New Fears 2: Brand New Horror Stories by Masters of the Macabre

ALMOST AUREATE V.H. Leslie

Eamon saw the bronzed man as soon as they arrived at Casa del Sol. Laden with luggage and shepherding two toddlers on Trunki Ride-On suitcases away from the ornamental fountain and toward the entrance, he could see the man leaning against the railings of the uppermost balcony, watching the new arrivals with apparent interest. He was shirtless, thin and wizened, the colour of Hawaiian Tropic. Eamon followed the stream of holidaymakers into the foyer, pausing at the entrance just long enough for the twins to wave goodbye to the coach and the holiday rep who’d accompanied them for the brief journey from the airport and whose only job had appeared to be apprising them of the temperature: 36 degrees, set to rise. It certainly felt hot, hotter still as Eamon passed beneath the bronzed man’s gaze and into the welcome relief of the air-conditioned foyer.

The hotel could have been any hotel on the resort, though Sherry had spent a great deal of time agonising over the choice in the brochure. A stucco complex edged with bougainvillea, it had the added bonus of a poolside crèche, so they could entrust the twins to someone else and still keep a watchful eye on proceedings. Eamon had initially cautioned against this arrangement, fearing that either the twins or Sherry would be distressed at being separated from one another though in such close proximity; far better out of sight, out of mind. But he knew that Sherry would never agree to hotel babysitters or to placing the children in a kidz club—the post-trendy spelling now as old and worn as many of the regular holiday guests who passed through the doors. It was a miracle they were even having a holiday with Sherry’s new-found maternal cautiousness, so it seemed wise to concede to all of her whims and preferences.

Sherry trailed behind Eamon and the twins with the rest of their suitcases, having opted to retrieve the remaining luggage from the underside of the coach rather than convey the children into the hotel. Eamon remembered a time when he did all the heavy lifting in their relationship; now the more arduous task was supervising the twins. He watched the children circle the foyer on their wheeled cases while he moved slowly along the check-in queue, their orbits getting wider and more energetic with each revolution. He ignored the tuts he could hear further back in the line, even when they threatened to collide with a baggage carrier. It was easy to observe them in this detached way, from this distance, as if they were nothing to do with him, moving excitably along their elliptical paths while he stayed rooted to one spot.

Eventually his eldest—by approximately fifteen minutes— Alex, came to settle at his side, screeching the sound of imaginary brakes so there was no doubt whose child he was. Annabelle, less accurate, bumped into her brother and sent him toppling. Sherry called them the Two As, a hangover from her time as a teacher, coupled with the iteration Top of the class whenever they did so much as smile, poo, or eat what was placed in front of them. Eamon had observed nothing in their brief lives that set them out as being particularly remarkable, save their ability to cry for protracted periods of time, which they started up in earnest now over their mini-collision. Eamon tried to appease them whilst handing over their passports to the receptionist, knowing it was part of their twin nature to goad and outdo each other in all things. Only when Sherry picked them up in turn was calm restored and Eamon fell back behind them, dragging their cases and bags as they headed towards their room.

It was not the kind of holiday he and Sherry had ever envisioned taking. They were the kind of people who went travelling, who were fundamentally opposed to the package holiday mentality and who avoided tourist locations. But since the twins had come along, many of the things he felt were defining to their identity as a couple were being slowly undermined. He thought of this almost always as a betrayal on Sherry’s part, though he had to admit, as he reclined on a sunlounger, beer in hand, that he hadn’t given a thought to the lack of historical hotspots they would be visiting, or the authentic Spanish cuisine they’d be forfeiting for burgers and full Englishes.

He was, in truth, relieved not to have to learn the local lingo or spend weeks researching the best restaurants and cultural sites to tick off from an array of guidebooks. Here, he was just one of the anonymous horde of English holidaymakers, pale and pasty or sunburnt and peeling depending on how far into their holiday they were, sporting beer bellies and football shirts with equal pride. Just once, he could allow himself permission to disappear into the stereotype.

Sherry smiled across at him, two pina coladas lined up on the plastic drinks tray while the Two As napped in the shade of a parasol. The hotel complex enhanced this feeling of concealment, the pool area having been built deep into the earth, the accommodation blocks clustered around the circumference giving the impression of a beautified council estate. Eamon imagined the process of digging the foundations, of excavating all that dry red earth to make way for fun pools and slides. It was like lying at the foot of an enormous amphitheatre, a cavernous tiered hollow, decorated with terracotta planters of bougainvillea and orange blossom.

At the summit of all this, on the uppermost balcony above the reception, he spied a solitary figure. He knew instinctively that it was the man he’d seen upon his arrival. He observed the bronzed man’s bleached hair, which contrasted so discernibly with his dark skin, both testament to a lifetime of sun-worship. Though his frame was diminutive and skeletal, he stood at the apex with such command and authority, like a prince surveying his kingdom.

Eamon found himself thinking about what the view would be like from up there and was reminded of the pictures he had seen in the holiday brochure. Parasols of coconut husk, clay-coloured orbs from such a height, encircled the pool, alongside neat rows of sunbeds arranged like seating at an auditorium. Eamon’s view of the complex in comparison was obscured by the poolside bar and the imitation waterfall which cascaded down from manmade boulders, severing the kids’ side of the pool from that of the adults’.

He wondered whether the bronzed man could hear the inane chitchat from the group of teenagers at the water’s edge or the shrieks of children as they splashed in the shallows. For a moment, Eamon was transported to the top, to the blissful quietude beside the bronzed man, away from the commotion and noise of the day to day and all the burdens and stresses at the very bottom.

He felt a prodding at his side and turned to see Sherry staring at him, her sunglasses pulled down against her nose. She nudged him again and pointed firmly toward the twins who had begun to stir in their pushchair. He stood at her silent bidding, creeping across the hot ground in the hope they might fall back asleep. But a chorus started up behind him as a group of children practised their cannonballs and the Two As burst into stuttering wails. He tried to glance up at the bronzed man as he rocked the pushchair, but the angles were all wrong and he was unable to see beyond the façade of the reception. From across the pool, he did see another man, however, a young father wearing a baseball cap, bouncing a gurgling baby on his knee, and he recognised a similar worn expression that spoke of sleep deprivation and regret. But the young man didn’t return his glance for he was looking up.

Eamon rose early the next morning and as quietly as possible gathered his swimming trunks and towel and snuck out of the hotel room and down to the pool. A brigade of hotel staff were lining up the sunbeds and opening parasols, one man kneeling studiously at the pool’s edge, taking samples. The water was an expanse of smooth, unbroken turquoise, the scent of citrus and chlorine mingled together in open invitation. It was too early for a swim really, the sun still low, the water not yet warmed, but Eamon wanted the pool all to himself, to not have to swim under the scrutiny of the bikini-clad teenagers who flirted at the water’s edge or weave between elderly women blindly backstroking their way along speculated trajectories. Eamon draped his towel over a sunlounger and waited for the hotel staff to disperse.

Even at such an early hour, the bronzed man was there. Eamon wondered if he was watching the sun rise between the mountains, but his line of sight seemed directed irrefutably down. Eamon took off his T-shirt and felt the warmth of the bronzed man’s gaze as he stepped into the tepid water.

He found himself contemplating the colour of the bronzed man’s tan as he swam. Perhaps it was the morning light, but he appeared almost aureate, shimmering on high like a statue or idol. If it weren’t for the occasional movement as he shifted position or extended his grasp along the balcony railing, it would have been easy to take him for the gilded figure of a man.

The hotel complex was coming alive, guests emerging bleary-eyed on their way to breakfast, pausing to reserve clusters of sunbeds, the circumference now littered with emblems of footballs clubs and Disney characters in terrycloth. Eamon heard the familiar shrieks of the Two As, spotting Sherry in the distance with the pushchair and he stopped mid-stroke to rise onto his back. He stretched out his limbs to float, his ears beneath the surface so he was deaf to everything except the sound of water. And he watched the bronzed man at the summit stretch upwards in imitation, reaching toward the sky.

After breakfast, Eamon decided to take a walk around the complex. He wanted to see how high he could get. He took the elevator to the top floor, but came out beside a conference room full of stacked chairs and trestle tables. He leant against the glass and looked down at the pool, spying Sherry asleep in the sun, but it wasn’t nearly as high as the bronzed man’s platform. The only staircase descended back to the foyer, so he made his way down, taking another set of elevators to a parallel accommodation block. Though he emerged at a roof terrace, he couldn’t find a way across to the bronzed man’s balcony. Chancing upon a cleaner, he tried to ask in broken Spanish for a way up to the topmost floor. But without the bronzed man there it merely looked like part of the roof and the cleaner shook her head blankly, whether in answer to his question or due to misunderstanding he was unsure.

Making his way back down and resuming his place poolside, Eamon saw that the bronzed man had likewise returned to his station. But his arms were folded as if he were displeased by Eamon’s wandering. Eamon sank into his sunbed, lifting his book to block out the bronzed man’s gaze. He forced himself to read, though the words held no gravity and he glanced up every few pages to check if the bronzed man was still there.

He felt better in the water. Despite the fear of colliding bodies, he began to swim with more dexterity, weaving between children crowded on lilos and novice swimmers lacking spatial awareness. In the afternoon, he took turns pushing the twins across the water in their swimming rings and taught them to jump off the edge into his waiting arms, making a big show of lifting them into the air as he caught them. It would have been easier with one, instead of having to partition his attention between each child, but eventually Sherry rose from her sunbed to join in their game and they were able to all play together.

The bronzed man continued his vigil into the peak of the day. Even when Eamon wasn’t looking directly at him, he seemed to cast a golden light over the complex. Eamon’s hippie sister practised Reiki and was always talking of auras and mystic energies. Aura was not a word he would typically use but the bronzed man did seem to radiate an ochroid glow that extended beyond the mere colour of his tan. Looking at him for too long was like staring at the sun; you had to blink away while the afterimage blurred on your retina.

The Two As cried at being returned to the crèche after so much fun in the water. They gripped the safety rails as if they were prison bars. Sherry turned her sunbed round, hoping they would calm down if they couldn’t make eye contact. Their whimpering increased when the kidz club mascot tried to pacify them.

“Ignore them,” Sherry said. But Eamon was watching the way the gold light fell across the play area and trickled onto Annabelle’s face.

Back home the twins were Eamon’s usual alarm clock, but here he woke before them and made his way down to the pool. He liked this nascent hour before the hotel was overrun with people, when he could swim in the adults’ side of the pool instead of being stationed opposite the crèche, before he was called upon to change nappies and placate tantrums. It also meant getting out of dressing the twins and the tedious process of covering them both in a milky film of suntan lotion, and he would continue to swim until he was summoned away for breakfast. Of course, there would be a reckoning for enjoying so much free time, but he didn’t care how many jobs and errands Sherry devised when they got home to satisfy her sense of fairness, to atone for being an unrepentant sun-worshipper.

The bronzed man was always in his customary position when Eamon arrived, leaning over the balcony railing, presiding over the complex. Eamon had considered getting up even earlier to see if he could be at the pool before the bronzed man, but he felt intuitively that the bronzed man wouldn’t approve and was reminded of the defensive posture he’d assumed when Eamon had tried to make his way to the top of the complex. The bronzed man clearly did not want to share his dais.

Eamon assessed his own tan as he took off his T-shirt, literally pale in comparison to the bronzed man’s, though certainly possessing a healthier glow than when he’d arrived. He wondered what kind of spectacle he made. He was overweight for sure, but he felt better moving through the water, becoming more proficient with his swimming each day. He wondered if the bronzed man had noticed the improvement; keen to be more than just another idle holidaymaker.

Why the bronzed man never deigned to come down to the pool often occupied Eamon’s thoughts as he swam. Surely, he would want to cool off, to dip his feet at the very least as the day drew on. The roof terrace offered no shade, and in all this time Eamon had not seen the bronzed man pause to apply sunblock or to take a drink. He just remained at his post, apparently without fear of sunstroke or melanoma, as the sun beat relentlessly down.

With a flourish, Eamon dived underwater, surprised at his own confidence. He emerged seeking the gaze of the bronzed man and his inward applause. But the bronzed man was looking into the distance, beyond the arc of patio umbrellas, the coconut fibres like witches’ tresses. They cast shadows on the ground, knotted mounds resembling bonfires. Eamon heard the cry of a baby before he saw the young man in the baseball cap, rocking the infant in his arms. He watched him walk toward the edge of the pool whilst trying to hush the child. The man nodded at Eamon when he caught his eye and, as Eamon returned the greeting, he noted that in all this time he had never exchanged such a simple courtesy with the bronzed man.

Eamon tried to continue swimming but the young father pacing beside the pool put him off his stride. The sound of his flip-flops against the paving, the whimpering of the baby, all served to distract him. Eamon observed how tired the young man was; the way he rocked the baby with his eyes closed as if encouraging the child to do the same. The young father tried lying back against the sunbed whilst maintaining a cradling position, but whenever he got comfortable the infant would stir up. The child sought movement and the man rose again, rocking with renewed conviction.

Eamon had little sympathy. Though the Two As were better sleepers now, he was not out of the woods yet and he had two to contend with, after all. Try having twins, he wanted to shout at the young man. But he sank into a breaststroke instead, swimming toward the pool ladder, not wanting to advertise the fact he could devote a portion of his day to leisure.

But the man was too preoccupied with the baby to notice Eamon. He walked and rocked, walked and rocked. He came closer to the water, stepping into a stream of light peeling down from the mountains and the baby’s crying became louder. The young man didn’t step back into the shade, however, but looked up towards the bronzed man, lifting the peak of his cap so he could see more clearly. It was then Eamon saw the flash of understanding across the young man’s face, the expression so transparent it was as if he were mouthing his intentions. He began to rock more vigorously, gaining momentum, and for a moment Eamon was sure he was about to release the baby into the water.

“Eamon!” He heard his name called from across the complex, saw Sherry waving impatiently from behind the pushchair, beckoning him to breakfast. When he looked back, the young man was walking away from the pool, cooing softly to his child.

It seemed ridiculously early to be eating such a big lunch. They’d not long finished breakfast when they were back in the dining hall, lining up at the buffet. Sherry had insisted, since it was nearing the end of their holiday, that they should experience the luxury of full board. It was no different really to their evening meal, the counters full of typical English fare, a tokenistic corner reserved for paella and an untouched urn of gazpacho. Eamon had managed to skirt Sherry’s entreaties to go down to the beach, citing the difficulty with the pushchair, the irritation of sand, but he had to concede something. He much preferred grabbing a bite at the poolside bar, where he could keep an eye on the bronzed man and he felt strangely disloyal being sat at a linen-covered table and not by the pool, where he was supposed to be.

The Two As seemed similarly frustrated at being indoors and force fed, snivelling in their highchairs as Sherry tried to tempt them with coils of pasta. Eamon found a CBeebies clip they liked and placed his phone in front of them.

“This is the future,” he heard an elderly woman say to her companion, “devices with dinner.”

Sherry smiled apologetically but returned to the buffet so that Eamon was alone in feeling their disdain. He tried to call after Sherry to get more bread rolls, but she’d woven her way along the dessert aisle and out of earshot. He stood to get her attention and it was then that he saw the bronzed man making his way through the canteen. He looked smaller among the other diners than he did perched at his summit, his tan less golden and more rust-coloured; clearly not as immune to the ravages of the sun as Eamon had first thought.

The bronzed man walked past the laminated notice which banned swimwear from the dining hall, dressed only in yellow Lycra trunks. His flip-flops squeaked against the terracotta tiles as he approached Eamon, but no one seemed to notice; his attire seemingly less offensive than the presence of an iPhone displaying cartoons. Eamon sat upright, expecting a nod of acknowledgement, an exchange of words, but the bronzed man walked straight past and Eamon was left to observe the leathery quality of his flesh, the skin folded like vellum above the band of his swimming shorts.

The incident at the pool with the young father had left Eamon unsettled, along with the bronzed man’s uncharacteristic venture into the dining hall. But he was determined to have one last swim on this, the final day of the holiday, before he was expected to begin the tedious task of packing. But the twins were already stirring before Eamon was awake, as if they could sense the impending departure. Annabelle sat upright in her cot as Eamon dressed, reaching upwards to be released from her prison.

“You can’t leave me with both,” Sherry said, pulling the bed sheet around her tighter. “You’ll have to take one.”

Alex still squirmed under the weight of sleep, so Eamon reached for Annabelle, dressing her hastily, his morning solitude now shattered with the encumbrance of a toddler and changing bag. But he wasn’t about to forgo his swim and approaching the poolside he placed Annabelle in the crèche, scattering a selection of toys across the crash mats. He stepped into the kids’ side of the pool, realising how inferior it was for swimming, the waterfall partially obscuring his view of the bronzed man. Annabelle seemed content enough, so he swam beneath the cascade, a feat he wouldn’t have contemplated earlier in the week, and emerged in the deep end.

He was able to swim a couple of lengths, feeling the appraisal of the bronzed man as he moved through the water, before he heard Annabelle crying with the realisation she was abandoned and alone. Somehow, he knew it was a sound that would please the bronzed man.

The hotel was busier than normal with new arrivals, their body clocks out of kilter with the early hour. They gravitated to the pool, pale satellites encircling the radiance of the bronzed man. A group of teenagers ran beside the water, pretending to push one another in before disappearing out of sight, their voices carrying across the complex. Eamon plunged beneath the surface, imagining himself at the top beside the bronzed man, watching the suffusion of golden light drift down from the mountains.

When he resurfaced, he saw Annabelle toddling along the periphery of the pool. Had he not closed the gate of the crèche? Had it been opened? Her pace quickened when she saw him in the water, the tiles underfoot slippery from the splashing of the waterfall.

Stop, he said in his mind, but he continued to tread water, knowing the bronzed man was watching, knowing what he craved. And he saw Annabelle’s awkward gait, her mismatched clothes that he’d selected, as she made her way closer to the edge. Eamon found himself watching the situation as if from a height, as if through a bronze haze, all the while thinking how much easier it would all be with just one.

Amid the hum of cicadas, he hardly perceived Sherry emerging from the lift, Alex on her hip, the quickening patter of her flip-flops against the ground as she ran toward the pool. His name called in a vague, far-off way, but resounding through the complex, like a nagging light at the edge of slumber.

Suddenly, life starts up. Annabelle crouches to jump and spurred into action Eamon swims across the pool with uncharacteristic speed, as if he had been practising all week for such a moment. Between his strokes, he sees the fear in his daughter’s eyes as she leaps, as she begins to fall, the shock of the water against her chubby legs, replaced with a breathless smile as he manages, just in time, to reclaim her from the water. She squirms safely in her daddy’s arms. Again. Again. But Eamon clutches her tightly, rocks her gently and feels the cold breeze against his skin as a shadow passes overhead.

He would live that moment again and again as he lay alone, or in the arms of various girlfriends who came in and out of his life in the future, Sherry having filed for divorce a few years after the holiday, unable to forgive his negligence that day. The recollection resurfaced with increasing vibrancy the night Annabelle missed her curfew and he found her slumped outside a kebab house, one shoe lost to the gaiety of the night, and the time she broke her wrist playing basketball; these brushes with danger all lent a golden aura that he could see as clearly as his daughter’s younger self, hovering beside the water’s edge. He forgot all about the bronzed man, of how close he came to his sulphurous glow. All that endured was a dull patina that formed over the memory, reddish gold, like scales of rust.