Tinker Tailor

Every year it was the same. My friends and I would all drive to the old batch house by the beach. The place was old and we'd all pooled money to buy it, cheaply too. The old man who lived there before seemed mentally ill.

All the while we were looking through the place he was muttering to himself, fear in his eyes and spittle flying from his mouth, eyes darting around corners and over the floors. The place itself wasn't bad, old, but with solid wooden floors and a huge fireplace, it was no doubt warm.

As the man explained the features of the house to us we could all see that he seemed desperate to sell it, constantly assuring us of its quality. We said we would think about it after looking at other places, but this made him frantic.

He pleaded to us to buy the place, almost being reduced to a sobbing heap, something unfitting for a grizzled old man of his age. We relented and bought the place to calm him down, it worked immensely and he immediately began feverishly packing his belongings. It took him only a day before he called us to tell that the house was ready and we could move it.

We drove back up to the place, bringing with us a spare couch, television and chairs. When we arrived, he was waiting for us on the doorstep, fidgeting, looking eager to leave. He thrust the key into my hand, and turned to leave. Before he took two steps, the old man slowly scanned the front lawn and beach ahead, sunken eyes searching for something. Without warning, he grabbed my neck and pulled my head close to his, whispering into my ear with spittle flying.

"You're the thread and they're the tailors" he said anxiously "the needles... the needles..." . He turned and ran without another word, starting his car and lurching down the driveway. My friends asked me what he had said. It was nothing, I had told them, and it was nothing to me, if only I had listened.

Over the years we had stayed there, we had added more than just an old couch and television. The whole house was now alive with photos and trinkets from our many trips here scattered around the furniture. The old fireplace was blackened with soot from the many times we had used it, along with a large glob of charred toffee that Chad had been trying to roast one time, we could never clean it out. The rooms had been decorated with our own belongings over the years as well, with holiday gear stored away in every closet, waiting for our return. One room, we never used however.

One of our close knit group, Donnie, had drowned here only two years ago. His room had been unused ever since, we didn't dare move his things, he had hated people doing that and we had joked that he would come back as a pissed off ghost to haunt us if we tried it.

The only other room in the house that hadn't been touched was the first hall bathroom, which had been locked since we had been sold the place. The old man said it was locked when he had brought it too, but his voice had wavered as he spoke and I wasn't sure he was telling the truth. My friends had suggested we try and pry it open, the thick wood being far to heavy to break, but in the end, we left it. Too much effort and we didn't want to waste time when we could be out at the beach or in town.

This year, everyone managed to make it, and we had driven up to the spot in my old Toyota, sputtering all the way. Chad was in the backseat, going on about how he was sure he'd find a girl in town this time, Matthew mocking his tactics, and Alex trying his hardest to sing along with the constant stream of old rock coming from the radio. It was a noisy ride up there, but we could be as loud as we wanted when we arrived. And we were, shouting and hollering as we surfed along the shores waves or ground each other into the sand during a game of rugby.

The shouts dwindled down after the barbecue was set up, all to bust being eating and drinking as fresh meat sizzled deliciously in the summer air. It was soon dark and we all headed back inside to escape the coming cold. We sat around, drinking more alcohol and watching movies. It was a great first night and we all eventually headed off to our rooms.

I slept well under the soft bed sheet that night, but I was awoken sometime early in the morning to a dull thump and a groan. One of the guys must have fallen out of bed, drunk off his ass. My mind was still hazy when I heard a shuffling along the hall and the opening of a door, closing shut again soon after, another loud groan coming from down the hall. I went back to sleep, the one who fell out must have dragged himself to the toilet to be sick or something.

The next morning we were all up and preparing for the day, save Chad, who was refusing to leave hi bed. He said he felt sick, and he didn't seem to be lying when I saw him. His eyes were dull and dropping, the skin around his face pale yellow. I told him he shouldn't have drunken so much last night, he asked how much he had drunk; stupid git was too hangover to remember.

I just told him 'a lot' and left it at that. We managed to get him out of bed eventually, getting him to eat something to try and calm him. His skin was sickly and looked thin, and he moved with a limping gait as if he was unused to walking on his own feet, he looked like death warmed over.

Eventually we headed out again for a day of fun and sport, Chad following us despite his sickness, opting out of the activities. I didn't blame him, he appeared even worse in the sun. His skin seemed to hang off his frame as he sat watching us. When we were swimming he stood in the shallow surf, letting the water wash over his feet.

He seemed to stay there the whole time, even staying a bit longer after we left. When I asked him why he stayed, he said he liked the feel of the water on his feet, can't blame him when everywhere else was baking hot. We settled in for the night, Chad remaining passive as before and not drinking anything. He would feel better in the morning once his handover had passed.

The next morning, he looked the same as when he had gone to bed, still pale and ill. But despite this, he said he was feeling much better, and throughout the day he joined in our rugby matches and surfed with us along the beach. We had all just come out of the water, carrying out boards with us when I noticed a large red scar running down his back.

I asked him if it hurt, it looked slightly inflamed to me. He said it was fine, it had happened when he was dunked by one of the waves and the board gashed his back, but the way he said it with that hint of nervousness, I wasn't sure of that. He ate more than we had seen him ever eat before, and drank like a fish too, consuming nearly half the cooler. I told him to be careful and that he would get another massive hangover if he kept it up, but he just shrugged off the warning, telling me

"It's awesome food! Who wouldn't eat like this when it's so refreshing?" His voice, it wasn't how he usually talked, slightly off in the wording. Easy to tell when I had known him for years. The beer had gotten to his head, I was sure; he was at that stage where you seem smarter drunk, right before the stage when you start acting like an idiot.

Over the next few days though, that scar on his back grew worse, and despite his protests, it worried me. The scar grew more inflamed, pink flesh throbbing against it, discharging a sickly pale liquid. I put up with it for another week before I saw the state of it when we were heading for the surf again.

I was nearly sick when I saw the pink inflamed flash had grown black, thick yellow pus oozing from the middle, chunks of flesh rotting away from the wound. I dragged him back to the batch and told him he couldn't go out again without it being treated, pulling the medical bag from the car as we passed.

He kept insisting it was fine, growing more and more distraught as I told him no. He grew angry when I tried to take a closer look at it, I had to try and hold him down as I examine it. He thrashed and raged at me, even when I tried to apply some disinfectant. He jerked away violently, the plastic lip of the bottle cutting his blackened skin, leaving a deep gash.

I tried to help him, knowing he would be bleeding heavily from it, but when wrestled me away, swearing and cursing at me. He threw a punch, hitting up jaw with a force I didn't know was possible for someone his build. I fell to the ground, dazed and shocked. The last thing I saw was him hurrying away from the back, towards the road into town. It may have been the haze my mind was in, but I was sure that scar on his back wasn't bleeding, even with the deep cut. I blacked out.

I came to a while later on the couch. My friends had seen the whole fiasco and only got to me after Chad had knocked me out, leaving him to run before they could catch him. They said that they hadn't seen him since. For the rest of the day, I took it easy, still being slightly disorientated. For the next few days, Chad was nowhere to be seen. We called his house, no answer. His girlfriend didn't know where he was, nor his parents. We reported it to the police, but they said it could take a while before anyone reports him.

I was plagued with restlessness for a few nights, hazy dreams of bloody screams and crashing in the night. My friends grew sick too after this, thinking they caught whatever Chad had been sick with. The same went for them; they were bedridden for a day or so, and then back on their feet and having fun again. The same thing befouled them, scars along their back that grew putrid and vile. Soon, Alex left, saying he was taking himself to the hospital to get the scar checked out. I gave him the car keys and he started off down the road. He never came back. Matthew and I were now left here without a car and with a growing fear of the bumps that rang throughout the night.

Finally, Matthew suggested we find whatever was causing this all. The illness, the scars and the erratic behavior, and try and do something. I was relieved that he had kept his head during this whole thing, not going crazy and running off like Chad and Alex. We talked about all the strange things that we may have seen throughout the stay here. I told him of the nightmares of wails and loud thumps throughout the night, surprised to hear that he too had been hearing those things, but he was awake when he had heard them.

He said they came from down the hall, somewhere along the right side. We hastily checked every room, even Donnie's, to find whatever we could, but turned up nothing. We sat for a few hours, racking our brains to try and think of where else there could be. Matthew hesitantly suggested something, the fear in his voice seeming to overwhelm everything else. He suggested we look in that old, locked bathroom, the one that had been locked for years since we had bought the place. I was scared to go in there, we both were, knowing that it was the last conceivable place to look.

Grabbing some repair tools from my car, we quickly broke the lock and unscrewed the hinges on the door, carrying it aside. As we did, a rush of putrid hot air smothered out faces. I gagged, bile gathering at the back of my throat. We saw the dark bathroom, old toilet in one corner and bathtub in the other, grime covered and mould ridden from years of neglect. But in the middle of the grimy tile floor, there was a hole. The hole had been smashed through the tiles and the concrete and earth below dug out to form a shaft leading down into blackness.

Matthew grabbed a torch and shone it down into the abyss, trying not to throw up as the hot humid stench of sulfur assaulted us. A small rope ladder hung down the shaft, nailed through the tiles for support. He looked at me with a look that said, you first. Despite my fear, I climbed into the hole, desperate to stop whatever was causing this. The hot air only became more rotten as we descended, holding onto the flashlight tightly as I went. The ground I settled onto was moist, squelching underfoot. When Matthew was down, I slowly and fearfully raised the light, both of us gasping at what we saw.

Hooks hung the walls, bloody and rusted, next to a whole board of knives, saws, axes and clubs, all dirtied with black caked blood. An old wooden bench sat near the wall, red pools of fresh blood lay on its surface, slowly sinking into the wood. Looking at the floor, we saw chunks of flesh lay over the dirt, some fresh and pink, others black and rotted. We both reeled back at the horrific sight of these things. A butchery with all the tools to get the job done, scattered throughout the place. I crept closer to the bench, as if the thing shrieked at me to leave now, but I had to know what was going on. Matthew stayed back in silence. Over the bench, scratched into the blood soaked wood, were words in chicken scratch writing. I read them aloud to Matthew, who audibly whimpered at them, shifting around behind me, examining the hooks and deadly instruments.

"Flesh renders..." I read with a near sob in my throat "Tinkers, tailors. They stole my flesh...they dragged me down and cut it all off..."
  My heart skipped a beat as I read the next deathly message

"Skin is their suit, they walk in our skin"

I turned to run, trying to grab Matthew with me, but blinding pain exploded in my head. I fell, torch dully thudding next to me. I turned my head weakly, the light from the torch distorting my vision, but I could see clearly enough through the pain. Matthew stood with a bat in his hand, readying to strike again. Before the final blow knocked me unconscious, I saw a figured behind him, clothed in red cloth. I didn't have time to see what was underneath, but I soon would know.

When I awoke, I was still in the basement, the darkness suffocating me as I lay there. I felt a cool breeze waft over my body, but cried out at the breeze brought stinging pain. Sitting up, I felt my hands sting with the effort, pushing me off the bench and onto the damp floor below. I screamed out in blinding pain as I struck the earth, feeling like needles were being driven into my skin. I nearly blacked out again because of the pain, but managed to grit my teeth and live through it. My vision could make out the torch sitting on the floor only a few feet away, the light from the shaft behind it illuminating the edges. I grabbed it, the pain flaring in my hands again as they touched the plastic. I switched it on, but I wish I hadn't. I wish that fall would have killed me because of what I now saw. My hands, my legs my body, all red and wrinkled. I realized why it stung much when I moved now, the wrinkles were my muscles. My shrieks and cries filled the dark tomb, mind reeling at how I was still even alive and how much it hurt to just sit there. I couldn't blink, my teeth were exposed without lips and my head was bald with bone.

The pain was making me lightheaded, making me lay my hands behind me as if to rest. But when I did, sweet relieve rushed over my palms, the pain leaving them. I looked back to see those same red robes that were worn by the figured behind Matthew from earlier. Soft and smooth, they quelled my pain. I grabbed them throwing the fabric over my body and binding some to my feet. After that, I left the hole, making my way out of the bathroom and running from the house.

It was dark. Thank God, it was dark, only the moon throwing light up on this landscape. I ran, the cloth causing only minor pain as it drifted over my exposed muscles, but had no idea where I could go. I ran for days without end in sight before I nearly collapsed in exhaustion. By that time, I was near some suburbs, houses lining the edge of the tarmac. Under the dark of night, I slipped into one, downing food and drink as quickly as I could. I holed myself up in an old cabinet the people living there had stowed in the garage. The keys were in the lock, but I took them with me and locked the door from the inside, resting myself after consuming all the food I had gathered.

The days pass in a haze now. I just sit there and wait for night to come and all of them to go to sleep, then emerging to eat my fill and stay alive for one more day. But the food and drink, they taste bitter; I can hardly feel anything now. My muscles pain me despite the cloth, and I can no longer feel the texture of my wooden home under my hands or the gentle caress of the night air as I stalk through the house, without extreme pain.

The smell of the world is lifeless without a nose and my eyes blur from lack of rest. I have to watch everything, having no eyelids to shut off the world anymore. My ears, they're gone now, and the sound around me is more hushed than ever before. I want to feel again, I need to feel again, not doing so drives me crazy. This suit of cloth has worn out its welcome; I need something more...personal. I've seen you walking around through the crack in my cabinet.