Congratulations to Ben (12), who has won a copy of Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror signed by both the author and the illustrator. Here is his winning story:

Lake Truesdale

by Ben (12)

1

There was something about today that made old Mr Jenkins smile. Today was one of those days where you were glad to be alive, and as the sun shone down upon him Jenkins yawned, and slowly dropped off into a sleep as light as the breeze which tickled his cheeks. George Jenkins was a caring old man who loved to fish, and that’s just what he was doing now; fishing. He had gentle brown eyes, and a sagging face and body. He was quite plump and always jolly. Everybody liked him. The old man’s wrinkled hand started to drop over the side of his beautiful chestnut brown rowing boat, and pierced the calm blue surface of Lake Truesdale. Life couldn’t be more perfect for Jenkins. He had his cosy lakeside cottage, which looked over the serenity of the beautiful lake, and although his wife had left him some weeks before, he was quite content with his life, simple though it was.

Suddenly the boat shook tremendously, and Jenkins sat up with a jolt. For a moment or two George was nearly blown into the water, as the gentle breeze had, without warning, transformed into a blistering gale. The ripples left by the old man’s hand became bigger and more violent, and the previously turquoise skies had turned into a brutal jet black, like darkness was descending upon the world, cloaking it in eternal shadows. Jenkins’ face contorted in fear, and out of the corner of his gentle brown eyes, in his own back yard, he saw Robert Banner, his neighbour, watching him closely.

Ice cold water jetted into Jenkins face, knocking his sunhat into the depths of the lake. All of a sudden, the ripples subsided and the howling wind silenced. Only after George had wiped the sub-zero beads of sweat from his creased forehead did the real terror begin.

Jenkins fumbled for his oars to row himself back to shore, but instead of finding himself holding a piece of wood, he found himself holding a human arm. It had decayed so much that pieces of rotting flesh clung to his furrowed fingers. His mouth opened to let out a scream, but the arm pushed a perished finger to his lips and, instantly, Jenkins was silenced. The repulsive arm stayed where it was, but from the lake rose a figure, as damp and decayed as the arm it belonged to. A small girl, no older than seven, was floating in midair before Jenkins. She had dirty, blonde, matted hair and pondweed was tangled within it. Her eyelids were heavy and closed. All colour had been drained from her face, leaving it a chalky white and bearing clearly visible creases containing sludge and silt. Jenkins looked into her face, bewildered, and at long last, her eyes opened. A brilliant blue dazzled George, as her eyes revealed themselves, piercing, spectacular. They looked odd, such striking eyes upon such a grimy and repulsive body. Slowly, she took her filthy and decrepit hands away from the old man’s face, and brushed her tangled hair behind her ears. Little by little, her thin white lips curved into a sad little smile. For the first time, Jenkins thought, she looked close to a human being. But then that tender smile, the only ounce of humanity she had, disappeared, and she looked stern and terrifying again. With a heartbreaking look in her beautiful eyes, she opened her mouth.

‘H-h-help me’ she stammered, and her voice was soft and silky ‘I’m t-t-trapped!’ and without warning, landed with an almighty splash and floated back down to the murky beds of Lake Truesdale...

2

In a state of terror, Jenkins flung himself into the lake, head first, and swam as fast as his old body would allow towards the edge of the lake. Chilly water gushed up around his nose, but this didn’t matter to him anymore. Nothing mattered to him, except for getting back to land. After what seemed like forever, the old man finally managed to drag himself up and away from the once peaceful water.

Jenkins surged up the small lakeside road like an angry wave, not sparing a glance for his next door neighbour, who watched the old man meticulously. Shaking, George reached into his pocket, and pulled out his rusted house key. Swiftly, Jenkins whipped up the phone from its small, three legged table, and dialled 911 without hesitation.

‘Hello, this is South Salem Police Precinct, how may I help you?’ said a policeman. His voice was dull and dreary, and he sounded incredibly bored.

‘Yes please. This is Mr George Jenkins of 1 Lakeside Road. I’m ringing to report... I don’t know what I’m ringing to report really. I can’t describe what I’ve just seen and I desperately need help!’

‘OK. Someone will be right over.’ said the policeman in his tedious voice.

After half an hour of continuous pacing back and forth in front of his window, a police car pulled up outside. Out of the car stepped Chief of Police, Darren Bain and his assistant Mike Carlos. Bain was short and stocky, with horn rimmed glasses, and a striking grey toothbrush moustache. Bain was balding quickly. He was dressed scruffily and wearing a sickly green tie that bore red spots. Carlos, on the other hand, was tall and thin with grass green eyes, and neck length, greasy black hair tucked away behind his ears.

Bain and Carlos looked at the cottage, and on first sight it looked picturesque, though as they stepped inside, they noticed it was fairly unkempt, with no obvious woman’s presence. Jenkins invited the two men into his living room, and sat them down. He began to tell them the tale from beginning to end. Although they listened intently to the old man’s story, they were mainly focusing on the half bottle of whisky, left open on the side. When he had finished talking, he sat down and, head in his hands, said:

‘The thing is... I know this sounds ridiculous... But the little girl was Eleanor Banner from next door...’ the detectives looked at each other in disbelief, if not amusement, though in an effort to calm the visibly shaken man, they promised to go and speak to Mr Banner.

After the interview with Jenkins concluded, the police asked about his wife, who he claimed had left him weeks before. The police also began to suspect this story was very strange, as he could not say for certain where his wife was. In a moment of regret, he began to say how his drinking may have caused her to leave, though he stressed he was never violent towards her, and also never dependent on drink.

Bain and Carlos looked at each other, and began to wonder if drink had been the main factor in this ridiculous outburst of fantasy he had fed them, or, if indeed, the old man had something more sinister to hide in his obviously unbalanced state of mind. Both also pondered upon the whereabouts of Mrs Jenkins, whose location was currently unknown, and began to suspect foul play.

In a small place where most of the people know each other, Bain and Carlos felt a little foolish even bothering to go next door, but as they had indicated they would follow up the interview, they found themselves knocking upon Mr Banner’s front door, which he opened almost immediately, as though he had been observing the comings and goings of next door with great interest.

3

Robert Banner was more cold towards the detectives than old man Jenkins, only answering as simply as possible.

‘Can you tell us the whereabouts of your family?’ Bain asked.

‘Yes. They went to Union City, not far north.’ Banner answered in a calm and collected voice.

‘Why did they go there?’ Carlos said, biting his upper lip.

‘My wife got a new job. I didn’t want to go, so she took the children and went there for a few weeks, see how things went. Both girls are in school there. We keep in touch via telephone.’ Banner said with an icy tinge to his voice.

‘OK. It’s just that old man next door claims he saw your daughter, rotting in the lake. Absurd really!’ Bain joked. Banner’s ears pricked up at the sound of this.

‘Did he?’ he said plainly ‘Did he really.’ Banner began to scratch his bristly chin.

‘Yes he did. Does that surprise you?’ Carlos asked, watching Banner intently.

‘No not really. That drunken old fool next door is always having stabs at me. Between you and me, I think he’s mental. I mean, who else walks down the street at three in the morning, half dressed?’ Banner said coldly. Bain and Carlos looked at each other. Could he really be insane? Is that the reason he was having these ‘hallucinations’? The detectives needed nothing more and left, apologizing for wasting Banner’s time.

As they came out onto the street, they spotted Jenkins in his window watching them intently; they got in their car and drove away. During the drive back to the precinct both began to wonder if maybe old Jenkins could be hiding anything.

Jenkins turned from the window, took the half bottle of whisky from the side and climbed the stairs to his bedroom; he laid on his bed, and after a while fell into a disturbed sleep. During the night, Jenkins woke up in a cold sweat, and found he had some unwelcome visitors.

The old man sat up right, on the edge of his bed, and found himself gazing into the piercing blue eyes – and at the decaying body - of Eleanor Banner, but this time, she was not alone. Beside her was a woman of no older than thirty-five, with the same dirty blonde hair and rotting physique as her. But there was one difference: where Eleanor had those startling eyes, this woman had worms squirming around in her sockets, some hanging down past her nose, and some even crawling blindly into her gaping mouth. Her decomposing hand was clutching another, this time that of an infant, perhaps four or five. She looked completely different to the other two; her eyes were neither startling nor filled with worms, but were black and beady. Her hair hung tight to her head, with little chunks of putrid skin clinging to her scalp and her tiny body was disembowelled as though something had been eating at her frail little frame. George was staring at Kathy and Jody Banner, or what would have been them, had they been of this world. None of them spoke, but as Eleanor reached out, desperately, with her putrefying thin arms, trying frantically to claw at the old man, water gathered on the bedroom floor in a pool underneath their decaying bodies.

Petrified, Jenkins ran from the house, flung his car door open and sped towards the police precinct. Half dressed, and smelling of alcohol, he threw open the police station door and staggered towards the front desk, pouring out his story as he collapsed in a heap on the floor in front of the officer in charge. He was so deluded that a police surgeon was called to sedate him.

The next morning was a bright sunny day, but all Jenkins did was lie in a hospital bed staring into space. It was obvious something was seriously wrong with the old man, was it the drink or something more sinister?

4

Bain and Carlos decided it was time now time that they looked into the whole affair, and began to check up on information that Mr Banner had given them concerning his family. After days of work regarding every area of the investigation they drew up a total blank. The Banner’s extended family thought the wife and kids were all still living in South Salem with Robert, who they informed the police was a mean and calculating character who they had never liked or got on with, and this had led to a rift in the family, which meant they did not always keep in touch.

The police were very worried about this and also decided to check out the whereabouts of Mrs Jenkins, who had no family other than her husband. She also seemed to have disappeared into thin air. It was now fairly reasonable to assume that as the two families lived side by side on the lake, something was seriously amiss.

Bright and early the next day, it was decided that police divers would check out Mr Jenkins story: that something was in the lake. They all gathered by the water’s edge. Bain, Carlos, and three divers were readily prepared to search the bottom of the lake in the area Mr Jenkins had pointed out.

Later that afternoon one of the divers surfaced and put up his hand, a clear sign acknowledged by all to mean that they had found something in the water. The boat was sent out to them and both detectives watched in silence as three bodies, were lifted out of the water, all tightly bound in black plastic, with ropes binding them from top to toe. The diver explained that the three bodies had all been weighed down with heavy objects and that there was no way that George Jenkins could have seen them in the water; the bodies had never moved off the bottom of the lake.

They stood looking at the heavily bound corpses, and were about to call off the search when another diver surfaced and held up his arm.

A fourth body was brought to the surface, also wrapped up tightly in the same black plastic, held tight closed with the same twine. Never had they seen anything like this in South Salem, and the news soon spread about the bodies in the lake.

5

Bain sat back in his chair, his arms behind his head, and a contented but sad satisfaction on his face. It had been eight weeks since the bodies of Eleanor, Jody and their mother Kathy had been recovered from the lake, but the case was now coming to a close. They had all been poisoned by Robert Banner, who had confessed to the killings after police had found evidence of the poison, plastic, and twine, hidden in the garage of their home.

They had apparently argued when she had said she was going to leave, and take away the children. She had, he said, left him no choice but to kill her and the children. The fact there was an insurance policy on his wife’s life had, apparently been nothing to do with it.

The fourth body had of course been that of their lovely, smiling, helpful neighbour Mrs Jenkins, who on that fateful day had walked down to the water’s edge to tell Mr Banner she had decided to leave and make a fresh start somewhere new.

Of course she had not realised that he was planning to take the bodies out in the boat that morning, and she had stumbled on him in the act. She had tried to make her excuses, but it was obvious to Robert Banner she had realised what he was up to and he had hit her hard, on the back of her head, with one of the heavy rocks.

Mr Jenkins was by now in a home. He lay in his bed, the fragile shell of the man he once was, he still needed to be kept sedated to help him rest. He opened his weak eyes for one moment, and looked towards the window. There he saw the apparition of young Eleanor, this time her beautiful childhood had been regained. She walked up to him, kissed his old wrinkled cheek and thanked him for setting them all free, then turned and walked away, saying she was sorry but she wouldn’t see him now until he joined them in their new life.

That night old Mr Jenkins died in his sleep. For the first time in months, a big smile across his crumpled face.