Daimon Price, concierge and tour guide of Saytton Manor Hotel, ushered twenty lively schoolchildren into the spacious library and gathered them before him. The neo-Gothic mansion with its spiral turrets and leering gargoyles was notoriously haunted. Daimon, a man in his thirties with an infectious passion for the building, could already sense the excited anticipation of his audience.

  "One hundred and fifty years ago, by the evidence of documentation found in this very room, Thomas Ratliff, squire of Saytton Manor, poisoned his household of twelve servants and created living effigies in their images. Records show that in the summer of 1869, Ratliff, at great personal expense, commissioned thirteen life-sized bisque dolls from Jumeau, doll makers of France, stipulating that they would not be needing eyes, teeth, or hair. Ratliff was an eccentric man whose genius bordered on madness. He believed he could entrap and control the living spirit. His employees disappeared without a trace as did Thomas Ratliff, but it is said, at night, those woeful dolls can be heard roaming the corridors of the building searching for victims to feed upon."

  Allowing his grisly tale a few moments' rumination, Daimon continued cheerily, "With that in mind, we've provided refreshments over by the stained-glass windows and there are plenty of chairs, so respect this glorious library and make yourselves comfortable. Because of heavy snowfall, the coach taking you back won't be here until six p.m., so that gives you an hour. Oh, and in case any of you are wondering why you can't get a phone signal in here," he added with a wry smile, "you'll have to blame the Foundlings."

  Within five minutes of Daimon leaving the library, Luke Crain, a precociously bright boy with an obsessive and sometimes worrying attention to detail, had figured out how to open a huge section of one of the book cases to reveal a dark passage.

  "I knew about the secret door because it's on the website," he declared proudly. "The passage leads into the village square about a quarter of a mile away. The Squire used it to visit his mistresses there, apparently."

  By now most of the class had gathered closely and were peering into the dingy portal, daring each other to go in.

  Holding a finger to his lips, Luke told them, "Listen."

  As voices hushed, the haunting sound of seasonal music and laughter drifted into the library, filling the stuffy air with a ghostly serenade.

  "There's a Winter market in the square—that's what you can hear. The tunnel amplifies sound," he told his rapt audience. "The passage at the village end is blocked by a padlocked metal gate. I saw it when we were there this afternoon, and it's probably rat-infested anyway."

  Wallowing in the attention he was getting, he continued, "There's almost definitely a hidden room here as well, and it's my guess the entrance is behind the inglenook fireplace. I saw something like it on an episode of Most Haunted."

  Stepping onto the sprawling hearth, he reached up into the darkness of the chimney breast and ran his hands over the brickwork. After a few moments and with a triumphant "hah!" he gave a hefty tug on an iron ring hanging from the crumbling masonry. With a deep grinding sound, a stone panel behind the fireplace moved sideways to reveal steps descending into a sinister darkness from which there came the fetid reek of ancient air.

  When the shuffling sound of footsteps emanated from below, followed by a protracted resonant groan, Luke's eager entourage swiftly moved away.

  Roused by intrusive light and the sound of juvenile voices, the Foundlings stirred. Scattered about the floor lay the bones of Ratliff's servants, long since stripped of skin, flesh, and soul. Through misty eyes, the revenant creatures turned their attention towards the soft illumination above and found themselves drawn like moths to candlelight. One of them belched a guttural sound of approval into the fusty air and took its first shuffling steps towards freedom. Gathering their strength, and with jagged teeth chattering hungrily, the others followed.

  A remarkably unfazed goth girl remained where she was, and with an amused grin, began filming the ensuing chaos on her phone.

  Meanwhile, a small group of boys loitered by the heavy oak door through which they'd entered the medieval library.

  "We're locked in," one of them called out as he rattled the handle and hammered the side of his fist against the door to little effect.

  The resounding grunts emanating from the basement room grew louder and more threatening. Several panicked schoolchildren retreated to the perimeter walls while others huddled in the corners like frightened animals.

  With a growing sense of terror in the room, Luke found his popularity waning.

  "This is your fault, Crain!" snapped a stout boy who'd filled his pockets with plundered food. "You've unleashed a pack of bloody monsters is what you've done!" he blurted through a mouthful of cheese-and-pickle sandwich.

  A nervy girl with wispy blonde hair joined the goth girl and together they timidly peered into the sinister abyss behind the fireplace. Catching sight of the hideous mannequins ascending the steps like denizens of Hell, the blonde screamed hysterically for a few seconds and then promptly fainted.

  Another boy rushed to her rescue. Pulling a hefty poker from the fireside caddy, he stood over the unconscious girl and with gritted determination, brandished the rod, ready to strike.

  "Luke! Get your arse back here and close the stupid door!" he ordered without once taking his eyes from the hellish portal.

  His words fell on deaf ears, though, and the reluctant hero was forced to back off as twelve menacing automatons dressed in old-fashioned servants' clothes lurched into the hall.

  In the ensuing panic, the first of the mannequins moved purposefully towards the secret passage, blocking the only possible escape route. Another of the bizarre creations, a matronly woman with a bloated ruddy face and obscenely puckered lips, scooped the unconscious blonde girl into her arms. Her head lolled back and there followed an excruciating moment as the woman sniffed the skin of her throat and bared a row of needle-sharp teeth, poised to bite. But the girl's youthful innocence confounded her, for the schoolgirl was yet to be tainted by the iniquities of adulthood and was of little interest to a creature that thrives on immorality. Quite gently, it rested her limp body on the ground and moved on, for a new distraction took the Foundling's attention—the sound of music and ribald laughter coming from the secret passage.

  To the profound relief of the captive adolescents, the Foundlings made their exit through the opening in the library wall.

  A few moments later, the library's door opened and Daimon sauntered in, quite oblivious to the panicked scene within.

  Waving frantically to attract his attention, Luke pointed towards the tunnel entrance. With a tense hush prevailing, there came the groaning sound of metal straining and twisting, and then a splintering crack like the report of a shotgun.

  "They've broken the padlock," Luke muttered despondently. "They've reached the village, all twelve of them." And then, with his obsessive attention to detail, he looked thoughtfully at Daimon and told him, "You said there were thirteen...I counted twelve."

  As the first dreadful screams of the villagers reached the library, Daimon slammed the heavy oak door shut and with a cold, vacant stare in his eyes and baring a row of barbed teeth, declared, "Oh dear, children, I do believe we have a problem."

  About the Author

  Gary G. Power is a UK based author of dark and occasionally shocking short stories. His work has appeared in popular anthologies such as When Graveyards Yawn (Crowswing Books), several volumes of The Black Book of Horror (Mortbury Press), Jeani Rector's, The Horror Zine for which he was featured author of the month and the 'Years Best Body Horror 2017' (Gehenna and Hinnom) His novelette, The Art of Anatomy (2021) was recently published by Mannison Press to critical acclaim.

  Gary has been a member of the British Fantasy Society since 2006 and attended and participated in signings at many conventions. He has been shortlisted for the Ian St James short story award and is a registered Amazon author. He is also a member of the 'Clockhouse London Writers' group. Meet him here: www.garygpower.com.

  Smashwords profile here: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/GaryPower.

  3. Ollie

  Tim Mendees

  "Somnambulism is relatively common in children of Sam's age. Especially those with an inquisitive mind."

  If Helen had a pound for every time a doctor had told her this, she could have paid the mortgage off twice already. "It's nothing to worry about, he'll soon grow out of it," they would say before dismissing her from their surgeries with a blasé wave of the hand. Yet, despite their assurances, Helen couldn't help being possessed of a deep unease at her son's condition. It wasn't the sleepwalking that was the issue...it was what he did while sleepwalking that caused concern.

  As far as she could recollect, Sam's nocturnal wanderings had begun shortly after a family outing to the Blue Reef Aquarium in Newquay. Sam had been instantly drawn to the Finding Nemo tank, while his younger sister, Sally, had been captivated by the giant Pacific octopus. As they left, the two siblings were given free choice in the gift shop of one stuffed sea creature each. Sam had plumped for a large fluffy clownfish while Sally had fallen in love with a red octopus the size of an adult's thumb that she quickly named Ollie.

  Following the drive home, Dave had stuffed the children with fishcakes and chips, chased with bowls of stupidly expensive ice cream. Once the food had worked its soporific magic on the pair, Helen put them both to bed and snuggled up with Dave on the sofa. Two hours later, all hell broke loose as a noise like an air-raid siren erupted from Sally's bedroom.

  "I can't find Ollie!" Sally had wailed as Helen crashed through the door. "He was on my pillow, now he's gone." The five-year-old was inconsolable. Since purchasing the minute cephalopod, she hadn't let it out of her grasp. Her face lit up every time she peered into his little beady black eyes and played with his tiny tentacles.

  Dave and Helen looked under the bed, behind the bedside table, in the wardrobe, everywhere. By the time they had finished, Sally had sobbed herself back to sleep. Completely bewildered, Helen's mind started to race.

  "What if she's swallowed it?"

  Dave smiled and stroked her hair. "I'm sure it'll turn up in the morning. It has to be in here somewhere."

  "Yeah...you're right. Let's go to bed."

  Thump!

  The sound of something hitting the floor in the adjacent room gave them both a start.

  "What now?" Dave sighed.

  "Well, it was you that wanted two of them." Helen chuckled. "Come on, let's see what nightmare awaits behind door number two."

  Creeping slowly down the corridor, Helen and Dave pushed Sam's door open and peered through the crack.

  "Oh my God!" Helen gasped as she saw her six-year-old son lying face down on the floor with a pair of scissors in one hand and a butchered clownfish in the other. Barging into the room, Dave wrestled the scissors from his son's hand and tossed them out of the room.

  Rolling Sam over and cradling his head, Helen babbled hysterically, "Sam, can you hear me...Sam?"

  "Where the hell did he get scissors?" Dave asked as he examined the mangled toy.

  "Dunno, they should be in the kitchen. What's wrong with him? His eyes are rolled back in his head. Look!"

  Suddenly, Sam snapped out of it. "Mummy? What's wrong?" He rubbed his eyes and stretched as though he had just awakened from a deep sleep.

  Helen cooed that everything would be all right. Sam started to cry when he saw that he had killed Nemo. Dave assured him that a few stitches and he'd be okay, then picked Sam up and tucked him back into bed. As he lifted Sam, Helen spotted something small and red on the carpet.

  "Hey, I've found Ollie," she said as she picked the octopus off the carpet. "Ugh, it's all wet and sticky. I think he's been chewing it or something."

  "Who cares, is it intact?"

  "Yeah, he's fine."

  "Thank Heaven for that." Dave sighed with relief.

  "I'll put him on a quick delicate wash then tumble-dry him. He'll be fine by morning."

  "That'll take hours."

  "Yeah, well. A few hours' sleep is a small sacrifice to stop Sal going into meltdown." Helen took Ollie and left the room.

  Dave sat with Sam for a while but the boy had fallen asleep again as soon as he had hit the bed. After a while, Dave decided to raid Helen's sewing bag for some orange and white thread. If she was going to be up all night, he may as well join her. He could get her to Google somnambulism while he resurrected Nemo.

  Sally was none the wiser when she awoke the next morning. When Helen had roused her clutching the freshly laundered octopus, her eyes had lit up. Helen's eyes, however, had huge black bags under them. Due to Sam's apparent sleepwalking, helping mend a fish, and washing an octopus, she had managed to snatch a grand total of two hours' sleep.

  Dave had managed a feat of needlework that Isaac Singer would have been proud of; so much so that Sam never noticed that anything had happened to Nemo. As far as he was concerned, he had gone to bed, dreamt of being under the sea, and woken up well-rested. He had no recollection whatsoever of the scissors incident. Helen had gently tried to broach the subject over breakfast, but Sally had completely dominated the conversation with fun facts about octopuses.

  "How big is Ollie's beak, Mummy?" she had asked between mouthfuls of cereal, just as Helen started on the subject of sleepwalking.

  "Hmm? What's that, Love?"

  "Ollie's beak, how's big is it? It says an octopus can squeeze through any gap as long as its beak will fit...I bet Ollie could get anywhere!" Without waiting for an answer, she hopped down from her chair and took Ollie over to her dollhouse and started putting him through the windows.

  As Helen watched her happily attacking her dolls with Ollie's tentacles, a strange chill settled deep into her bones. She knew she was probably hallucinating due to lack of sleep, but she could have sworn that Ollie had winked a beady black eye at her.

  "It could be due to something deep-rooted in his subconscious," the child psychologist had told Helen. "The reason he keeps doing terrible things to his clownfish could be his way of dealing with some kind of trauma or anxiety. How are things at home?"

  Helen's jaw hit the desk. She'd asked this quack why her son would try and kill Nemo every time he sleepwalked, and now she was being cross-examined. "Everything is fine, thank you very much." Instantly regretting her defensive outburst, Helen had spent the remainder of the consultation wanting the chequered floor to open up and swallow her whole. Once the ordeal was over, she collected Sam from the waiting room and left.

  Sam's nocturnal wanderings had continued on a semi-regular basis ever since that first occasion. There was seemingly no trigger to the attacks, and on each occasion, he would end up trying to murder his clownfish. He had dumped it in the kitchen bin, thrown it out of the window, tried to flush it down the toilet, and on one occasion, put it in the oven. It was a good job that the appliance was switched off via the wall switch that was well out of his reach. After every instance, Helen or Dave had cleaned Nemo up and handed him back in the morning. It had got to the point where they had installed locks on the kitchen drawers so he couldn't get anything sharp.

  Aside from attempted plushicide, Sam had been indulging in other bizarre activities. On one occasion, he had been found on the hearth-rug with a book of human anatomy. On another, he was apparently searching for a non-existent landmass in the middle of the Pacific Ocean on Dave's laptop.

  After each occurrence, they would find Ollie the octopus under Sam's pillow, wet and sticky. They tried hiding the little fellow at bedtimes, but Sam always managed to locate him.

  The baffled couple had tried everything that the doctors and psychologists had suggested to no avail. They had resigned themselves to living with Sam's condition when things took a darker turn.

  "What is it, Petal?" Helen cooed as she entered Sally's bedroom. She was wailing like a banshee again.

  "I can't find Ollie. He's with Sam again!"

  This shocked Helen. They had taken every measure possible to ensure that she didn't know that Sam had taken him. "Erm... How..."

  "He's always with him. He likes him better than me!" Sally was overwrought. Her little face was a crumpled pink mess of tears and snot.

  Helen sat on the bed. "Oh, I'm sure that's not true, dear. Sam loves you very much."

  Sally's eyes hardened, and her sniveling stopped in a flash. "I don't mean Sam."

  Crash!

  The colossal racket that came from the direction of the living room halted Helen's questioning. Sally didn't even flinch. She was still drilling a hole into her mother's skull with her eyes.

  "What in...? Dave?" Helen called out as she leapt to her feet. Reaching the door, a nagging suspicion made her poke her head into Sam's room. He was gone...and so was the clownfish. "Oh, good God, what now?"

  Turning, she started to hurry towards the living room. As she reached the threshold, the lights suddenly cut off with an electrical pop! Somebody had pulled the circuit breaker. Now in total darkness, Helen felt her way along the wall to the kitchen. She had a flashlight in one of the drawers, it only took her a handful of heartbeats to find it. Switching it on, she swept it across the room.

  "Sally?" Helen yelped as a small figure darted across the doorway giggling to itself. "Sally, this isn't a game. Get back to bed."

  Silence.

  "Dave? ... Where the bloody hell are you?" She had left him on the sofa watching TV. As she entered cautiously, she could see that he wasn't there anymore. A large glass-fronted cabinet had been overturned, and shards of glass blanketed the carpet.

  Helen gasped. Bloody footprints were leading to the garage door...small ones. "Oh, God. Sam! Sally!" Her heart was exploding as she broke into a jog towards the open door.