A Crow's Game: A Supernatural Thriller: The Risen World, #2

A CROW'S GAME

A SUPERNATURAL THRILLER

ANDY GRAHAM

CONTENTS

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Intro

A LOST BOOK

Bridge One

THE DREAMER’S TRIANGLE

Bridge Two

TURN THE DARK ON

Bridge Three

THE VAMPIRE’S CELLAR

Bridge Four

A BESPOKE KIDNAPPING

Bridge Five

THE LAST KING

Bridge Six

THE GAME

Outro

Copyright & Disclaimer

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INTRO

You have chosen to play a singer, a bassist, a drummer, a doctor, a guitarist, an eccentric, a bar owner, and a failed man.

A what man?

A failed man.

You didn’t say anything about failure. You said he was a manager.

You should have looked past the suit.

But—

I have chosen a scarecrow, twins, a cheerleader, a spirit, a daughter, a priest, and, for the sake of balance, a doctor as wrong as yours is right. Eight for eight.

"Some of those players aren’t people.

No.

Can I switch the failed man?

No.

At least tell me the rules, then.

Think of the game as a vindictive version of chess. You have nothing but pawns and my queen carries a scythe which cuts permanently.

You call that an answer?

Yes.

How do I win?

Save as many players as you can.

And if I can’t?

You quit, you lose. Don’t roll, you lose. Walk away, you lose.

Lose?

Die.

You pretty much forced me to play this game and now you tell me this?

I will roll first.

A LOST BOOK

The covering had peeled off one corner of Clint’s bass amp. There had been a sticker of a crow there and when he’d ripped it off, a chunk of black plastic had come with it. What was left was flayed and withered. It wasn’t so much vintage-effect as cheapskate. The wood underneath was dotted with cigarette burns that made it look diseased. He sat on it so he wouldn’t have to look at it, and pulled off one of his snakeskin boots. They were custom made for him, ‘stitched by hand from the skins of a thousand virgin snakes’, as he’d boasted back in the day. Those were the times when he’d dreamed of making it big. Now he dreamt of making enough money to pay the rent. He poked a finger through one of the many holes decorating his boots. It was pretty much the only hole he’d poked in months. I stepped in beer and now my sock’s pissing wet, he said, more to himself rather than for any need to talk.

Thought you’d taped those things up? answered a voice with a Germanic clip to it.

I did. Then I stepped in a huge gig turd. (What some musicians called gaffer tape that lay in wait on the stage for the unwary to step in.) Pulled it off and my beer-proofing came off, too. We got any more?

"We don’t have any. I had some but I used it to hold the exhaust up on my wheels. There was a grunt and a clatter as the drummer threw the last of his kit into the back of his van. Now load your gear and get in the cab. We got an hour’s drive before we even hit a real road."

Lift that, load this, Clint said, picking shit up and loading it in and out of venues is all the humping I get these days. Where’s the roadies at?

Same place as the groupies: someone else’s gig.

Two hours and one pit stop later, to inflate the spare tire currently doubling as one of their main ones, they hit a stretch of potholes decorated with the occasional patch of asphalt. A way down the road was the first sign they’d seen in a while that didn’t look like a child had painted on it with blood. The numbers indicating the next town had too many hundreds in them for Clint’s liking. At this rate he was going to get home in time for lunch, wide-eyed and wired and unable to sleep until just before Stefan picked him up for tomorrow’s shitshow extravaganza. Bollocks to it. Clint pulled a book out of his pocket to stave off the worst of the white-line fever.

The spine was cracked, white streaks scarring the blackness. The title, Dark Fiction Tales: Book Three, was emblazoned across the front in big, angular letters that dripped red across a picture of a coffin. Naturally, there was a hand coming out of the wooden box. Some dick who’d borrowed the book from the library before Clint had colored in part of the skin so the hand looked like it was flipping the reader the bird. Sacrilege, he thought. Writing on library books. Some dumb fuck lives in a country where they can borrow a book for free and they deface it? People like that deserve winding up in the pages of books like this.

He flicked past stories of wannabe vampires, murderous doctors and hateful daughters to a tale called The Mark of the Crow. ‘There exists a lost space on American soil which claims the waking hours of those unfortunates who stray into it,’ he read aloud, mainly because Stefan hated it. The drummer shot him an uninterested glance and drove on. ‘The Dreamers Triangle. Otherwise known as The Sandman’s Swamp. Its victims drown in a tangle of dreams as their nightmares seep poison into their veins. Take Brett, for example…‘

Brett?

Clint grinned and the engine rattled. Yeah. Brett. The singer in their band was called Brett. That fucker had pulled the only chick at the gig south of thirty who didn’t have a herd of spanner-wielding brothers watching over her. Be nice to read about ‘Brett’ getting done over, even if it was make believe. Clint propped up his feet on the dash, ignored the scowl Stefan shot him, and read. ‘Brett was a singer in a band.’ Well how about them apples? This Brett’s a singer, too.

‘Course he is, Stefan replied as he rubbed a smear of white powder along his gums.

‘And one forgotten night, when the spirits were churlish and hungry, he—’ Clint grunted as they hit a rut in the road. Their van disappeared into a wall of mist that appeared from nowhere. The oily blackness of the night turned white, fog boiling against the glass. Slow down, he shouted at Stefan. I can’t see shit.

Chill, dude. You’re not driving.

Doesn’t matter if I’m not driving! You crash, I’m still dying.

Give it a rest. You’re just pissed Brett pulled and you didn’t.

I’m ‘just pissed’ I’m stuck in a van with a drummer who thinks being able to see while driving is optional. Slow the fuck down.

They hit another bump hidden in the whiteness. The book spilled from Clint’s hands. For a second that lasted an eternity, both men seemed trapped where the impact had thrown them. Stefan hovered above his seat. Candy-red gums bared. Clint was stuck in the middle of a bone-jarring shudder that felt like it would never let him go. The book stopped mid-fall and, as Clint opened his mouth to scream at the drummer, they snapped back down. The fog cleared and the book thumped into the footwell. Another road sign flicked past, lit yellow by the moon. This one was covered in a thick, black sludge that looked like a person with an oversized head.

The fuck, dude?

Chill. Told you we were OK.

You drive like you drum.

Damn right, carrying you all the way. Stefan, now chewing his lips, laughed at his own joke.

Clint grunted an answer and retrieved his book. By the dim light in the cab he tried to make out the words. But whereas before the yawning moon had lent him its light, now it seemed to be stealing it. To make it worse, Stefan couldn’t decide whether to drive, stare at Clint, or chew his own tongue to bits. Fuck, man. You’re making me nervous. Watch the road, OK?

That book really got a singer in it called Brett?

Yup. Pages are dripping with nastiness. It was behind the shelves in the library. Like it was hiding. Wide-eyed, he clawed his hands in front of his face, a child’s impersonation of a ghost.

Twat. Stefan’s hands shivered on the wheel and the van shuddered.

You’re jealous ‘cos you can’t read. Not much good at counting past four, either.

Another drummer joke. Ha ha. Well done. Never heard any of them before. Know why there aren’t many bass player jokes? Pity, that’s why. Most humans have been taught not to mock the afflicted.

Screw you, Stefan. Clint pulled the library card out from its hiding place in the pocket on the inside cover. Black ink curled across it in spiderous, copperplate script. But seeing as you’re interested⁠—

I’m not, if I’m honest.

Found it this morning. Weird thing is, Anna said there were no records of it. She double-checked twice.

Who can’t count now?

But there are dates on it. Looks like… Clint squinted. One lend every thirteen years.

"Course it would be thirteen. Stefan snorted and twitched and licked his lips. Someone’s playin’ tricks on you. Thirteen bullshit. Why do you read that stuff anyway?"

Fits with my world view. Can’t be doing with all these people who wrap themselves in pink and post pretty pictures of themselves and their asses all over the place. Superficial nonsense. Who cares what you had for lunch, too? All that trite, motivational crap’s rotting society from the outside in. Least horror is honest.

Stefan flicked the headlights onto full beam. The light sparkled and danced in the gathering fog. Turning twists of grey and shadows into living, hunting things that drooled at the two band members through the windshield. One, Stefan said, horror might be ‘honest’ but there’s no such thing as vampires, were-creatures, doppelgängers, ghosts or all the other stuff you’ve bored me with in the past.

"People exist, though. They’re nastier than any of that shit. Some of this stuff could happen, that’s what makes it scary." Clint waved the book at the drummer, but Stefan appeared not to have heard him.

You believe in that supernatural shit, you might as well believe in Father Fucking Christmas and the Tooth Fairy.

Tooth Fairy’s real alright. Just the real one has a pair of rusty pliers and not much patience.

Two, Stefan said, pointing a yellowed finger at the bassist. Seemed to Clint that the other half of ‘America’s Hardest Working Rhythm Section’ — only that hard working because the gigs they got paid in coal dust — still hadn’t quit smoking, amongst all the other chemicals he claimed to be free of. Get your stinking boots and socks off my dash. The stench makes me want to retch.

They’re drying.

Your socks can dry in your precious snakeskin boots. Get your shit off the bloody heater. It smells like something’s died in this cab.

Open the window, Clint replied as another muddy sign streaked past. In the passenger mirror, the tentacles of mist curling around the sign shuddered. They looked to be choking it to Clint’s overtired brain. He dropped his book on the middle seat, amongst the empty potato chip packets, receipts and half-eaten sandwiches that were past their sell-by-date. There was even a drum stick. One end of it was a mess of splinters and dents. Clint pulled one of his socks on and swore as a nail caught in a hole.

He could deal with the fingers scraping down a blackboard trick, had chewed on tin foil at more than one after-party, too. More than one of those wraps had been cocktailed up with all kinds of happy ‘colors’, to be fair. But nails? They were sensitive things. He’d copped no end of shit for being on first name terms with the chicks working the nail bars. He had a tube of strawberry lip salve in his pocket, too. But no one, absolutely no one, knew about that. There was only one thing worse than cracking a nail and that was seeing a dentist. On cue, his jaw ached. He stuck a finger in his mouth to wiggle a molar. Part of him wondered if he’d washed that finger since the morning. Another bit of him regretted not having seen a dentist since leaving school. Twenty-odd years since another human had looked inside his mouth. Odd thought. But no odder than an adult having a wobbly tooth. Maybe I should⁠—

Can’t, Stefan said, knocking the glass closest to him with a knuckle. Clint jumped. For the briefest of moments, the fog outside the window had been shaped like a crucified man. Open a window, that is. One’s held up with⁠—

Gaffer tape, Clint finished. I get it. He peered through the glass. Kraken-like tentacles waved back at him. No people, though. Must be seeing things. Maybe reading this kind of stuff late at night isn’t good for me, after all.

They drove in silence until Stefan said, Handle broke off the other window as well, so we can’t open it.

Is that what you were using as a drum stick tonight? The handle? Clint grinned. It was odd enough for Stefan to talk while driving, even when speeding his tits off, but Clint wasn’t going to waste the chance of a cheap dig. Sounded like your cymbals were made of glass, too. Crash. Smash. Crash-di-smash. Smashety smashety crash.

Bass man still not funny. Bass man still not get ‘ha ha’ he need. Bass man dumb man. Stefan scrubbed a hand across his face as he yawned. To Clint it seemed as if he was smearing the tiredness more thinly across his skin.

Who’s funny now, Stefan? Give you a clue. Not you.

Shut it, will you? And before you ask, there’s no way I’m letting you take the wheel after what happened last time.

Wasn’t my fault, Clint mumbled as he wiggled his toes in his boots. His socks were going to stink like a brewer’s corpse by the time he got home. The other guy wasn’t looking.

The ‘other guy’ was an off-duty cop taking his pregnant wife to hospital.

Even so…

Never your fault, is it? Your time-keeping’s not your fault. Neither are some of those bum notes you pulled out tonight. You’ve only got four strings to deal with and you just use three of them on all but two songs. How hard can it be to get one thing right?

Another mud-spattered road sign loomed in the darkness. Light reflected out of the destinations and numbers as it slipped past. Stefan squinted at it and cursed. The numbers were still in their hundreds. They seemed to float in the air, taunting Clint with how much further they had to go. The van lurched over something. Amps and drums shifted and thumped in the back and Stefan said, So what else is in that book? Any good stories? It might stop you regaling me with your intimate knowledge of Dewey and the Decimals.

It’s not a band, you fool. It’s the Dewey Decimal System. It’s a library indexing system. Anna said⁠—

You’ve told me what ‘Anna said’ a million times and I wasn’t interested in any of them. I asked⁠—

The fog twisted and reared up in front of them, looking like it had grown horns and tentacles and was staring at them with eyes full of worms. Stefan slammed on the brakes. The men squealed as they were thrown forwards. Their gear thumped into the bulkhead behind them. The noise seemed to take an age to settle down. When it did, Clint half-expected to see a flaming tire rolling across the road to match the wisp of steam winding up from the hood. Sure you don’t want me to drive?

No, man. I’m good. Tired, that’s all. The drummer’s shoulders sagged and, for the first time, Clint realized his old friend was starting to look ragged round the edges. He had more scalp showing than hair. There were grey roots amongst the raven-black and he had wrinkles puckering his face. It shocked Clint. Worried him. After all, he was not far behind Stefan in the what-age-does-to-you queue. I’m tired of playing nothing gigs to people who think we should be playing for free ‘cos it’s ‘just music and not real work’, Stefan said. Tired of bookers trying to shaft us for every dime. Tired of punters getting shirty when we won’t let their ‘talented kid’ sit in on a few tunes. And tired of that one fucking blues harp player at every gig who can’t keep his mother-fucking harmonica in his pocket and out of his mouth. Does the bastard follow us round the country? Or has he cloned himself and bought a job lot of Robert Johnson T-shirts and oversized bunches of keys to hang on his various belts?

Would you trade it for a ‘real job’? Clint asked as he scooped up his library book from the seat. It had fallen open on Chapter 12A. Odd numbering in a book. He flicked to the contents page.

Nope, Stefan replied, and there’s the thing. Music’s the best job in the world, even when it’s the worst one. The gears crunched in time to his wincing as he slammed the van into reverse. What? Not got anything clever to say?

There’s a chapter 12A in this book but not in the contents page.

We’re not on stage now, Clint, you can listen to me. Maybe if you like having the same conversation as me, you could try playing the same song as me. The van sat still, engine rattling, road seeming to drown in the whirlpools of fog.

Look. Clint held up the battered library book. "Chapter 12A, The Mark of the Crow. ‘Cept there is no 12A in the contents."

It was Stefan’s turn not to listen. He peered through the windscreen and said, We’ve passed this sign before. Sure of it.

It was the same murky green as all the others they’d passed. Had the same too-bright numbers on it as well. Numbers that were as big now as when the guys had first hit this road. One of the metal poles had a kink in it. But, and this is what made Clint forget about chapter 12A, and the holes in his socks and snakeskin boots that matched the holes in the roses twining across his pearl-snap shirt, Stefan was right. They had passed this sign before. The mud looks like a person, he said.

Not a ghost or a murderous doctor? Or a scarecrow? Stefan laughed. A thin, nervous sound. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, in time with the diesel engine spluttering underneath them. Could be a prank. Some kind of thing the locals do.

Yeah. ‘Locals.’ It was Clint’s turn to laugh. You’re not from round these parts, are you? He put on a comedy country-boy accent that would have got him glassed in the venue they’d left a few hours back. We don’t much like strangers round here.

Shut it, basshole. If you hadn’t been hitting on that old maid after the gig, we could have been another half-hour closer to home by now.

She was a bit of a cougar.

Cougar? More like a saber-toothed tiger. Looked like she’d been crossed with a pair of zeppelins and force-fed makeup, too. Stefan slapped his thigh, roaring with amusement at his own joke.

She wasn’t that old. Said she only had the one kid and had her young so things were still good to go.

Classy. Didn’t say how long ago that was or how many grandkids she had, did she? Reckon you dodged a clap-shaped bullet when she took a pass on you. She’s the type of chick that’d stab you as soon as fuck you. Maybe both at the same time. As it is, we’re gonna be lucky to get back before… What?

Clint was staring at the book. At the opening of chapter 12A. The story that both existed but didn’t within his book of Dark Fiction Tales: Book Three: A Crow’s Game. He didn’t remember the subtitle from before. He flicked to the cover. The hand sticking out of the coffin, the one that had been flipping the bird, was now holding a drumstick. He turned back to chapter 12A and read.

‘What if two not-quite friends, drifting home in a van held together by prayers and gaffer tape, were to drift off the known highways and byways of living America? What if they were to pass through mists which lived and hungered, onto trails older than the world? Pathways which only existed on maps stitched together with nightmares. Roads, perchance, which carried the Mark of the Crow.’

Perchance? Stefan snorted. The tempo of his tapping on the steering wheel had increased. Who the fuck says ‘perchance’? Does that library book come with an extra helping of lace and a big fuck-off medieval ruff?

‘Beware the Mark of the Crow,’ Clint continued. A watery light leaked into the cab from the illuminated road sign, turning the pages of his book a cadaverous yellow. ‘It marks the place where man, woman and child disappear. Where no animal returns. Where everyone’s journey ends. Toothless.’ Clint worked his wobbly molar with his tongue. It seemed looser than before. Larger, somehow. As did the figure daubed on the road sign with its oversized head, jagged grin and straw for hands. "Reckon that thing’s