Stephen King: Six Scary Stories

‘Yes.’

‘With the leopard?’

‘It’s the only way!’ he said, turning to me with a smile. ‘The animal is playing games with you!’ He chuckled. ‘I believe it knows what you’re up to, and is deliberately thwarting you out of sheer mischief!’

‘Mischief, sir?’

‘Of course! It’s a cat, after all. You know how playful they can be.’

I nodded slowly. ‘So, you recommend that I get into the leopard’s cage, in order to count its spots?’

‘Recommend? I insist, dear Max!’

I inclined my head slowly.

‘And now,’ he said, ‘I must be off. I can hear my chopper.’

The approaching clatter of helicopter blades obliged him to bellow his final words to me.

‘I’m sure you won’t mind walking back,’ the Leader said, ‘as I know how keen you are on getting your exercise!’

He cast a thoughtful look at my shattered leg and my cane, clapped me on the shoulder, and strode away.

I fled the capital immediately. I didn’t go home, or to my office.

As soon as I heard the helicopter lift off outside I tore at the lining of my jacket and extracted one of the diamonds I had secreted there over the course of many years.

Its value was easily sufficient to procure the services of a passing motorist when I reached the road. The man agreed to take me all the way to the coast, after I assured him I knew how to evade any possible checkpoints. I was confident of this, as the system by which the roads were patrolled was one of the many responsibilities I undertook for the Leader in my role as his trusted adviser and general factotum.

Naturally I withheld this information from the driver, although I doubt if he would have paid attention to anything I said to him after I’d shown him the diamond. His eyes grew wide, and I had to remind him to keep them on the road each time they strayed towards the gem I clutched in my fist. He knew exactly how much a stone that size was worth, like everyone else in a country where the value of the official currency was a kind of fiction in the mind of the Leader.

It took thirty-six hours to reach the port, which was full of soldiers, as I had expected. It took a further two days and nearly all of my diamonds to secure lodgings, in the most disreputable part of town, and to arrange for a passage in a ship. Every step I took required a considerable bribe to buy the silence of those I dealt with.

The ship’s captain seemed to know his business, although he appeared to be little more than a ruffian. This reassured me. Signs of unusual intelligence or sophistication in anyone I encountered at this stage of my flight would have worried me.

As I waited another day for the ship to load its cargo I had plenty of time to think. Had the Leader intended all along to kill me? If so, why the elaborate and baroque charade with the leopard’s spots? Or was the experiment genuine, and my fate sealed by my failure to fulfil my task? But I couldn’t hope to fathom his mind. I gave up trying, and simply waited.

Finally the ship was ready. I received instructions to meet the captain an hour before dawn in a secluded spot behind some warehouses, no more than a hundred yards from the pier.

The captain was waiting for me when I arrived. Cautiously he led me to the ship. It had no lights showing, and loomed above us, a dark shape barely visible against the moonless sky.

It was very cold, and a sudden thought struck me. ‘Will I have a cabin?’ I whispered. ‘If not, I may need to borrow some extra clothes.’

‘Never mind that,’ the captain growled, ‘just get up those steps.’

I felt a violent shove in my back and when I turned around I saw that the captain had been joined by another man, who crowded in behind me.

I turned to the captain. ‘Who is this?’ I hissed.

I was aware of a swift movement at the edge of my vision. A blast of white light erupted in my eyes. There was an agonising pain in the back of my head, which faded quickly as inky blackness embraced me.

We are at sea. I have been allowed to keep my pencils and my notebook, in which I write these words, and I understand why. I understand everything. I am inside a shipping container. It has been modified to create two compartments, separated by steel bars. I am on one side of the bars. On the other side is the leopard.

There is plenty of light. Almost too much. On the ceiling of the container a series of arc lamps blaze perpetually. At the top of the steel bars is a mechanism containing an electric motor, gear wheels and a pulley system. It is clear that this machinery can be operated remotely, and that its purpose is to raise the bars that separate me from the leopard.

My body tells me I’ve been here about three days. On five occasions a small hatch in the wall behind me has opened and a plate of food has been shoved through. But the leopard has not been fed.

My mind is wonderfully clear and focused. Finally I can begin to count the leopard’s spots. Perhaps my task is made easier by the leopard’s hunger, which may be causing it to move more slowly. I have no doubt, however, that the beast has more than enough energy to spring at me the instant the bars are raised, and tear me to pieces.

It is this knowledge, of course, that is assisting my concentration. And now I see it all. The Leader was always in earnest about counting the leopard’s spots. I should have known. He can be playful, but he is never frivolous. When he saw that I faltered in my task he knew what he had to do. He told me my fate and he knew I would flee. He would have known that I had diamonds in my possession. Everything was arranged. The passing motorist, the soldiers, my lodgings, the captain. All were part of the plan. This is his genius. He knows the human mind, and he is methodical.

I will not fail you, my Leader. I know you will read these words, or that they will be read to you. Perhaps you will feel sorrow at what you have been obliged to do to your old friend. I know you are capable of it. I have seen you weep over the deaths of other old friends. But please don’t waste your tears on me. I applaud you. I serve you, and your purpose, whatever it may be, to the very last and without question or regret.

But these are not the words you are waiting for. All that concerns you is the result of my task. When I have completed it I will hand over the notebook, or perhaps just push it through the hatch, so that the legibility of my work is protected from any spatters of the blood that will inevitably decorate this container when the time comes.

But enough! Now I begin. One. Two. Three . . .

Michael Button was born in Glasgow and lives in east London with his husband and dog. During his life, he has done a number of things for money – software development, DJing and teaching (swimming, English as a foreign language, probability theory) – but has recently dedicated himself to his true love: making up stories.

‘The Unpicking’ is his second published story. Michael drew inspiration from two main sources – the recurring motif of marionettes in the work of the American horror writer Thomas Ligotti, and Michael’s favourite childhood character, Enid Blyton’s diabolical Naughty Amelia Jane.

He is currently working on his first novel.

‘It’s hard to overstate the influence of Stephen King’s writing on my work. His short story “The Mangler” is a particular favourite – technical dazzle, nasty violence, black humour and a true shocker of an ending.’

Nobody was the first to emerge from the toy chest, then came Sophie, Naughty Rupert and Bunny. Last was Annie-In-Rags, the largest of the toys, a doll made from strips of rough denim that trailed over the edge of the chest behind her. Gangle-limbed and goggle-eyed, they formed a circle in the dim glow of His nightlight.