Harry Rollison

‘Thicker Than Water’

Clifford tripped and fell awkwardly. With a groan, he rolled onto his back, blinking up at the dark clouds and torrent of snow. He seized handfuls of the stuff, ignoring its icy bite and instead taking comfort in its softness as it tumbled between his fingers. Clifford yearned to remain lying here, as the snow slowly swallowed him, and he was lost to the world. The distant shouts had other ideas however, and scrambling to unsteady feet, he ran on.

His heart rattled around his frail frame as he tore across the uneven ground, breath billowing into the night like a steam train. Blasted country, Clifford thought. Rolling hills and fields of green—that’s how Arthur had sold it. He scoffed. The nasty gash on his temple was resounding evidence that the rocky wastelands of Romania were anything but. 

Clifford silently cursed his shoes as he ran. Imported from Italy. Bespoke. Crafted from the finest leather. Sure, they looked the part, but they certainly weren’t made for much else. Clifford supposed fleeing for one’s life, in the dead of night, in winter, in Romania, was hardly what Paolo Bertini—or was it Bertino?—self-proclaimed ‘Greatest Shoemaker in the World’, had in mind when designing them.

It wasn’t just the shoes either: Clifford’s braces bit into his shoulders, his tailcoat flapped wildly, and his pocket watch thumped against his chest as if it were some determined ironworker hammering away. It was all so . . . insufferable. Once, it had been the stuff of dreams, but now Clifford bemoaned the fact the wealthy went to such great lengths to make themselves so bloody uncomfortable. 

The shouts drew closer, and from them, now came barks. Clifford tried to hush his ragged breathing—so loud was it that he may as well be shouting ‘Greetings, Good Sirs, here I am! Over here! Come get me!’ Alas, even now, any attempt to steady his breathing led to a rather unpleasant bout of coughing and spluttering. Years of smoking had finally taken its toll. Cigars, mind you.

Clifford supposed Doctor Harker had warned him. But when one stumbles into obscene wealth, scrubbing blood from the meat factory floor one night to mingling with politicians, lords, and bankers the next, he would’ve not only been labelled peculiar, but downright foolish, if he hadn’t alternated between sips of champagne and puffs of cigars.

Well, who’s the fool now, old chap? Clifford set his jaw, and pressed on. The shouts came closer still. Risking a glance over his shoulder, Clifford glimpsed flashes of lantern light through the curtain of snow. He cursed. He just had to keep going. Keep running. His pursuers would tire eventually, wouldn’t they? What he’d done, it wasn’t that terrible. A loan here, a ‘yes, yes, Sir Morris, of course I’ll pay you back soon’ there. Most had, inevitably, justifiably, grown suspicious after Clifford had asked for a ‘sizeable investment’ in his ‘new company’ for the umpteenth time. But whether he was hacking at meat in a factory or eating the finest cuts of the stuff with cutlery so polished he could see his own reflection, he’d always had a way with words.

‘Watch this one,’ his mother had warned the girls he used to bring home. ‘He’s devious. Don’t let the drivel that comes out of his mouth fool you.’

But it had. Every time. Clifford momentarily forgot himself, a smirk passing over his haggard features.

‘You’re richer than us all, dear chap!’ the lords, politicians, and bankers would say. ‘You don’t need our money, we need yours!’ And they’d laugh. And Clifford would laugh. And sip his champagne. And puff his cigar. And when the night was done, he and Arthur would stagger to one of those wretched dens and the rest was all a haze. The most wonderful, euphoric haze.

‘Enough,’ Clifford had said one day. But Arthur hadn’t believed it, and nor had Clifford believed it himself. ‘Just one more then,’ he would say. And those words, well, they had a way. 

And so, ‘just one more’ became another, then another, until before long it was an arm around the shoulder, a ‘you don’t want to miss out, Sir Morris, this will make you rich, richer than even me!’, then, a suspicious look turned widening smile, a wagging finger, a ‘those words of yours, Clifford!’, an ‘alright then’, a clink of glasses, a sip of champagne, a puff of cigar, a stagger, and then, best of all, a haze.

And that was that. Until one day, it wasn’t. 

The pursuing din roused Clifford. He ran and ran, and was soon bursting from the treeline. He found himself atop a hill overlooking a vast forest that stretched to the horizon and beyond. He went to set off again, but took pause. He couldn’t keep running; the hounds had his scent. Worse, the men had his scent. And there was nothing, nothing, that came between a man, especially a rich man, and his money. 

Hide then? Clifford thought, glancing up at the nearest tree. On its bare branches perched something. It took flight. He watched as it fluttered across the woodland towards a hill in the near distance. In the pale light of the full moon, Clifford glimpsed a bulking shadow atop the hill. A building of sorts. Perhaps he could find refuge there? But what if they followed? What if—

The barks drew close. Bugger it. And with that, Clifford was off down the incline. 

The snow continued to fall as he weaved among the lifeless trees, his Italian shoes perpetually snagging on hidden roots, tufts of dirt, and thick undergrowth—the shouts and barks trailing all the while. 

Eventually, Clifford was ascending the hill and stepping out onto its summit. He slowed, gawking up at the structure looming over him. It was a castle boasting so many turrets, steeples, and windows that he was certain he could go a night, a day, even a week, without so much as seeing another soul.

A perfect place to hide. 

The shouts sounded somewhere below, and Clifford stumbled towards the castle. He was almost safe, he was almost . . . the castle, it was old. Very old. Older even than Lord Seward himself, who, after one too many tipples, would suddenly spring to his feet with the vigour of someone half his age, clear his throat, and declare to the room: ‘back in my day . . .’ 

Ivy twisted and turned up those many turrets, threatening to send several crumbling into the snow. The walls were a precarious patchwork of missing stones, and high above, one of the steeples had collapsed altogether.

It was not the alarming condition of the castle that caused a slow shiver to trickle down Clifford’s spine however, nor the cold, the nearing shouts, or even the flapping of wings overhead, but the sheer darkness seeping from the faceless windows. Darkness deep and pure and threatening. Darkness without end. Darkness without—

When have you ever been scared of the dark, old chap? Or anything for that matter? Abandoned or not, the castle was a place to hide. He tried the rusted handles of the large doors, but his efforts were in vain. He resorted to more primitive tactics, hammering his fists on the splintering wood.

Nothing.

Shouts sounded.

Clifford renewed his efforts. 

Silence.

“Please!” Clifford begged. “Someone! Anyone!”

The shouts drew closer.

Perhaps there was another way in? There had to be, a castle this large. 

And closer.

That, or the castle was in such a state of ruin that there had, unequivocally had, to be a fallen wall. 

And clo—

A soft creak. Clifford spun to find one of doors ever so slightly ajar. From it unfurled a darkness so terrible that it had him retreating a step. Was it just the wind that by now was howling incessantly? No, he could feel a presence lurking among that terrible darkness, a presence that was somehow more terrible, more horrible. 

Barks sounded, so close now that Clifford could almost smell the hounds’ hot, slobbering breath. Steeling himself, he returned to the door.

“Please,” he whispered desperately. “I’m being pursued. I need your help. Some place to hide. Refuge. I’ll be no burden. I have money. I—”

The door groaned fully open, and Clifford hurried within. 

“Thank you,” he said with a relieved chuckle. “Thank you. Thank you.”

From the open door spilled moonlight, momentarily illuminating a shadow before it slammed shut. The approaching barks became muffled whimpers, and the shouts suddenly seemed a world away.

Clifford was consumed by darkness. He stood there as it swirled thick and deep around him, its coiling tendrils seeking, demanding, entry into his throat. His eyes and ears strained, but the black permitted nothing—only a smell. Faint, yet oddly familiar. 

“Follow.” 

Though the voice was barely a whisper, it held an authority that had Clifford stumbling blindly forward. The taps of his heels echoed so loud that, though they pierced the darkness’s silence in what should’ve been a small victory, it caused Clifford to wilt. The taps quickly ceased however, indicating they’d exited the entrance hall. And sure enough, from the various slitted windows fell shafts of moonlight that banished the immediate darkness, revealing a large parlour littered with furniture concealed by white sheets. Though Clifford thought it strange, he supposed it was a means of protecting the furniture from the wind battling its way through the innumerable cracks of the castle.

“My sincerest apologies for the . . .  décor. As one might expect, the castle and I do not receive many guests.”

Clifford’s eyes strained in the near darkness, hunting the source of the voice past the empty fireplace to the far corner of the room.

“You seem to have had quite the fright,” the voice continued from the darkness lurking there. “A drink, perhaps?”

The more his host spoke, the more Clifford detected small quivers in his voice. Was it excitement? Eagerness? Or even desperation, perhaps? Or simply the cold? He—

“Sir, a drink?”

Clifford roused to see a long arm emerging from the darkness, gesturing to a selection of dusty bottles atop a small circular table. Clifford shuddered as the arm withdrew into the darkness, the slivers of moonlight revealing hints of pale skin, almost sickly, and nails that were too long. 

“I, uh . . .” Clifford cleared his throat. “Water. Water, please—if you would be so kind.”

He then glanced over his shoulder, suddenly longing to be back among the elements, closely pursued by the men and their hounds if he must, if it meant being away, far away, from this, this . . . darkness and that . . . voice. Clifford, he, he . . . he was being foolish. This man had invited him into his home, offering sanctuary, refuge, and now, a drink—and Clifford dared to have such impudent thoughts? He may have been many things over the years, but the one thing he was not, was rude. 

“Water?” his host asked. “That simply will not do, Sir. As I said, you have clearly had quite the fright. I can hear your heart thumping from here.” The voice momentarily faltered. “And it is such a cold night . . . no, that simply will not do. You need something to settle the nerves and warm the bones.”

“Yes . . . yes, perhaps you’re right,” Clifford said as the pale hand returned, clasping the nearest bottle. 

“Please, do take a seat.”

Ignoring his instincts begging for him to flee, Clifford stepped deeper into the room. He approached the nearest chair, but hesitated. The white sheet over it bulged in a way unnatural to a chair’s design, making it appear like one of the castle’s snow-topped towers. Was it books, or some other objects perhaps, stacked upon the chair to similarly protect them from the elements?

Satisfied with the reasoning, Clifford moved to the next chair, but again paused upon seeing it too was misshapen. In fact, all the chairs were exactly the same. His hand reached for the sheet. They almost looked like . . . 

 “Not that one!” The harsh voice cut the darkness. “I think you will find this one more to your liking,” the voice then said, softening. A hand gestured to the chair closest to the dark corner. The sheet was then whipped away, revealing an ordinary wooden chair. Clifford gave a shaky breath. See, old chap, nothing to worry about after all. Even now, the other chairs with their white sheets seemed just that: ordinary chairs. 

Clifford collapsed into the one offered to him.

“There, is that not better?” his host asked.

With the voice at his back, the hairs on Clifford’s neck stood on end. He forced himself to relax. As a child he’d been terrified of the dark, every night some ritualistic torture as the candle slowly burnt lower and lower. Eventually, his father, being the brute that he was, had Clifford sit with his back to a dark room and ordered him to not turn around or else. Though his father often left him for hours on end, the fear of a hiding kept Clifford’s gaze fixed firmly ahead. Over time, that fear had usurped that of the dark. But Clifford’s father was long dead, and the darkness behind him very real. He licked his dry lips, suddenly feeling like that little boy again. 

“You are trembling,” came the voice.

 “Ye—yes,” Clifford said. “Just the cold. Could I get that drink, perhaps?”

“It will be but a moment.”

Ignoring the soft glugging that seemed far too thick to be any wine, brandy, or otherwise, Clifford glanced to the empty fireplace to his right. 

“Shame not to have a fire on a night like this.”

“Ah yes,” said the voice. “I was about to attend to it until I was . . . interrupted.”

“Sorry about that,” Clifford mumbled. “And thank you deeply, I—I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

The reply Clifford expected did not come. “You have no servants to do it?” he added.

“I live here alone,” his host said.

“In a castle as big as this? No wonder its . . . do you not get lonely?”

“The wildlife sees to that.”

The timely chitter of a bat sounded. It seemed to come from somewhere in the room, which given the state of the castle, Clifford didn’t find entirely unsurprising. The moments drew out, and Clifford sat there, listening to the howls of the wind and groans of the castle. 

“Here,” his host eventually said. “Something to warm the blood.”

A glass appeared at Clifford’s shoulder. He cautiously took it, his shaking hand grazing that upon the glass. It was cold, too cold.

“Seems like you could do with one yourself,” Clifford said with a chuckle. “Thank you,” he then added, eyeing the contents of the glass. It was a deep red.

“Drink,” his host hissed at his ear, no longer attempting to keep the urgency from his voice. 

 “Is it some sort of vintage?” Clifford asked. “I’ve never seen wine like it.”

The reply came in the form of shallow breaths. 

Clifford raised the glass to his nose and inhaled deeply. He recoiled, lurching to his feet; the glass fell away, its content spilling over the faded rug.

The odour Clifford had smelt upon first entering the castle, he knew he found it familiar—he just hadn’t been able to place it. Now, however, it surged up his nose, through his body, and took root in his very soul—just as it had in the meat factory.

His darting eyes found the nearest chair, and Clifford staggered to it, ripping off the sheet.

“Oh God!” he cried, stumbling backwards and into another chair. It toppled and the sheet fell away.

“Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!”

As if Clifford couldn’t believe his own eyes, he went around the room, removing sheet after sheet. All revealed the same horror beneath.

Clifford spun, confronted by empty eyes of lifeless husks.

“These poor souls!” he moaned, hands racking his hair. His eyes found the spilled contents of the glass. “You—you . . . may God have mercy. What have you done?” Clifford then cried to the dark corner. “Who are you?”

“I believe the word you are looking for is not ‘who’ but ‘what’,” the voice said.

“My God,” Clifford muttered. 

“I’m afraid your faith in that god of yours is gravely misplaced. The darkness, on the other hand—or better still, me.”

Clifford trembled at the sinister glee in the voice. He instinctively took a step backwards.  

“Perhaps I misspoke earlier,” his host continued. “I do get lonely from time to time.”

Another step. If Clifford could just . . . 

“See, while the wildlife has its merits—”

And another.

“—it does not quite satiate the loneliness in the same way people do.”

With each step, the flicker of hope within Clifford grew a little brighter.

“So, you lure them here?” he asked.

“Oh no,” his host said, chuckling. A cruel, empty chuckle. “Admittedly, my hand has been forced once or twice, but more often than not, unfortunate travellers, such as yourself, find their way to my castle for one reason or another.”

“And when was the last?” Clifford asked, on the retreat still. He glanced to the nearest chair and the poor soul in it; cheeks so sunken that he was certain his ragged breaths would cause the skin and bone to crumble away.

“Long ago. Too long,” the voice said, concealed by darkness still. “I try keeping them alive for as long as I am able—I have become quite the expert over the centuries, taking little, only what is needed.” A sigh. “Alas, sometimes the need becomes too great, and I yield to my desires. I suppose we are not so different in that way, you and I.”

“I suppose not,” Clifford muttered, risking another step.

“So, you can imagine my delight when you came knocking!” Another laugh.

“Indeed,” Clifford said, forcing one of his own. “And—”

Beneath him, came the soft but distinct tap of his heel. Bertini, you saviour! 

Clifford turned and ran. Without moonlight he crashed into the doors, his hands desperately fumbling for the handle. They clasped something cold and metallic. He was free! By God, he was actually—

Clifford’s hand slipped from the handle and fell limply to his side. What’s happening? he thought. My hand, I—I can’t move it.

A deep sigh came from the dark corner. “It is a pity.”

Nor my legs. Clifford tried to speak, to scream, to say or do anything, but his body was no longer his own to control.

“I thought perhaps you were different,” his host said. “That you would not try and run.” Another sigh. “But I suppose given the circumstances of your arrival, I was foolish to think otherwise.”

Clifford, under no volition of his own, turned from the door. Then, he took a step forward. Oh God! he silently cried and moaned and wailed. All that surfaced however, was the faintest of whimpers.

“The realisation, the horror, of what is to imminently transpire, is usually enough to get the blood pumping,” the voice continued. “But a little added excitement never does any harm.”

Clifford could feel his heart thumping with all its might as he entered the parlour once more, and began weaving among the chairs.

“Oh yes,” the voice cooed. “I can hear the blood rushing.”

Clifford came to a halt before the dark corner. From it, a pair of large eyes glinted with deadly intent. 

“Now, shall we try that drink again?” the voice asked.

Clifford turned and sat in the chair. A hand was soon unfurling over his shoulder. He accepted the glass. Raising it to his lips, he again caught a whiff of that familiar smell. His lips brushed the rim of the glass, and Clifford’s very soul screamed. But there was nothing to be done. Clifford drank, greedily draining the contents of the glass. The liquid dribbled down his chin, and slid slowly, so slowly, down his throat.

“Thick, is it not?” his host asked. “Deliciously so.”

In the chair opposite, a bat landed on the bony shoulder of its occupant. Pale hands then clasped Clifford’s own. In the corner of his eye, just as a single tear escaped, Clifford glimpsed sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight.

“You ask for water,” the voice hissed, “but what I thirst for, what I crave, is far thicker than water.”