Ghouls of the Undercity. Edmund Glasby

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      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 2014 by Edmund Glasby

      All rights reserved.

      Published by Wildside Press LLC.

      www.wildsidebooks.com

      GHOULS OF THE UNDERCITY

      Things other than flesh

       crawled in the darkness…

      David Richardson sat in front of the small mirror applying the final touches to his skull-faced makeup; the chalk-white powder and the dark eye shadow. He grinned, appraising his teeth, which he had already blackened, wondering whether or not to enhance his ghoulish appearance with a little fake blood. After a moment’s indecision he chose not to, after all he had gone out in his blood-sucking vampire costume the night before and it was just possible that there would be some who had attended that tour there tonight. It wouldn’t do to make his little business—providing ‘ghost tours’ around the city—look cheap for there were now other tour operators working out there and competition was relatively fierce. It really was a question of showmanship and originality and to that end he wouldn’t settle for second best; aspiring to give his customers the most insightful and frightful experience that he could.

      In this endeavour Richardson had two main advantages over his competitors. First—he possessed a theatrical background, both in acting and in makeup and costume-design, having worked for over twenty years on some of the, admittedly low-scale, productions that several playhouses in the city had put on. Secondly—he knew much of the ghostly lore pertaining to the city, including the knowledge of the dark, eerie and atmospheric places to visit. When he had started the business, in 1980, he had spent hours trawling the records in the library for the gems that added lustre to the facts that the other guides re-hashed time and time again. On occasion he had, surreptitiously, joined some of the other, inferior—in his view at least—tours, making mental notes and learning one or two things; little tricks of the trade, so to speak. To his satisfaction, there wasn’t much that he didn’t already know, and plenty of mistakes. The only drawback he faced was the fact that he was a sole operator, a one-man show and, consequently, unlike some of the other tours he had been on he had no paid stooges ready to jump out of the shadows at opportune moments. However this was something he was rather pleased about, preferring a much classier approach.

      Richardson had three different tours that he alternated throughout the week, each of approximately one and a half hours duration. By far his favourite and the one he would be leading this evening was a trip around the Old City, visiting several of the locations where over the years, apparitions had, allegedly, been seen. He would then lead his group into the tunnels and the catacombs beneath street level—into the so-called Undercity; a labyrinthine warren of vaulted, coarse-brick, underground chambers that dated back hundreds of years. In this dismal, unlit, subterranean environment unknown numbers of the poor had lived a squalid, cramped and disease-ridden existence, shut off from the world above. There were countless tales of bloodcurdling horror attached to this place; ones that he would relate and embellish with his own sense of macabre flair.

      Consulting his wristwatch, Richardson realised he would soon have to set off for the rendezvous point just outside the cathedral—an interesting building in its own right and one into which he used to take tourists until the bishop had learnt about it and brought such activities to a halt. All of his tours began at eight o’clock, regardless of the weather and if the past few nights were anything to go by there would hopefully be a substantial number waiting. It had never ceased to amaze him how much people enjoyed hearing about such horrible facts and ghoulish happenings; eager to learn more about the darker side of the city’s history. For evil had happened here. This was undeniable—the evidence and the truth lay buried under the streets, in the cemeteries, in the dark cobbled alleyways and boarded-up houses.

      Yet, in spite of all that he knew, Richardson himself was an ardent sceptic. Certainly, many terrible things had happened here; murder, grave-robbing, devil worship and the like but he didn’t believe in ghosts. After all, if anyone should have seen one then surely it would have been him after two years intentionally visiting the places they were rumoured to haunt. But the truth of the matter was he had seen and experienced nothing that couldn’t be explained in a logical manner.

      That said, there had been numerous occasions when some on his tour—individuals claiming to be psychic or some such nonsense—had reported seeing things or having experienced something unsettling. Such ‘experiences’ included the sighting of an apparition of a young boy down in the Undercity crying in torment, the image of a shadowy Jack the Ripper figure close to where some of the most sadistic and gruesome murders had occurred and the sensation of icy, spectral hands closing around someone’s throat. His tours were advertised as being not for the faint of heart and, to date, there had been over a dozen instances when individuals had steadfastly refused to go any further, nine cases of the hysterics, three faintings and one heart attack victim who, thankfully, had been resuscitated by an off-duty doctor who had also been on the tour at the time in question.

      Satisfied with his cadaverous visage, Richardson rose from his chair and moved to where a range of mannequin heads sporting various fright wigs rested on a shelf. Tonight he opted for a straggly, grey, shoulder-length hairpiece, which he believed would augment his ghastly facial cosmetics. He put it on and ran his hands through it, raking it with his fingers into even wilder tangles. To complete his look he went to his wardrobe and took out a black cloak with red lining which he fastened around his neck and then grabbed his top hat, his silver wolf-headed cane and his black valise. Inside the case he had a powerful torch, some spare batteries, a wad of information flyers that he would distribute after the tour, a thick bunch of keys enabling him to enter the Undercity, the cemetery and several of the abandoned houses that were of interest and a small, basic first-aid kit in case of minor accidents, mostly as a result of people tripping or banging their heads in the shadowy tunnels into which they would be going.

      After checking that everything was in order, Richardson switched off the lights in his changing room and left his small office, exiting onto the street. It was dark and cold and there was a light drizzle in the air. Whistling jauntily, he made for the cathedral.

      * * * *

      “Dare you venture inside the dark and terror-filled Undercity, where hundreds lived in squalor and poverty? Join me on a journey into a shadow-filled world of horror and crime, where cannibalism was rife and Satan Himself is said to have been summoned. Discover, at first-hand, the dark alleyways where Charles Butterworth, ‘The Laughing Ghoul,’ stalked and murdered his victims in such a grisly and depraved fashion and learn just why the house at 333 East Street has such a sinister reputation, remaining closed all these years.” Richardson spoke eloquently, trying to tout for business among the passers-by for he had been sorely disappointed when, upon arriving at the cathedral, there had been only a middle-aged couple waiting, who had enthusiastically introduced themselves as Lester and Mary Cunningham, American tourists from Boston. A poor showing by any standard. Still, there remained a few more minutes to try and whip up some interest and, as this was a weekend night, there were a lot of people about. “I alone have the key which will enable us to enter.” He spotted a tall, elderly, bespectacled man regarding him with measured interest. “You sir, you have the look of someone who is unafraid of the darker side of life and who would be willing to venture into the hellish depths in order to come face-to-face with the living dead, to hear of the stories of mayhem and murder which have left their gruesome stain on this fair—or should I say foul—city.”

      “Well, I think you may have just piqued my interest.” The man stepped closer. “Yes, why not. I’ll give it a go.” Noticing the advertising placard next to Richardson, he dug into his pocket and handed over the admission fee.

      “Thank СКАЧАТЬ