Fantasy Horror

The Sleekit Ones

By Cameron Johnston
Nov 6, 2018 · 3,873 words · 15 minutes

From the author: To the world, his son never existed, but Billy remembers only too well. He remembers the creature that took little Stephen and erased his existence - and he needs to stop it happening all over again.

Discordant chiming drifted up on the wind, half-drowned out by the hard hiss of winter rain. Billy shuddered, leaning out over the rail of his third-floor balcony. The freezing steel burned against his palms as he peered out into the night, waiting for the ice cream van to creep up the street. Sweat burst out all over his face, rainwater washing it down to sting his eyes. It should have been a happy little tune playing on the wind, but instead the van's chimes oozed all the mirth of a serial-killer's soulless laugh.

A scuff of slippers behind him. "Billy, please stop. It's eleven at night," Laura said. "Just...come back in."

He tore his gaze away from the street below to look into his wife's dark-circled eyes. She stood bare-legged and shivering in the cold.

 "You might have forgotten our son, but I haven't," he winced even as he said it. Our son that didn't exist, he thought, whose name he couldn't remember.

Laura crumpled into herself as if he'd reached out and crushed her heart in a giant fist. She turned and trudged into the bedroom, dragged the door shut behind her. She was done with arguments, finished with trying to reason with him.

He wanted to scream his frustration - how could she not feel that crushing sense of loss? But there was no real evidence of his son ever existing: no crayon drawings stuck to the walls, no LEGO lurking in the carpet ready to ambush bare feet, and even the family photos on the mantelpiece had disappeared. Nobody else had noticed, and nobody remembered, not Laura, not even his own mum and dad. But he had a nagging surety about all of it. The walls still had small holes where photos had once been hung, and the fireplace bore a small chip that sent his mind reeling a foggy memory of falling vase and a small, blurred, guilty face.

He wasn't crazy - so everybody else had to be. He couldn't bear the yawning absence in the room, or the small chip that drew his he turned back to the street and stepped out into the rain.

The chimes grew louder and clearer, and his dread deeper. The thing was coming.

Numbed fingers fumbled his camera from its case. The grimy ice cream van crept up the street and limped to a stop. Faded cartoon characters decorated the sides, misshapen daubed eyes staring with all the horror of a shell-shocked squaddie ankle-deep in mud and guts. The chimes cut off, plunging the street into sudden silence. Even the hiss of rain died off to a soft, steady patter.

He fumbled at the buttons, opened the shutter and zoomed in. He clamped his jaw shut to stop teeth chattering and tried to steady his hand. He'd show them he wasn't the crazy one. Oh, there had always been urban myths of ice cream vans dealing drugs to scabby junkies and wayward kiddies in dodgy parts of town, but this van wasn’t dealing drugs. It was something far worse.

A door opened in the block of flats opposite. Jim from the local pub emerged, his son David leading him out by the hand. A half-formed image flashed into Billy's mind: little David kicking cans down the street on the way home from school, the hazy outline of another boy by his side - Billy's own son. He knew it from the depth of feeling welling up from inside, that relentless vice called loss crushing his chest.

He stared through the lens as they walked towards the ice cream van. But he couldn't shout a warning, he had to take the photo, had to show everybody what he'd seen. He had to wait and--

“Stop!” he shouted. He just wasn't able to do it; he didn’t have it in him to stand by and do nothing, to watch another boy being taken. “Get away from that van.” But, impossibly, they didn’t seem to hear, didn't so much as look his way.

He turned and bolted through the flat, heart hammering as he drummed down the stairs as fast as half-frozen legs would allow.

The front door rattled on its hinges as he burst. Bile rose to sear his throat as he lurched across the street.

Then Jim appeared, chewing, a 99'er clutched in his hand. He'd already sucked out the chocolate flake to leave an hollow pit in the ice cream. He clocked Billy and stiffened, swallowed. "Alright Billy," he said. "Er, how's things?" He shifted on his feet, eyes flicking to the door. He'd heard all that bloody gossip about his 'breakdown', Billy realised.

Billy panted to catch his breath. "Are you OK?"

Jim nodded. "Aye, not bad. Anyway, er, best get back in."

Billy moved to where he could see the other side of the van. Bright light illuminated all the stacked up sweeties clustered around the window in the side, a normal sight. But nobody stood on the other side of the counter.

"Where's David?" Billy said.

Jim frowned. "Who?"

Billy grabbed his arm. "Your son, Jim, your god-damned son! Where is he?"

Jim shoved him away. "Piss off, you eejit. I don't have a son. Away and take your medication, you weirdo." Keeping one eye on Billy, he backed away to his door, slammed it shut behind him.

Billy swallowed, a worm of dread uncoiling in his belly as he slowly turned to face the window in the van.

It was every kid's dream: vibrant rainbow colours, boxes of sweeties and bags of candy-floss, enough sugar to rot every tooth in a five-mile radius. But this van was no dream. It was a fucking nightmare.

From beneath the counter, the clown slowly rose up to his full gangly height. It wore the sagging face of a middle-aged alcoholic, white and red paint caked between his grimy stubble, hair slicked back and glistening green, all contained in a baggy white suit crusted with yellow stains. The clown's grinning face rippled as if seen through water. "Boo," it said in a whispering voice that owned nothing human. 

Every animal instinct screamed at him to turn and run, or curl up and cry. Clowns terrified him beyond reason, always had.

It wasn't the habitual horror of seeing some manic B-movie clown with a bloody axe on TV; this clown radiated the quiet wrongness of something normal twisted into utter perversion, the sort of man that would tie a plastic bag around a kid's head just to watch what happens.

"Billy-boy," it said. "How lovely to taste you again."

Something broke inside him, hysteria bubbling up. He reached over the counter, pulled the clown across it until they were face to face. His shaking hand felt slick and oily around the crusty white material. Something viscous squidged out between his fingers. "Where's David? And where's my son?"

The clown's eyes widened. "No boys here, Billy-boy," it said with a breath of nicotine ashes and red wine vomit. A sly smile slid across his face. "No more fresh little nibbles."

Billy pulled his fist back to vent the surge of hysterical fear and anger. The clown's mouth gaped wide, revealing no jaw of human bone and teeth, but a black tunnel to nothingness. It inhaled.

Billy woke screaming, falling from the sofa, knees crashing to the scuffed laminate flooring. As his panicked gaze darted across the room the balcony doors slammed off the wall again, blown open by the wind.

"It was real," he snarled. "Real!" He was fully dressed, clothes and coat dry, but his body was still freezing.

The bedroom door creaked open behind him. Laura emerged, bleary-eyed and blinking. She stared, shrieked and leapt back into the bedroom, slamming the door. "Get the hell out of my flat! I'm phoning the police."

He grabbed the door handle, pushed down. It resisted - Laura was holding it from the other side. She screamed, half fear, half outrage. "Get out!"

"Laura, it's me. It's Billy. What's gotten into you? Open the door."

"Hello, Police?" she sobbed. "A man's broken into my flat."

Billy staggered back, stunned as she rattled off their address. A sudden realisation about the room prickled his attention, something he'd overlooked. Every single one of his possessions was missing. Every photo of Laura and himself, every knick-knack and gaudy present his parents brought back from holidays, all gone.

"No," he said. "Not possible..." It was the same as when the clown had taken his son. Part of his life had been erased. Eaten. But that was crazy, he thought. There had to be another reason; maybe Laura wanted a divorce, had boxed up all his stuff? Yes, that had to be it.

He hammered on the door. "Laura!" he shouted. "Stop pretending you don't know who I am. I'm your husband for god's sake. Open the damn door and let’s talk about it. Why are you doing this?" He forced down the handle. She screamed, terror naked in her voice. She wasn't pretending.

"Get out, you sick bastard," she said. "The police will be here any minute."

"I...I'm sorry," he mumbled. In a daze he let himself out, stumbled down the stairs and out into the street. He couldn't think, just knew he had to get away. By the time the scream of sirens shattered his daze he was three streets away chucking up the contents of his guts onto the pavement. He blinked away rainwater as a police car flashed past leaving light smeared across his night vision.

He drew his sodden coat about himself and stumbled off, finding himself adrift on a sea of numbing confusion. The chill seeped into his bones as he walked the streets, head down, rusty knife of anguish twisting in his heart. The icy drizzle and freezing wind felt somehow appropriate, an scouring manifestation of his inner pain. Body shivering, teeth chattering, fingers clumsy as gloves, he moved through the streets on autopilot.

A sudden movement roused him. A grubby old man with bushy white beard and green bobble-hat grabbed a hold of his arm and shoved him off the dim orange-lit street into the darkness of a doorway. He spat in Billy's eyes, then pressed a something sharp against his side to still his cry of disgust.

The old man lifted a finger to his lips as Billy wiped at his face. "Hush, laddie, it'll hear you." He crouched down, peeked the corner of an eye out of the doorway. His hand clamped onto Billy’s. “Look.”

Billy pressed himself against the wall, numb cheek scraping along sandstone until Byres Road came into view.

A young student, was walking down the street, her face hidden beneath an umbrella angled against the wind. She passed their side-street, heels clacking. A streetlight blinked off as she passed. When it fizzed back on she wasn't alone. But she didn't see it.

Billy almost cried out, but a rough hand clamped around his mouth.

A bald man padded barefoot two steps behind her; or at least it looked like a man at first. His grey skin was warped and uneven, almost as if he’d been melted. His only clothing was a pair of mouldy, torn jeans, his naked torso showing every rib, the cheeks and eyes hollow pits of darkness. He glistened, flesh slick with layers of oil like he’d been deep-fried. The rain sloughed off him in a torrent of droplets like he was shedding lice with every step. The sight hit Billy on some deeply instinctive level, an urge to bare his teeth in a snarl or slink off into a hole. Maybe both. The girl finally seemed to sense something. She stopped, turned, lifted her umbrella. Her eyes scanned the night, saw nothing. The grey man grinned at her, revealing piranha-teeth. Gills fluttered open on the side of his neck.

"A Sleekit One," the old man said. She spat on the ground. "Now you see it. I still have that much magic left to me."

Billy nodded. The pressure on his mouth eased and the sharp object pressing into his side disappeared. "What do we do?" he whispered.

"Do? We do nothing. That girl is gone."

By the time Billy could process the answer, the Sleekit One had opened its mouth wide, was inhaling, chest expanding like some sort of toad.

The old man's hot breath festered against his cheek. "Keep her in your head, laddie. Don't let her go."

She seemed to waver, and then both girl and grey man were gone. A silent thunderclap of existence rushed in to fill the gap, a flood that crashed into Billy's memories trying to wash all of her away. He gritted his teeth, tried to picture the girl, the memory slipping and sliding like oil on water. His memory eroded away like a fabulous sandcastle defying the incoming tide, and when the flood abated only a shapeless lump of memory remained. Her face was gone, but enough was left for him to know what had happened.

The old man slumped down in the doorway. "That Sleekit bastard."

“Sleekit One?” Billy said, the name sliding around his mouth like a rancid oil-slick.

"Aye," the man said. "Nothing as sly and cunning as one of those bloody things. She may as well have never existed."

Billy's legs buckled, the dangerous chill in his body now eating away the last dregs of his strength. The man caught him.

"Here now, laddie. You're freezing. Let's get you dry." He hauled Billy up and walked him past rows of parked cars, and then down a lane to squeeze into a narrow and neglected space between two university buildings, a space that Billy had never even noticed before. The man had built a den of polythene and cardboard between two large metal bins.

Billy fell in face-first, buried himself into a fortress of soft sleeping bags as his body gave out and plunged him into darkness.

He woke cocooned in a sleeping bag and layers of dirty blanket. For one claustrophobic moment he panicked, until he found the zip and struggled free. Cold air wafted across naked flesh.

A bushy beard and bobble hat pushed through the slit polythene doorway. "Finally up, eh?" The old man said, eyes scanning across Billy's nakedness. "Got a pal to stick your clothes in the tumble dryer. You should be good to go." He tossed a bundle of clothes in and nipped back outside.

Billy dressed quickly and emerged to a camping stove and a small pot bubbling away. The old man passed him a spoon and bowl, doled out a good dollop of beans.

He paused between mouthfuls, taking a deep shuddering breath as images of last night flashed though his mind. "Thanks for the food," he said. "I'm Billy.

The old man gave a lopsided knowing smile. "I know. Call me Gregg," he said. "Some call me the West-End Wizard. What a laugh that is." He shrugged. "Some say I got a touch of the second-sight from my mother. You have a touch too you know - that's how you can see The Sleekit Ones."

Billy choked, the beans suddenly tasteless. "That thing last was different."

The old man scowled. "Aye, that's my doing. Made you see what the girl saw. Her childhood nightmares given flesh." His eyes flared with anger. "What did you see when they took your kid?"

Billy started. "How did you--" The man's expression seemed to answer better than words. "You too?" 

The old man showed no emotion. "That's what these things do, they eat away folk's existence, make it like they were never there. They like kids the most, more life in them I suppose. Then they take folk's memories to cover their tracks. That thing last night? Well I want it dead. Have more than enough reasons."

It took a moment for Billy to force the words out. "A clown. I saw a clown." He couldn't suppress the shudder.

"Bloody clowns," Gregg said. "Whoever thought they were funny for kids needs shooting.

"What are those things?" Billy said. "How can they even exist?" It felt like the life he had known was a sham, blindly treading unknown waters above a black abyss.

"I call them Sleekit Ones," Gregg replied. "Because they are right sly, oily bastards. But if you go way back the folklore calls them Brollachan, shape shifters that take the form of what you fear the most."

Billy put the bowl down and buried his face in his hands. "What do I do? My son... "

"How long ago did they take him?"

"A few weeks ago, I...I think."

The old man seemed to mull it over. "Might still be a chance. Still two days before the next new moon, and they always hunt just before. Your son’s existence won't be digested yet, but any later and any chance of getting your kid back is gone forever."

Billy lifted his tear-stained face from his hands, eyes fixed on Gregg. "How?"

"You need to trap the bugger and force a deal out of it. It will let him go to save itself."

"Tell me what to do and I'll do it."

"You won't like it..."

"I'll do anything to get my son back. And my life."

"I see. We have a deal then. The things like the chase and their sick games, tend to play with their food like a bad kid pulling the legs off spiders. They are very territorial, very predictable, and stick to the same old hunting grounds, the same old prey, and the same old hunting methods time after time until they use them all up. We can use that against them. Here's what you need to do..."

Billy's face drained of colour as Gregg explained it all. He took a long time answering. Finally he nodded. "I'll do it."

"Good." Gregg's lips twitched into a smile. "Very good."

Billy darted from the shadows of the doorway and grabbed the boy, pressing the knife to his throat. "I'm so sorry," he said. "But I have to do this. Once you've done what I say I promise you can go home."

Gregg hung back in the gloom beyond the streetlights, watching, face unreadable. His head snapped round as a streetlight further down the main road blinked off and back on with an electric hum. "It's time."

Billy grabbed the boy's arm and hauled him upright. "Just go to the streetlight and then walk very slowly up the hill. That's all you have to do. Once you get to the top you run home. Understand?"

The boy nodded. Wet eyes wide and staring at the knife.

"I'm so Sorry," he said. He let go and the boy started to walk.

"And don't go looking back," Gregg added.

Billy withdrew to the shadows as he crossed the short space to the streetlight, where the kid stood shaking, arms wrapped protectively around himself.

A flickering shadow caught Billy's attention as it drifted up the street. His brain tried to make sense of it, but couldn't quite seem to resolve it as one thing or another. As it drew closer it took on humanoid form, grew bright colours and frizzy red hair, white painted skin, nose growing red and globular. He gagged and cringed back.

Gregg's hand clamped around the back of his neck, squeezed hard. "Don't choke, laddie. Last chance to get your son back. Or is he worth so little to you?"

Billy gritted his teeth. "Let go."

"Good boy, Billy," Gregg said, backing away three steps. "No hesitation now, you'll only have a few seconds."

The boy glanced around, then began walking slowly up the street, fighting the urge to run.

Billy reached into his pocket and drew out the wrought iron spike he'd wrenched from a fancy gate. The cheap knife didn't have enough iron in it apparently. Gregg had said he needed to do it himself, and for some occult reason the old man couldn't so much as touch it if this was to work, all part of the deal he had to make.

The Sleekit One left slimy footprints with each step it took towards the boy. It reached out and touched his neck. He spun, froze at the shock of seeing whatever horror it was that it made him see.

Billy surged from the shadows and plunged the iron spike deep into the clown's back. It screamed without sound, a wave of agony tearing into his mind. It cuffed the boy to the ground and grabbed Billy by the throat, lifting him into the air.

Billy's legs kicked futilely, fingers scrabbling at the hand choking the life from him. Gregg had been wrong. It stretched a hand back, tried to grab the iron spike and pull it free. Its fingers hissed where they touched the iron, and pull as it might, the spike didn't move an inch. The wound in its back bubbled and hissed angrily.

"Who are you, that you can see me?" It said, clown face grimacing. A long pink tongue writhed from between painted lips to lick a wet trail up Billy's cheek. "Did you think that iron would kill me, little toy? How sadly misinformed you are."

"Not kill you," Gregg said. "Just weaken you." The Sleekit One's eyes widened. "No..." It let go, tried to run.

"Yes," Gregg hissed. His mouth yawned unnaturally wide. He sucked in air. A wind tore into the clown. Its body wavered, then dissolved into a mist sucked into Gregg's convulsing throat. A long tongue emerged from the old man's mouth to lap his lips.

Billy coughed, rose to his knees as the old man rippled. The white beard changing into grimy white and red painted skin, green bobble hat melting into the slicked back green hair of the ice cream van clown. A strangled rattle emerged from Billy's throat.

"Hello Billy-boy," it said. "Missed me did you? Well done my little tool, helping me to get rid of that intruder into my territory. I can't handle iron myself after all. Still, always more where that little upstart came from."

Billy screamed, leapt at it. It swatted him with contemptuous ease. "Now, now. None of that. You'll be getting your boy back, just as I said." It shrugged. "Well, for a little while. You are useless to me as you are now; too unstable. I like predictable. That's why I chose you after all, Billy-boy. So dreadfully dull." It leant over, mouth stretching wipe to reveal a black void inside. It exhaled, rancid greasy breath flowing across Billy's body, into his mouth and nose, squirming deeper inside.

Billy jerked upright, shouting, duvet flapping open to let cold air in to chill his sweat. He staggered from his own bed into the living room, heart pounding.

"What's up hun?" Laura said, pausing the film on the TV. "Not feeling any better?"

"I..." Billy wiped the sweat from his forehead, stared at her in confusion as vague and disquieting emotions bobbed up inside him. "A nightmare, I guess." As dreams do, the details were melting away. He felt utterly drained, ground down to a shadow of himself.

His eyes leapt to the other bedroom door as it creaked open.

Little Stephen yawned and rubbed bleary eyes as he padded barefoot from his bedroom. "Dad?"

Billy swept him up into his arms, held him tight, not quite knowing why. The clock on the wall clicked as the hands moved to eleven.

The chimes of an ice cream van filtered in from outside. Stephen's eyes got big and excited. "Ice cream!"

"It's too late," Billy said. "Way past your bedtime."

"Pleeeasssseeee dad!" Stephen said, wriggling free.

Laura rolled her eyes. "Just this once then. You woke him up so you can take him down"

Billy shivered as Stephen grabbed him by the hand and dragged him towards the door.


This story originally appeared in The Lovecraft eZine.

Cameron Johnston

Author of dark and gritty fantasy and horror mixed with black humour, bad jokes, and a good dose of heart.