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    The Walls of Madness
    The Walls of Madness
    The Walls of Madness
    Ebook102 pages1 hour

    The Walls of Madness

    By Craig Saunders

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Best Novella, Solstice List 2012. 
    Billy Hunter sees things other people only imagine; he sees the low beasts and the dark man, too - a man called Marlin. People call Billy crazy, but sometimes nightmares are real and the walls are thin, and sometimes in the dead of night that man, that Marlin, comes through...
    ***
    'Grabbed me from the first page.' - Matt Shaw, author of Monster and Evil Dead Things.
    'Saunders brings the unthinkable to life with pure visual perfection.' - The Horrifically Horrifying Horror Blog.
    'The downright brave originality of the novella along with its utter avoidance of any constraining boundaries, are together what make the story work so very well.' - Chris Hall, DLS Reviews.
    ***
    From the author of Flesh and Coin and The Dead Boy.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDark Fable Books
    Release dateJul 1, 2018
    ISBN9781973259060
    The Walls of Madness
    Author

    Craig Saunders

    Craig Saunders is the author of forty (or so) novels and novellas, including 'ALT-Reich', 'Vigil' and 'Hangman', and has written over a hundred short stories, available in anthologies and magazines, 'best of' collections and audio formats. He tends to write science fiction as Craig Robert Saunders, fantasy as Craig R. Saunders, and most fiction as Craig Saunders...although sometimes the lines are blurred. Imprints: Dark Fable Books/Fable Books.  Likes: Nice people, games, books, and doggos. Dislikes: Weird smells, surprises, and gang fights in Chinatown alleyways.  He's happy to talk mostly anything over at: www.craigrsaunders.blogspot.com  @Grumblesprout Praise for Craig Saunders: [Masters of Blood and Bone] '...combines the quirkiness of Dean Koontz's Odd Thomas series with the hardcore mythology of Clive Barker to create an adventure that is both entertaining and terrifying.' - examiner.com [Vigil] 'A gripping accomplishment.' - Murder, Mayhem and More. 'Saunders is fast becoming a must read author...' - Scream. [Bloodeye] '...razor-sharp prose.' Wayne Simmons, author of Flu and Plastic Jesus. 'Plain and simple, this guy can write.' - Edward Lorn, author of Bay's End.  [Deadlift] 'Noir-like, graphic novel-like horror/thriller/awesomeness.' - David Bernstein, author of Relic of Death and Witch Island. 'A master of the genre.' Iain Rob Wright. [Spiggot] 'Incredibly tasteless, shamelessly lowbrow, and very, very funny.' - Jeff Strand.  [A Home by the Sea] 'Brutal and poetic...' - Bill Hussey, author of Through a Glass, Darkly. [Rain] '...the best book I've read in a year.' - The Horror Zine. [Cold Fire] '...full of emotion and heart.' - Ginger Nuts of Horror.

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      Book preview

      The Walls of Madness - Craig Saunders

      Part One

      One of the many worst things about being nuts was being so goddamned important.

      Mark Vonnegut

      The Eden Express: A Memoir of Insanity

      I.

      When Billy Hunter saw spiders in the walls, it was Eileen Westwood that chased them away with broom or duster. Billy saw spiders, and beetles, and mice, sometimes. Sometimes it was different, and it wasn’t any of those things. Those times Eileen didn’t go rushing in, because Billy wasn’t right in the head then.

      Good lord, that didn’t sound Christian, but Billy wasn’t right in the head and that was the best that could be said. Sweetest man she’d ever met when it was just the creepies and the crawlies and the scrabbling in the walls, but when the black moon was on him, when the Devil was in him ranting at the black moon...

      Well, those times, she took a knife in her pocket along with her broom or duster and prayed to the Good Lord for the poor man.

      She took the knife not because he was a danger to her. Never that.

      No. She took it because he could be persuasive enough that he got her scared of the things in the walls, too. Those things he saw, she didn’t ever want to see.

      But he wasn’t right in the head, and there were no such things as the Hatheth or the Krama, the Yik and the man, the Marlin.

      ‘No.’

      There were no such things.

      ‘No,’ she said. She spoke out loud, because she thought it’d do her good to hear the words, but there was doubt in her voice. She knew why. Even though it was nuts, it was because he could be damn convincing. Some days she chased those things away while he screamed and raved and tried to climb the wall behind her, his heels scrabbling at the walls. He’d clawed that wall so many times his fingernails were all broken and torn. The blood on the walls he washed down – she was hot on creepies, but not so good with blood.

      ‘Poor, poor man,’ she said, shaking her head. He didn’t deserve what happened to him. Maybe his old man had it in his blood, the sickness, just like his son. Billy never did talk about his dad, though, nor his mum, for that matter. But it was a shame, alright. Smart boy, hitting the prime of his life...could happen to anyone, she supposed. Not her. She had her rock, and that was the all of it.

      But Billy suffered. Grown man or not, he cried those nights, and shrieked, too, sometimes, in a high pitch that dug needles into her spine.

      The man, the Marlin, though. He came on the worst of days and Good Lord didn’t he scare her? Did he? Of course he did, because when he came she didn’t mind admitted she’d needed the toilet really badly.

      Just kind of like night terrors, for Billy. It had become a lullaby for her, ever since he moved in. But she loved the boy and it wasn’t the Marlin tonight, just the low beasts, the beetles, maybe the mice...she couldn’t tell anything from the scream except that it wasn’t them. It wasn’t him.

      And that wasn’t so bad.

      Just plain screaming, like kid who’d just had a nightmare. She could deal with that, easy as. She almost smiled.

      Eileen checked the old school clock on the wall. 11pm.

      Good time. Get in early and sometimes she could read a little before bed, after Billy’d calmed down a little.

      She pulled on her wellies and her overcoat in the front porch, because winter was just about kicking in. Middle of December and they still got the occasional sunshine day, but cold enough now.

      Old bones, but she always was good with the cold.

      Just a short hop over the fence and she’d be next door and with any luck she wouldn’t be listening to him through the wall all night.

      She loved Billy like a neighbour should, but she still liked her sleep.

      Coat on, wellies pulled up smartly over her tights, she kissed the little cross that hung down between low breasts and picked up the broom for some chasing.

      *

      II.

      A mouse skittered around the skirting board and popped into a hole. There was a greasy line around the skirting board, marking out their run. Didn’t matter how often Bill put down traps and poison. Didn’t matter how often he blocked the hole. They gnawed their way through.

      They’d gnawed through polyfilla, then polyfilla stacked with mouse poison, wire wool, a small plank he’d nailed in (when Mrs. Westwood was out one day).

      He knew mice and rats gnawed things. He knew they were dirty little bastards. But he’d never know them to be invulnerable to every torture known to man.

      They lived in the walls. The snuck under the bed while he tried to sleep and cried, some nights, like a little boy afraid of something in the cupboard, crying for Daddy, crying monster.

      But it was just mice, and Mrs. Westwood was coming. Billy’s chills fled. He could hear her boots, clumping up the old stairs, the stairs creaking. Third step, fourth, seventh, ninth...a couple more to go. Those narrow old stairs with their worn old wood.

      For each step his heart slowed a beat. Racing, down to...not quite idling, but maybe an engine settling in for a long stretch on the motorway.

      ‘Billy? What is it?’ Mrs. Westwood said, coming into the room. Every light in the room blazed – A harsh bulb with no shade hung from the ceiling, a bedside lamp, and a standing lamp there in the corner.

      He felt

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