EXCLUSIVE TO TBM! A brand new story especially written for this site by DEAN VINCENT CARTER, author of The Hand of the Devil, Hunting Season and the forthcoming Blood Water.

Remember the “olde worlde shiny black coach pulled by four horses“ from About Trapped By Monsters? Now read on…!

TALES OF THE BLACK CARRIAGE – SANCTUARY

by Dean Vincent Carter

Howling…

I could do nothing but pray for an easy death – quick, painless, and without the necessity to confront face-on the horror that pursued me. Out of breath, dizzy from fatigue and lost, I could see no way out for me. I was the consummate victim now, the figurehead of the doomed. And then I heard it: the sound of hooves, and of wooden cartwheels rattling on uneven ground. I lifted my head up and struggled up the bank, clawing at the leaves and damp ground to heave myself forward. As I reached the rise I spied it, its lanterns banishing the night around it in twin halos like burning eyes.

The Black Carriage was twisting its way along the overgrown, forgotten road, heading who knew where. It was still some distance from where I crouched, and if I could move fast enough I might head it off before it passed and left me abandoned in the forest to be devoured by the panting nightmare that pursued me, still baying, still crying out for my blood. I dredged the strength necessary from the bowels of my will to haul myself back to my feet and propel me forward through the trees toward where I guessed the road must lie, all the while keeping my eyes on those lights, praying they would not change direction. Again there came another shuddering howl from somewhere behind me that made my head throb and the hairs on my neck prick up. Why was it taunting me? The beast was surely faster than I, could surely have caught me by now, and yet it remained ever behind as though waiting. But for what? Forward, moaning, stumbling, I espied the grey line of the road ahead and pushed on toward it, not wanting to look back, not for one second in case I saw it, that monstrosity. For it was indeed the sight of the thing that inspired more terror in me than anything it might do to me.

My arms were rent with a multitude of scratches as I dashed through the forest, pushing branches apart as I went, and then, there was the road. I stopped and turned in the direction of the carriage, just as it turned a corner and came toward me. I held my arms up and waved them, praying the horses would cease their motion. There was a cacophony of whinnying and exhalation as the animals reared up and stopped just in time to avoid trampling me beneath their hooves. The carriage rocked and swayed itself to a stop as I walked around to the side and saw a curtain move in the window, then a face. I knocked on the glass mouthing my urgent request to be allowed ingress. Another face joined that at the window, then another, but still the door did not open. I grasped the door handle and pulled but it did not yield. The occupants had no idea who I was, nor if I was someone they wanted inside their carriage. This I understood. All authors knew the secret of the Black Carriage and the sanctuary it afforded those on the run from the horrors of their own imagination. The occupants were safe, and opening the door to the carriage jeopardised that safety. I needed to convince them that I was no threat.

At once there came another terrible howl as of some huge wounded hound, crying in pain. But this was no mutt, this was my enemy, and it was closer now, practically upon me, ravenous for my flesh.

‘Gods, open this door!’ I ordered, but the faces remained unsure, troubled. I stepped back from the carriage and turned to look into the forest. I could feel it nearing the road, could hear its panting more loudly now, smell its musty animal odour. I could also hear the voices inside the carriage, debating the situation, deciding whether to allow me inside or carry on. I prayed the debate would not last long, and that the outcome would be in my favour.

‘Please hurry,” my voice wavered as I continued gazing into the darkness from whence I’d emerged. Just then the window slid open and a bespectacled face appeared.

‘Who are you?’

‘I don’t remember my name,’ I replied, for this was the truth. ‘But something terrible is after me. I am sure it will tear me apart any second now if you do not let me in!’

The man looked into the forest and asked:

‘What is it that’s after you? A monster?’

‘Yes!’ I insisted. ‘Something truly hideous.’ Another howl, this time louder, this time closer. The creature now had to be hiding in the undergrowth by the side of the road. The howl had almost rocked the carriage. The face in the window went pale. I turned from him to the forest.

‘Hang on,’ the voice came from the carriage. ‘We’re having trouble with this door. We’ll have you in here in a second.’

Something emerged from the side of the road, came forward, and I felt a ripple through my body. At once memories came flooding back, awful ones, catastrophic ones. My name also came back to me. Carter. Dean Vincent Carter. But this seemed an irrelevance now, an incidental detail among more vital revelations. There was another ripple, I coughed, gagged, then looked down to my exposed legs seeing before feeling the buckling of bones, the maddening growth of hair. As I ground my teeth they fell out one by one to be replaced by sharper ones that bit into my expanding tongue to draw blood.

Now I knew what had pursued me, what had been howling for my blood all those hours. It had been the horror within me, and it had finally caught up.

‘Close the window,’ I called out in a gargled, guttural voice. ‘And get on your way!’

‘But we can help…’

‘No!’ I insisted, turning to meet the eyes that gazed out at me from the window. The change of expression was further confirmation of what was happening to my poor body. ‘Get on your way, NOW!’ The window slammed shut and the carriage bucked forward as the horses received their orders. At once a white light blinded me and all sound disappeared. When my vision and hearing cleared I found myself suddenly atop the carriage, pulling and clawing at the roof, trying to prise it off as though it were the lid of a coffin. If I did manage to get inside then it would indeed become a coffin, for the thing that had control of me certainly sought to destroy those within. I roared my frustration and then, inexplicably found that I was back in control again. I was still a monster caught between man and wolf, but now the actions were mine and mine alone. I let out an awful howl that was part anger, part resignation, then leapt from the roof, back into the all-consuming darkness of the forest.

As the Black Carriage continued on its way I became determined to find a cure for my sickness, or else a way to permanently control it. For I was not the only one besieged by horror. I could smell the foul beasts that pursued that dark vehicle of hope, and I knew I could fight them. If only there was a way of controlling my infection, harnessing it. This I would learn, then I would find the Black Carriage once more and destroy those evil fiends that followed it.

THE END…?

From TBM Guest Blogger, Alan Gibbons…

OK, so I must have written fifty books, yes and some of them have won prizes (eight to be exact). But what sort of writer am I? Well, my best-known book Shadow of the Minotaur won the Blue Peter Book Award ‘The Book I Couldn’t Put Down’ and that was fantasy so I must be a fantasy writer. The problem is, five of my book awards were for my realistic fiction, stuff like The Edge and Hold On dealing with domestic violence, depression and suicide. Yes, I know, I’m a real little ray of sunshine! So does that make me one of those gritty, Northern social realists. I hope not! I left my whippet on the bus and I look stupid in a cloth cap.

I’m not even a horror writer really. A couple of years ago I agreed a six book horror series with my publishers Orion, only it isn’t…horror, that is. Sure, there’s plenty of blood and gore. Book one, Scared to Death, features a serial killer who is re-enacting the Jack the Ripper murders in the modern East End. He doesn’t use a knife. He peers into your mind and uses your phobias against you, dredging up your worst nightmares so that you will drown in your own fear.

But there’s more to it than that. The root of all this mayhem, the demon master King Lud, is incarcerated deep beneath Christ Church Spitalfield, launching his demon disciples through time in a bid to break out of his centuries-long imprisonment. Paul Rector, my hero, catches the tube at the end of Scared to Death and embarks on a journey through time to uproot this terrible contagion. So that makes it a time travel adventure, doesn’t it?

Except…well, I really wanted the historical background to be as authentic as possible. Book two, The Demon Assassin, features a monstrous killer trying to bump of Winston Churchill. Book three, out this July, is called Renegade and this one takes place against the background of early Victorian London, the kind of city Oliver Twist, Fagin and Bill Sykes would have haunted. So that’s the third element of the series, historical settings that are as authentic as possible.

So if you like your horror red in tooth and claw, if you enjoy Life on Mars and Dr Who and you’re partial to a bit of historical fiction, the Hell’s Underground series might just be for you.

From TBM Guest Blogger, Elizabeth Kay…

There was a lot of snow in Poland when I arrived to pursue my quest, which was to consult another monster about the best way of rescuing the authors trapped in the cave. In fact, it snowed every single day I was there. The monster I went to see lives at the foot of Wawel Castle, in Cracow, and is presumably a distant relative of the dragon that terrorised the countryside and ate a lot of maidens a few hundred years earlier.

That particular dragon was killed by a poor cobbler’s apprentice, who stuffed a sheepskin with sulphur, and left it on the banks of the River Vistula. The dragon devoured the bait and developed a raging thirst, as intended. He could only quench this thirst by drinking half the Vistula dry, which, understandably, inflated him so much that he eventually exploded. Blood and guts and scales and claws everywhere, and a lot of rejoicing by the local peasants. The cobbler’s apprentice then married the king’s daughter, as heroes of old tended to do. It’s unclear whether this was the main impetus for the deed, or prospect of lots of free dragon leather with which to make up-market shoes.

I’d heard that the current dragon still breathed fire – I’d found a photograph on the internet so that I knew what to look for. I made sure I wasn’t wearing anything sewn from sheepskin, which would have given the wrong impression. Actually, it could have been downright dangerous. But when I got to the foot of the castle I was in for a surprise. The dragon had decided it was just too cold, and had gone into hibernation. He was covered with snow. I shouted. I poked him. I shouted again. Nothing.

So yet another dead end. I did read a good book on the plane home, though. The Falconer’s Knot, by Mary Hoffman. It’s a mediaeval murder mystery, set in 14th century Italy, with lots of grisly murders. But I’m no nearer mounting a rescue attempt. There must be someone who can come up with a good plan…

Another installment from TBM Guest Blogger - Elizabeth Kay…

How do monsters get into SatNavs? I’ve always called mine The Beast, so maybe it serves me right. There I was tootling down to the cave for another rescue attempt, when things went very weird indeed. Instead of the “Turn right,” and then “Recalculating”, when you don’t do what it wants, The Beast suddenly said, “I can no longer take you to the authors trapped in the cave. You are going to have to undertake a quest instead.

“Take the M23 to Gatwick Airport at six o’clock tomorrow morning, and board a plane for Cracow, in Poland. When you arrive there you must seek out the dragon that lives at the foot of the castle and breathes fire, and ask it how to achieve your goal.”

So I’m off to Poland. I’ve got some books to take with me on the plane – Lost Riders, by Elizabeth Laird, about boy camel racers, and The Lastling, by Philip Gross. And I’ve got my camera. I’m going to take a photograph of the dragon, and post it on here when I get back, just to prove I’ve done what I said I’d do. I hope the dragon speaks English…

More from TBM Guest Blogger - Elizabeth Kay…

I needed a van to be able to transport all the gear you suggested. Some of the items were too American. I took a cricket bat in place of a baseball bat, and I had to look up Twinkies on the internet – fairy cakes seemed to be closest. The soap, mirror, air freshener and toothpicks were easy – but a good lawyer? Where do you find one of those? The machine-gun wasn’t an option, either – you need a licence for those things over here – and no one would hire me the jet-packs.

I did explain that Mark Robson would know about all the Health and Safety issues, with his pilot’s background, but the answer was still No. I packed eight signed copies of The Divide, although I didn’t hold out much hope that they’d work as a bribe. I’d have been a lot better off if I could have taken Grimspite with me, as he’s awfully good at disembowelling – but he was off on a cookery course somewhere, learning how to make black pudding…

Once I’d got everything packed I settled down with a good book to while away the time – Feasting the Wolf, by Susan Price. It’s about two blood-brothers, Ketil and Ottar, who leave their farm on Shetland to join the Vikings, and find adventure. Things don’t always go the way you expect, though. It is a violent life, but it’s far from glamorous…

When I looked up it was dark, and it was snowing again. I got in the van, and drove down to the canal. The wheels were slipping and sliding all over the place, and I thought I’d end up in the canal, rather than next to it. But I managed to park it, and I lugged all the gear over to the dustbins, settled down, and waited.

It was really cold. I mean REALLY cold. The sort of cold that lets you know why frostbite has teeth, the sort of cold that grabs hold of the end of your nose and twists it until you can’t feel it any more… I suddenly realised that it wasn’t the cold attacking my nose, it was a leathery hand with just two fingers. Each finger had a talon on the end; it was like one of those silly little hands a Tyrannosaurus has. All bone and muscle and nasty carnivorous ideas. I became aware of a cheesy minty garlicky smell, and something started to nibble the back of my neck in a very worrying way. It wasn’t a sign of affection, that nibbling. It was something have a quick taste to see if tonight’s menu was to its liking.

“Hey!” I yelled, jerking away. “You said you’d take me to the cave, to meet the authors so that I could persuade them to write you in as a hero.”

“Oh yes,” said the monster. “So I was. You’d better follow me.”

I couldn’t carry all the stuff I’d brought, so I left everything behind except the air freshener. The snow was coming down so heavily now that it was like following a shape-shifter. I couldn’t really get a good look at it – one minute I thought it had horns on its head, the next minute it seemed to have six legs and a pot belly. And then it disappeared through a crack in a rock, and I was squeezing in after it and thinking, this is a bad idea. Really bad.

I realised I was in some sort of cave system. It was too dark to see anything properly, and I could hear water dripping and someone moaning in the distance. As I got closer I realised the someone was saying, “No! No! Don’t make me rhyme! I can’t be dramatic, it’s too problematic, it all sounds too flimsy, just juvenile whimsy, I can’t write in verse, it’s worse than a curse… ow! No! Not moon and June, please… anything but that… Aaargh!!!”

I whipped out the air freshener, and gave them a burst of lavender. There was a horrible drawn-out screech, and before I could say BO I was propelled back through the crack in the rock, and outside into the snow. There was a loud clang, like the gates of hell closing, and the suddenly the smell had gone and so had the crack in the rock.

I’d failed.

The monsters were making those poor authors write poetry instead of action adventure stories. The horror of it. The unspeakable horror…

From TBM Guest Blogger - Elizabeth Kay…

I was walking back through the snow on Monday night, minding my own business and plotting out this really great story about a monster who dies from acute indigestion when I heard it.

“Psst. Hey, you.”

The voice was somewhere between a gravelly burp and a wet fart, and whoever owned it had very bad breath. The sort of bad breath that reminds you of cheese and Polo mints, soaked in decaying toadstool soup and seasoned with garlic. I looked round, but it was too dark to see anything properly. A shadow was moving in the shadows. One minute it could have been a particularly ugly dinosaur, and the next minute a rabid bat, and the next… nothing substantial at all.

“Oy. You,” it hissed. “Old lady writer-person. You’ve got a story about a dragon in the magazine Aquila this month, haven’t you? And aren’t you the one who turned a really scary monster into a proper hero?”

I thought for a moment. Then the penny dropped and I said, “Do you mean Grimspite?” (Grimspite is the devil-hyena in my book The Divide who decides to become one of the good guys.)

“Yeah. We’ve got these authors in our cave, see, and we want them to write a story like that, where the monsters are the heroes.”

“I see,” I said. Of course, I knew all about www.trappedbymonsters.com, and I suddenly realised I had the most wonderful fabulous tremendous opportunity ever. If I went along with it, I might be able to rescue those writers. All of them. I’d be the hero. “You want me to persuade them, then?”

“Yeah. Persuade them. Here…” It handed me a mobile phone, which seemed to be covered with slime.

“Oh no,” I said. “I can’t do it by phone. It has to be face to face. You’re going to have to take me there.”

It grunted. Then it burped. Then it farted. Then it said, “Yeah, all right then. Shut your eyes.”

I shut my eyes. A horrible smell wafted past me, and then… nothing. After a couple of minutes I opened my eyes again. There was no one there. Just a piece a bloodstained paper, lying in the snow. I picked it up. It said: Wait behind the dustbins by the canal at midnight on Friday. And don’t bring no one!

Friday. Could the authors hold out that long? And what should I take with me? I need some suggestions, readers, quick… What weapons should I take?

Elizabeth Kay

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www.elizabethkay.co.uk