a great feat? She failed because nothing happened, the glass didn’t break. She cried for a long time, and then in the thinning darkness she slit her wrists.
     Barbara Kennedy and two builders ran to the bodies. They were surprised to discover the girl was still alive. She spent the day in hospital and then was questioned repeatedly by the police and afterwards by psychiatrists, but she could never provide an adequate explanation of why she’d done it.

S H O R T .. S T O R I E S

Sacrifice at St. Nick's