Scary Stories - Twist in the Tale Series

Room 13

Surely, this couldnot be the place. This part of the city was rundown and decayed;the buildings had once been imposing but were now boarded up andneglected, waiting to be pulled down. Like its neighbours, thebuilding he stood in front of must once have been grand; now itlooked forlorn and deserted, as if it had not been used for manyyears. Yet above the litter-strewn doorway, carved into the stonelintel was the name Mark Tyler had been searching for: DuvilleHouse.

Six worn steps led to a battered but solid wooden door; he walkedup them and paused with his hand on the tarnished brass knob. Ashe hesitated he heard a shuffling behind him, he turned to findhimself being observed slyly by a tramp as derelict as thesurrounding buildings. There were bound to be all manner oflowlife in such a locality, and now dusk was descending theywould be slinking from their various lairs. This was not a safeplace for a well-dressed, apparently affluent person to linger.

Should he knock, or go straight in? He doubted his fist wouldmake much impression on the heavy door and there was no bell. Heturned the knob. Somehow he was not surprised to find the doorunlocked, though it needed some effort to push it open on its oldhinges and he was curiously disappointed it did not emit an eeriecreak as in all the worst horror movies. He knew without lookingthat the tramp was still watching him; he could feel calculatingeyes boring into his back. It was the height of folly to be inthis kind of neighbourhood alone and unarmed; better to turnaround and return to the more salubrious part of town. Yet he hadcome this far, and though Mark was not the most courageous ofmen, he was no coward. However, he was desperate. Why else wouldhe be here? Moreover, it was his preparedness to take risks that,at least until recently, furnished him the highly satisfactorylifestyle he enjoyed.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside, closing the door on thestill staring tramp. As he did so, something dark and furtiveinsinuated itself through the narrowing gap and wound itselfround his legs. Startled, he defensively kicked out, his footencountering a soft and furry body. There was a protesting howland a vicious hiss followed by the scrabbling of small clawedfeet as a swarthy shape shot across the tiled floor and raced upa flight of stairs immediately in front of him.

A cat, as black as night. There was an omen, if ever he saw one.

The animal had come to rest halfway up the stairs and was sittingglaring at him, its green eyes glistening malignantly. Itspiercing stare was unsettling; his nerves were already taut. Marktook a step towards it; the creature snarled, turned and sped therest of the way up the stairs. Good riddance! He detested cats:nasty, slinky things. These old buildings were probably swarmingwith strays, living wild and feral and breeding like wildfire. Ablack one though - that was a bad sign.

Attempting to shake off his superstitious dread, he looked abouthis surroundings. He was standing in the dingy foyer of what hadobviously once been a small hotel. To his right was a receptionarea; a diminutive enclosure containing a set of emptypigeonholes, a board of numbered hooks for keys, also empty, adesk and little else. A wooden counter on which lay a thickcoating of dust fronted this arrangement. Beyond, a short passagecontained three doors, which presumably gave access to kitchensand private quarters. The only other feature of the foyer was thestaircase, which Mark assumed must lead to rooms.

Despite its size and its desolate air, Duville House mustformally have been quietly opulent. The walls were panelled inrich, dark mahogany, the banisters of the staircase were finelyturned from the same material and the ceiling was high andcovered with decorative plasterwork. Overall, there was an aspectof faded luxury. There was no doubt, however, that it would takelittle work to restore its former glory. Charlie King had madeyet another astute investment.

Mark took another glance around, inhaled a deep breath and walkedto the staircase. It was time he got on with the task he wasthere to perform.

Since closing the door behind him he had managed to take controlof his trepidation, now, as he began to ascend the stairs, he wassuddenly overwhelmed with apprehension once more. To heighten hisanxiety the stairs, unlike the door, creaked harshly as hestepped upon them making him aware for the first time of howdeathly silent the place was. Not so silent though, for thenthere came a scratching and a scurrying sound from somewhereabove him that made his heart miss a beat. That damned cat, nodoubt, chasing a mouse or a rat; they were probably rife. Hecursed himself for a frightened fool. Why, he had almost rushedback down and out into the street. This was no good; he must geta grip.

Grasping tightly to the banister, Mark continued upwards.

The staircase was longer than it had appeared from the bottom; hehad begun to wonder if he would ever reach the top when hefinally arrived at a landing. Looking down into the steepstairwell into the gloomy foyer far below he felt a touch ofvertigo. Turning, he found himself confronted by a long corridorlined on both sides with closed doors, each bearing a number.

Walking slowly down the corridor, Mark paused at each door untilhe came to the one he was looking for. Upon the door in brassfigures was the number thirteen. Like all gamblers, Mark washighly superstitious and that number was particularly portentousto him of late. It was not without some misgivings that he openedthe door and stepped into the room. He closed the door andflicked the switch by the side of it; it came as no surprise tofind that the light did not work. However, sufficientillumination filtered through a large window to enable him todistinguish the features of the room.

Like the rest of the building, the room suggested a formersplendour. It was spacious, plushly decorated and well appointedwith expensive, if old-fashioned furniture. A vast mahoganywardrobe dominated one wall; a large fireplace surmounted by agilt-framed, flyblown mirror, its grate bearing the remains of along-dead fire occupied another. Two massive armchairs filled thecentre of the thickly carpeted floor; a generously sized tableand two wooden chairs stood to one side and an ornate cocktailcabinet to the other. By far the most predominant item in theroom was an enormous four-poster bed, at each corner of whichhung heavy brocade drapes tied back with thick ropes. Here wasluxury indeed.

Nonetheless, the atmosphere of sumptuousness was marred byabandonment and long disuse. Every surface was heavily layered bydust, and the air was dense with a musty, fetid smell. As Markinvestigated further he saw that the richly patterned, now fadedand damp-stained wallpaper was peeling in several places and thefurniture bore obvious traces of woodworm infestation. Thecurtains at the window were disintegrating from the effects ofsunlight, as too were the drapes and the coverings of the bed,and the carpet felt damp underfoot. The room depressed andsaddened him: he felt as if he were intruding upon its decline;as if were an interloper at a private demise.

There was also still his very real fear of the actual number ofthe room to combat. What he most desired at that moment was toleave this room and this building, to return to the lights andthe life from where he came. He could not though, not if hewanted to keep that life. All Mark had to do was last out forjust one night and his troubles would be over. But could he doit? It had all seemed too good to be true when Charlie King madehim his offer.

Mark Tyler was by profession a gambler. He customarily made avery lucrative living from it. However, in the past two months hehad hit a run of bad luck that threatened to bring that living toan abrupt and painful end. He was heavily in debt to CharlieKing, the proprietor of The King of Diamonds Club, which Markfrequented nightly. King was also the intimidating head of thelocal criminal fraternity. Mark's unlucky streak had originatedwith small losses that he could easily cope with; alas thoselosses started to mount up. Night after night, the cards wentagainst him. Foolishly and against all his experience, tocompensate he began to play for higher and higher stakes.Predictably, his losses increased accordingly. Being a regularpatron of the club, King allowed him credit and this permittedMark to continue playing. Unfortunately, he also continued tolose - by ever escalating amounts. Despite borrowing from friendsand selling his more valuable possessions, the situation had nowreached the stage where Mark's indebtedness to Charlie Kingamounted to several thousand pounds. Worse, King had becomeimpatient for his money.

Charlie King was not a big man physically; he had no need to be,if he required muscle he had employees who were adequately enoughendowed to undertake any strong-arm work he deemed necessary.King's menace lay in his nature, which was sadistically evil.Rumours abounded of the treatment meted out to those who offendedhim; that these rumours could not be substantiated was testamentto King's cleverness. Nevertheless, no one who knew King doubtedthe veracity of such stories. Therefore, when the club ownerbegan to firmly pursue him regarding his liabilities Mark hadmuch cause for concern.

King had been gentle enough to start with, confining himself to afriendly hand on the shoulder and a, "Now then, Tyler, myboy, you're stretching your credit a little aren't you?" ora, "Don't you think it's time we were settling our bill?"However, as Mark got ever deeper into debt, so King got ever morethreatening.

Things had finally come to a head the previous night. King hadtaken to standing over Mark as he played, his hooded, lizard eyesintently watching as Mark lost game after game. Aware of thetrouble he was in and conscious of King's penetrating gaze, Markin his desperation became careless. He bet recklessly withoutregard to the strength of his cards, hoping to bluff his way tosuccess. All to no avail: every hand dealt to him was poor, andhis opponents would not be bluffed. Inevitably, the point camewhen his funds were exhausted but for one low-value chip toosmall to allow him to play further.

He looked round at King appealingly, hoping for further credit,but met only a cold, hard stare. Resignedly, he rose from thecard table picking up his last remaining chip. From theexpression on the club owner's face Mark knew his time had come.He walked across the club in the direction of the bar, Kingsilently following him; perhaps he would be allowed a last drinkbefore his fate was decided. As he passed the other gamingtables, he paused at the roulette wheel where the croupier wastaking the final bets. Mark's game was poker; he consideredroulette unskilful and too reliant on luck. Nevertheless, he wasstruck by a sudden impulse and he placed his last chip blindly onthe table. He watched dejectedly as the wheel was spun and thesilver ball whirled round. The ball rattled to a halt and he wasabout to walk away, when to his disbelief he realised it hadstopped on his number. He had won!

Thinking it merely a fluke, he left his original stake and hiswinnings where they were and waited for the wheel to spin againand for his chips to be taken away. Incredibly, the ball came torest a second time on the very same number. This was amazing; hisluck must have changed at last. A big grin on his face, he lookedto King who was still behind him. The little man was smiling too,as if he shared Mark's joy. In his delight, he failed to noticethe sinister quality to King's smile; neither did he notice theslight nod he gave to the croupier.

Mark looked at the pile of chips on the table; only then did itregister upon him what number they rested on. It was a number hewould never consciously consider placing any kind of bet on, anumber of great superstitious portent. His chips lay on blackthirteen. Lady Luck must have indeed blessed him. Despite that,there was no chance of the same number coming up three times insuccession, to bet on it again would be to push his newlyacquired good fortune too far. He could not stop now though; notwhen there was a possibility of digging himself out of the holehe was in. He reached across the table and moved his chips to thenumber nine. That had always been a lucky number for him.

Announcing, "No more bets," the croupier spun the wheel.It seemed it revolved for an eternity, but at last, it began toslow, the ball rattling loudly over the numbered sections. Itbounced and jumped from one number to another even after thewheel had stopped, as if it were selecting exactly where to land.There was a gasp from those assembled round the table. It couldnot be! The odds must be astronomical. For the third time in arow the ball rested in the slot of black thirteen.

Dazed and dumbfounded, Mark watched in dismay as the croupierraked in his pile of chips. His revived optimism was dashed. Howcould he repay what he owed now? Tonight had been his last chanceto recoup his losses; there was no way he was able to raise morefinance. A heavy weight descended on his heart - then as heavy ahand grasped his arm. He turned to find himself in the grip ofone of Charlie King's mountainous aides, his employer at his side."I think it's time we had a little word, Tyler my boy,"said King.

Mark was led off through the club and taken to King's privateoffice. The door was closed and the aide stood blocking it withhis imposing bulk. King seated himself behind a desk so massiveit dwarfed him while Mark was left to stand in front of it like anaughty schoolboy before the headmaster.

"Now, what are we going to do with you, Tyler?" askedthe club boss coldly. "You owe me rather a lot, and youdon't seem to be trying too hard to repay me. Something tells meI've been much too lenient with you, my boy. I think you'retrying to take advantage of my generosity."

"No, honestly Mr King, I wouldn't do that. Really, I willpay you back. I just need a bit more time. It's just that..."

"I don't want to hear any excuses, my boy. You've had allthe time I can give you."

"Please, Mr King," begged Mark, "Just anothercouple of weeks, and I promise I'll give you everything I owe."

"I really can't do it, my boy, I've a reputation to consider.If I were to make an exception for you - why, then everybodywould think they could walk all over me. We couldn't have that,could we? You wouldn't want people to think I'd gone soft, nowwould you?"

"Of course not, Mr King, but..."

"No buts, Tyler my boy. You'll be telling me next you can'tpay me."

"Well, you see - the thing is..."

"No more!" snapped King, "I've heard enough."

At this point the aide stepped up behind Mark and grasped himroughly by the shoulders.

"Take him into the back room, Vince, and have a bit of funwith him while I decide what is to become of him."

Mark was ashamed to recall how he had pleaded, how he hadpromised to do anything if only he could be given just one morechance. He knew only too well that whatever fate King decided forhim it would not be pleasant. However, his pleas fell on deafears, and he was propelled forcefully to a door at the rear ofthe office. Then, just as he was about to be pushed into theother room and he was preparing himself for the painfulexperience to come, King threw out a lifeline:

"Just a moment, Vince - perhaps there is a way you canredeem yourself, Tyler my boy..."

"Anything, Mr King - anything. Just name it, and I'll do it..."

"Alright, there's no need to grovel, it's very unbecoming.You might just be the very man for the job I have in mind.

Charlie King then went on to relate how he had recently acquiredyet another property to add to his ever-expanding empire. Thatproperty was Duville House; he had bought it at a giveaway priceand he had plans for its development, which included purchasingits neighbouring buildings. What those plans were, King would notsay, but they doubtless involved a means of legitimising one ofhis more shady enterprises. However, he had encountered anobstacle:

"You see, Tyler my boy," King explained, "I can'tget anybody to go near the place. You wouldn't believe it in thisday and age, but it's got a very bad reputation. Things happenthere - bad things. You may laugh, but it's supposed to behaunted. There, I said you wouldn't believe it. Apparently - andyou'll find this the funniest of all - many years ago a gamblerdown on his luck hung himself in one of the rooms. Quite ironic,isn't it, given your situation?"

Mark said nothing; he could only wonder what game King wasplaying.

"Here's a bit more irony for you, considering recent events:the room this unfortunate fellow hung himself in was numberthirteen. Asking for trouble, wasn't it? We all know how unluckythat number can be," King smiled a nasty smile and themountainous Vince sniggered. "Now I could tell you some ofthe many stories about Duville House, but I don't want tofrighten you. I know how sensitive you are. The thing is, I can'tget on with my plans because I can't persuade any of my men to gothere for love or money."

Mark stared blankly at the little club owner. He couldn'tunderstand what all this was leading up to. King was renowned forhis sadistic sense of humour and his love of practical jokes.That must be what this was: a joke.

"You're probably wondering why I'm telling you this,"King continued, as if reading Mark's mind. "Now it strikesme you're in a bit of a predicament and you've already told meyou'll do anything to get out of it. You are a gambling man, sowhat I'm about to say should appeal to you. I want to make alittle bet with you. If you win, then I'll wipe your slate clean.You will owe me nothing and you'll carry on walking about. If youlose - well, the consequences don't bear thinking about. The betis this: you spend just one night in room thirteen of DuvilleHouse and you get off the hook. I get to prove to my men thatthere's nothing to be frightened of, so I win too. Everybody'shappy! Of course, if you don't last the night out, then that's adifferent story."

Mark could still not believe his luck. Of course, he had agreed.What else could he do? He still believed Charlie King must beplaying some kind of trick; yet here he was the followingevening, in one piece and with a chance of remaining so. When hehad left the club, still in a daze, it had passed through hismind that he could simply run away, go somewhere far away. He hadquickly discounted the thought, though. Where could he go? He hadno money, and King's arm was long. Besides, King had said hispeople would be watching him and he did not doubt it.
Strange though that he had not seen any of the gang leader'sthugs. Mark went to the window and looked out. The tramp that hehad met on his arrival was still out there. He was in a doorwayacross the road and had been joined by two more of his kind. Theywere smoking and passing around a bottle of something. They couldnot be King's men; they would have no need to disguisethemselves, they would make themselves very obvious. One of thetramps looked up and Mark quickly backed away from the window. Nopoint in advertising his presence.

The odd thing was that now he had become accustomed to the room,Mark did not feel at all frightened any more. It was just a roomlike any other, despite its unfortunate number. Notwithstandinghis superstitious nature, he did not really believe in theexistence of ghosts; his fear of King was the predominant factor.Ghosts were for talking about around cosy firesides; King wasvery real and so was the threat he posed. The question now washow to get through the night. He had until ten o'clock the nextmorning, when King had promised that he would come in person toensure that Mark had kept to his side of the deal and to free himfrom his obligation.

He looked around the room again. There was no way he couldconsider sleeping; his nerves were much too strung-out. Besides,the bed looked decidedly damp; likewise the armchairs. For thefirst time, he noticed a small cabinet beside the massive bed andhe went over to it. On the top of it was a single candle in aholder and a polished wooden box about twelve inches square.Blowing away the dust, Mark lifted the lid. Inside were severalpartitioned sections containing variously coloured gaming chipsand a pack of playing cards. What luck! Now he knew how to spendhis time.

Carrying the box and the candle, Mark went to the table andseated himself facing the door. Dare he light the candle? It wasalready very gloomy in the room and soon it would be totally dark.He needed light for what he wanted to do and besides, he did notrelish sitting here in pitch-blackness all night. He wasconcerned about attracting the attention of the tramps, but ifKing's men where about, as they must be, then they should keepthem at bay. He decided to chance it. Taking out his cigarettelighter, he lit the candle. He then removed the playing cardsfrom the box, shuffled them and laid them one by one on the table.He would while away the night by playing solitaire.

He gradually became so engrossed in his game that he forgot hissurroundings and all his fears. The only incident came at onepoint when, as he was dealing a new game, there came a scratchingat the door. He jumped up in alarm, his heart pounding, thensubsided as he remembered the cat he had encountered earlier. Hetook one of the chips from the box and threw it at the door. Thescratching ceased; he settled himself down and went on with hisgame.

Time passed and it became increasingly dark, but the candleflickered comfortingly at his side and he played on. Gradually,as the night passed his eyes became heavy and more than once hecaught himself dozing off. He must not fall asleep, who knew whatmight happen if he did? He kept shaking his head to clear it andforcing his eyes to focus on the cards. In spite of his efforts,however, eventually he succumbed. He slumped forward, his eyesgratefully closed and Mark slept.

He did not know what woke him. It was not a sound, because it waseerily quiet. It must have been the change in temperature, forthe room was icily cold. It took a moment for the sleep to clearfrom his eyes, when it did; he could not believe what they wereseeing. For, sitting facing him at the opposite side of the tablewas a man. Mark stared wide-eyed at the other: he could notimagine how he had got there. He was certain he had not been sodeeply asleep that he could have failed to hear someone enter theroom. "Who are you?" he asked, tremulously, "Whatare you doing here?"

The man said nothing; he merely stared at Mark from penetratingcold blue eyes. He was very thin and dressed in an outdatedevening suit. His flesh was fish-white and there seemed to besomething wrong with his neck, as he held his head at an oddangle. His gaze was extremely unnerving; it was as if he saw froma great distance away.

"Who are you?" Mark asked again, more forcefully. Stillthe white-faced man made no reply. "Why are you here?"Again, there was silence.

Then Mark was struck by an idea, "Did King send you, is thatit?" That must be the explanation for the man's presence. Heremembered the gang leader saying, "I might send one of myboys to keep you company for a while - if I can persuade one ofthem to pluck up the guts." Yes, that was it. This was oneof King's 'boys'. Why would he not speak, though?

"Cat got you tongue?" Mark said, in an effort to beflippant, the stony stare of the other was unsettling him. Ifonly he would say something. An alternative explanation of theman's identity was fighting for recognition in his mind - one hedid not care to consider. Was this the ghost of room thirteen?

Just as this thought came to him, the man at last took his eyesfrom Mark and looked down at the cards spread on the table.Without a word he reached out, gathered them together, andcommenced to shuffle the pack. Mark watched in puzzlement as thestrange man then placed the cards to one side and reached for thewooden box. He then emptied its contents onto the table andproceeded to share out the gaming chips equally between himselfand Mark. This done, he again picked up the cards and dealt fiveeach to the pair of them.

Relief flooded Mark. Poker - the man wanted to play poker. Hecould not be a ghost. To his knowledge, ghosts wereinsubstantial, ethereal beings; they did not have the ability tomanipulate solid objects like cards and chips. The man oppositehim was solid and real; he handled the cards with the easy skillof long practice. No, this was no ghost.

He was further reassured by recalling that Charlie King employedsome very odd people. He also recalled that he had heard itrumoured that one of his men, a mysterious man with certainruthless qualities, who King used when he required a morenefarious deed performing, was totally dumb. Rumour also had itthat this man had no tongue. Was this that man? It wouldcertainly account for him not speaking. It would also settle theniggling point that, except for the uncomfortable feeling he hadexperienced ever since leaving the club last night that he wasbeing covertly observed, Mark had seen no sign of King's men.Yes, King must have sent this man to see that Mark was keeping tothe deal.

It was paradoxical that Mark should feel reassured to be in thecompany of, if the rumours were true, such an evil man; but hemuch preferred it to the alternative. The man was again givinghim the same intent stare. Mark felt compelled to pick up thefive cards in front of him and to place one of his chips in themiddle of the table as an ante. The pallid man did the same, andthey began to play poker.

It was the strangest game Mark had ever taken part in. Conductedin absolute silence, the other making it clear when he wished tofold, raise or call by his actions: placing more chips in thecentre, throwing in or revealing his cards as appropriate. Allthe while, Mark's partner maintained his relentless stare. For along time neither player achieved the upper hand, each one ofthem winning or losing in equal measure and their respective pileof chips remaining much the same as at the outset.

Absorbed in the game, Mark was heedless of the night passingexcept by the slowly shrinking candle. Comfortable with thefamiliar procedure of the game he loved, his mind emptied ofthoughts of ghosts and evil henchmen. He was even able to ignorethe constant stare of his partner. All was silent, except for theclick and rattle of chips and the slap of cards on the table. Itwas some time in the early hours of the morning that theatmosphere of the game changed. For a long period Mark had beensteadily losing. It did not concern him at first, until he becameaware of an alteration in his opponent's play. The silent manbegan to place higher and higher stakes, forcing Mark to followsuit or abandon his cards. Each hand that Mark received was worsethan the last, obliging him to attempt to bluff with the weakestcards. The implacable white-faced man was impossible to bluff,and he relentlessly forced the stakes ever higher.

There was too, a subtle change in the other's demeanour thatbecame more pronounced as Mark continued to lose. It was not achange in his expression, for that had remained the samethroughout; his rigid stare was unaltered. His was the original'poker face'. It was something that emanated from him: adefiance, a challenge. It was as if the game had become moreserious, as if much more was at stake than a few plastic chips.Something, he knew not what, told Mark he could not, must notlose. More - it was imperative that he win.

Mark's stock of chips continued to dwindle. He played ever morerecklessly. Then at last it seemed his luck changed. He had afull house, one of the highest hands possible. He controlled thejoy that came to his face and put more chips into the pot,raising the stakes. His opponent matched him and placed morechips in, increasing the stake further. He must be bluffing! Markraised again, and so did the other. Back and forth it went.

Then at last, Mark threw the last of his chips into the middleand slapped his cards triumphantly face up on the table, callinghis adversary. With a wide grin, he waited for the other to showhis own cards. His expression as unperturbed as ever, the paleman slowly placed his cards one by one in front of him. Mark'sgrin slowly faded as each card was revealed. This was impossible!

Laid out in an orderly row were the nine, ten, Jack, Queen, andKing of Diamonds. A straight flush! Mark had lost.

He looked helplessly across the table. For the first time, theblank face opposite him wore a sign of emotion. The white-facedman was smiling. Slowly, without seeming to move at all, hestood, until he towered over Mark. Mark felt rooted to his chair.Then, in a fluid motion, as if he floated across the floor, theman moved around the table until he stood behind Mark. He placedhis hands on Mark's shoulders. They felt like blocks of ice.Impelled by a force he was incapable of withstanding, Mark rosefrom the table. Guided by the man's cold grip, he walkedstumblingly towards the bed.

Promptly at ten o'clock in the morning Charlie King, accompaniedby two large associates, stepped into room thirteen of DuvilleHouse. On a table were a gutted candle, an empty wooden box, apile of scattered gaming chips and a pack of playing cards. Fiveof the cards were spread out in a poker hand. From the crossmember of a large four-poster bed, hanging by a rope, which hadtied a drape to one of the bedposts, was the body of Mark Tyler.

"Well, Tyler my boy, it looks like we're quits," hesaid, giving the body a push so that it swung slightly.

Turning to leave the room, King paused to examine the five cardson the table. Not a bad hand, he mused. Three aces and a pair offives: a full house. It was only as he closed the door behind himthat he realised the spots on the five cards totalled thirteen.