Horror Stories from Horrified - Volume One (2)

Christmas
horror stories from Horrified
1

Christmas
horror stories from Horrified
Volume One
2

For my w ife, Sascha, Hor r ified's
w onder ful contr ibutor s and, of
cour se, you, the r eader
- Jae
For Dad (1933-2020), I know he's
up ther e, smiling. Gone but
never for gotten
- John
Compiled and edited by John Clewar th and Jae Pr ow se.
Illustr ations r epr inted by kind per mission of Rich Phillips. Find him on Tw i t ter
The copyr ight for all stor ies featur ed in this volume is r etained by the author s.
2020 Hor r i f i ed Book s
3

Contents
10.
28.
34.
45.
54.
80.
85.
97.
110.
123.
T he L ost Art of Epigraphy
by Stefan Matthews
T hey Walk Among U s
by Jane Collins
T he House in Stepney Green
by Mark Lynch
L onely this Christmas
by Robert Edgar
L e Casino en Nuages
by Iain Travers
On the Feast of Stephen
by D ean Newman
Good- N ight
by T he Somnambulist Society
Ghosts of Kersal Moor
by Ellis Reed
One Heart
by Andrew Lyall
Quercu de Cordibus Vestris
by John Clewarth
4 4

132.
140.
158.
164.
181.
199.
T he D ead Millennium
by JL Flannery
Cervidae
by Amy Easton
T he D ancing Children
by Sam Cossey
T he Hunting L odge
by A.J. Black
First Footers
by Jim Mount field
T he W ind on the Water
by D avid Pattie
5

A note from Horrified's editor
A war m, festive w elcome to Hor r ified's ver y fir st collection of
hor r or tales.
Now , if this digital book comes as something of a sur pr ise to
you, imagine how Hor r ified's fiction editor , John Clewar th, felt
w hen he saw one of my 'inspir ed' tw eets that stated w e'd be
pr oducing a book of 10 stor ies in the manner of the BBC's A
Ghost Stor y for Chr istmas.
Then consider how astonished he was w hen submissions began
r olling in and it quickly became clear he'd have r ather mor e
than 10 stor ies to choose fr om. The poor chap was then faced
w ith the consider able task of not only editing ever y stor y but
deciding w hich w ould make the final 10 (or 16 as it had by then
gr ow n to). All the w hile, he was still r eview ing and editing new
fiction submissions for the w ebsite. Oh, and did I mention he
had to pull ever ything together w ithin a matter of thr ee w eeks?
Apologies, John. I pr omise to mention my hair -br ained ideas to
you fir st in futur e. I think you secr etly loved ever y minute,
though!
As you'll discover for your self, the stor ies featur ed w ithin these
pages ar e a w onder ful blend of unsettling, spine-tingling,
6

ter r ifying and occasionally, quite moving; per fect for a cold
w inter 's evening in the r un-up to Chr istmas and beyond.
Had ther e been enough space (and time), w e'd have included
mor e but, r est assur ed, any stor ies that didn't quite make it into
this volume w ill still featur e on the Hor r ified w ebsite. Your har d
w or k w ill not go to waste. I pr omise.
In the meantime, w e dear ly hope you enjoy this collection.
We've asked the author s to w r ite a shor t intr oduction to give a
sense of place and inspir ation w hich you'll find at the star t of
their stor y. Our w ish is that you discover a new favour ite
somew her e w ithin these pages that continues to thr ill, unner ve
and dow nr ight ter r ify you for year s to come.
So, find a quiet place. Dim the lights a little. Pour a glass of
your pr efer r ed tipple. And pr epar e to be Hor r ified...
Jae Pr ow se
Editor -in-chief
Hor r i f i ed
7

?The nar r ator , I think, must succeed in fr ightening
himself befor e he can think of fr ightening his r eader ? ?
- E.F. Benson
"Ghost stor ies ... tell us about things that lie hidden
w ithin all of us, and w hich lur k outside all ar ound us."
- Susan Hill
8

9

T he L ost Art of Epigraphy
by Stefan Matthews
I love stories that slowly pervert a character?s sense of safety and sanity,
and a bookstore seemed like a perfect fit for such a tale. What would
happen to a bookstore worker if their safety and sanity were chipped
away ? comfort replaced with paranoia, cosiness with fear?
As Li ly peer ed ar ound t he f r ost door l eadi ng i nto t he book stor e, she was hi t
by t he f am i l i ar scent of wor n paper and ol d oak . It had only been a few days
since she visited Mister Gr egor y, the old man w ho ow ned the place, and after the
tw o had indulged themselves in a lengthy dialogue about the ?lost ar t? of epigr aphy
he had all but given her a job in the stor e ther e and then. After all, it was an
unusual occur r ence for the old man to find someone w ho shar ed his love for the
subject, especially in the tiny tow n of Middleton.
"Excuse me, Mister Gr egor y, ar e you in?"
The only r esponse was the aching of the w ooden beams. As Lily cr ept indoor s, the
door clicked shut and she began to take in the extr aor dinar y sight befor e her.
Mountains of books litter ed ever y nook of the small bookstor e. Heavy tomes w er e
stacked so high that she was sur e one at the top of the pile seemed to be making an
attempt to bur st thr ough the ceiling to fr eedom. An enor mous collection bound in
cr imson leather cascaded their way acr oss a shelf, dow n the far wall and out
thr ough a black door w ith a faded ?no entr y?sign. A clutter ed stair case r an along
the left side of the shop, ending at a lar ge glass door.
As she navigated the ocean of liter atur e, Lily stepped delicately so as to not knock
10

anything of impor tance off the oak bookshelves. Clapping some war mth back into
her gloved hands, Lily scanned the shelves as she tr ied to keep afloat, noticing that
a number of the books that sur r ounded her w er e indeed about the ?lost ar t? of
epigr aphy that she and Mister Gr egor y had pr eviously discussed. Volumes upon
volumes noting ever ything one could w ish to lear n about the topic; epigr aphy being
the study of inscr iptions or car vings on stone, w ood, ter r acotta and other mater ials.
Lily glanced thr ough the half-open black door w ith the w or n ?no entr y?sign and a
lar ge book caught her eye. Encased in a glass cabinet, it was a peculiar colour , a hue
that she couldn?t quite put her finger on. The fr ont cover was ador ned w ith a
delicate patter n of ivy in gold leaf and the spine was bound by jet black str ing.
Though the thing was pr obably centur ies old, it looked like it had never been
touched
Lily made a tiny mental leap of joy at the sight of it. Though she was studying
epigr aphy at univer sity ? and quite enjoying it, she?d hasten to add ? Lily had
always been mor e inter ested in car vings and inscr iptions that had a mor e
super natur al quality. Sur e, analysing Gr eek stamping on ter r acotta pots was
engaging enough, but she always found it far mor e exciting if those stamps had
instr uctions about r aising the dead. This peculiar ly colour ed book looked like it
might contain a few of those instr uctions.
Lily swam thr ough the last of the shop-pr oper and tiptoed thr ough the black, no
entr y door. This backr oom was smaller and shallow er , the ceiling was low er. Lily
felt cr amped and boxed in. The r oom also had a dank, r otten smell. The
eye-water ing scent clung to Lily?s skin as she continued into the r oom. It didn?t have
the same cosiness and comfor t of the fr ont of the stor e.
It felt consider ably mor e oppr essive and sinister.
A few pr icier looking tomes w er e fancifully displayed in a dozen or so other
11

cabinets, along w ith the book that had fir st caught Lily?s eye. And as Lily, tr ying her
best not to br eathe in the scent, appr oached the odd-hued book w ith stifled
excitement, she noticed how silent the bookstor e had become. Even the w ood
seemed to have hushed its cr eaking. It was as if the w hole shop was holding its
br eath, waiting for something.
"Good mor ning, Lily."
Lily let out a little shr iek. She spun ar ound, br eathing a sigh of r elief at the old
man leaning against the black door. A long pur ple suit jacket flow ed fr om his
shoulder s to his bur gundy tr ouser s, hiding a shir t that was decor ated w ith pleated
cuffs and a few delicate r uffles. A cr avat sur r ounded his neck and r esting on his
head was a flamboyant top hat. The man looked as though he was tr ying his
har dest not to belong in this centur y.
"Goodness, you fr ightened me!" gasped Lily. She collected her self, shaking off the
shock. "I assume you?r e Mister Gr egor y?"
"Pr esume my dear , not assume."
"Oh, r ight. I pr esume you ar e Mister Gr egor y?"
"I am indeed, and I pr esume you?r e Lily. Did w e not agr ee you w er e to star t at 9
this mor ning?"
"Yes, but I wanted to show a good impr ession you see. Punctuality is key, Mum
always said."
"A-ha, w ell consider me impr essed at your punctuality. I see you?r e admir ing my
collection."
"Oh yes, it's magnificent!"
"Well, please, continue to admir e. You?ll be the fir st one in quite a w hile to, this
little tow n seems to have lost inter est in this place."
12

Lily nodded, peer ing back at the odd-hued book in the glass cabinet. Though she?d
never seen them befor e, the inscr iptions on the fr ont cover seemed vaguely
familiar. The r otten smell began to fill her nostr ils again.
Mister Gr egor y continued. "Anyhoo, feel fr ee to leave your jacket and bag out
her e. I?ll make us a cup of tea."
As Mister Gr egor y deftly sailed thr ough the sea to the stair case, he called to Lily.
"The books in those cabinets ar e ever so delicate, so I ask you not to touch them,
my dear. How do you take your tea?"
"Milk w ith tw o sugar s, please."
"Excellent. I?ll be back in tw o ticks."
Lily continued gazing into the glass cabinet, holding her nose. Even as a child, she
had never fancied her self as someone w ho took or der s fr om anyone else. So, w hen
Mister Gr egor y asked her not to touch the book w ith the hue she couldn?t quite
descr ibe and the inscr iptions that seemed so familiar ? Well, it was as if he w er e
instead inviting her to do just that. Plus, the mor e she star ed at the w r iting on the
fr ont cover , the mor e she began to think that it may just be the exact book she was
looking for ?
The thing seemed to be beckoning her , w hisper ing to her.
Lily figur ed that she ought to go and get star ted in the stor e. Yet the book was still
calling to her , as if it wanted to be r ead...
"Her e you go, dear , milk w ith tw o sugar s."
Star tled, Lily br oke her gaze to see Mister Gr egor y str olling back thr ough the
black door holding tw o old and w or n mugs. He handed one to her , smiling. The
mug was decor ated w ith a faded gr een dinosaur holding a book, along w ith the
w or d The-'saur us?. Lily cr acked a little smile.
13

"Apologies if the tea?s a bit cold, I had some paper w or k to file upstair s and for got
all about it. Anyhoo, shall w e open up shop? I have a feeling today could be a good
day."
As the old man dr ifted to the fr ont door , Lily thought to her self it was str ange how
quickly he had r etur ned w ith the tea. She figur ed that she must have been star ing
at the str ange book in the cabinet for longer than she?d r ealised.
#
It appear ed Mister Gr egor y?s good feeling about the day ahead was misplaced, as
by lunchtime bar ely half a dozen people had come thr ough the door s. Most of these
w er e visitor s or passer s-by and they had little to no inter est in books full of tips on
decipher ing Byzantine inscr iptions or about the histor y of clay in Cr ete epigr aphs.
Never theless, Mister Gr egor y r emained optimistic about the day and Lily kept
her self busy r ear r anging the labyr inth of books that litter ed the stor e.
As she tr aver sed the r ight-hand wall, Mister Gr egor y r ecollected that at one point
in time he had been quite an or ganised fellow. Repeated mentions of a ?modified
Dew ey Decimal System? convinced Lily that he was indeed telling the tr uth, though
how long ago this modified system was implemented seemed an impossible
question to answ er.
"That?s r ight, my dear , class 200 of my Decimal System is still Religion, but
r elative to epigr aphy. So, for example, class 270 w ould tr aditionally be 'Histor y of
Chr istianity', but my system w ould r eplace that w ith 'Histor y of Chr istianity'-?
"- in r elation to epigr aphs," finished Lily. Mister Gr egor y smiled and nodded.
Holding her br eath, Lily dived into a pile of books on the bottom shelf, looking for
anything mar ked w ith a 270. Lo-and-behold, she did indeed come up for air w ith a
handful of books on the topic of Histor y of Chr istianity in r elation to epigr aphs.
"So, w hat class w ould the study of par anor mal epigr aphs be, Mister Gr egor y?"
14

Lily asked.
The r esponse to her question was an emphatic silence, and as Lily peer ed back at
the old man she was met w ith a steely glar e. Lily star ed back, never one to back
away fr om a little confr ontation. After a moment, Mister Gr egor y r egained his
composur e, the smile coming back to his face.
"Ahem. I am not one w ho believes in the par anor mal, Miss Lily."
"May I ask w hy not?"
Mor e silence fr om Mister Gr egor y suggested that w hatever the r eason, Lily w ould
not get an answ er. Lily, undeter r ed, continued pr ying.
"I only enquir e about the par anor mal as much of my disser tation r esear ch is
based ar ound the infamous collection of inscr iptions etched into glass that w er e
discover ed her e in Middleton. The ones that w er e r umour ed to be able to let spir its
cr oss r ealities."
Mister Gr egor y laughed a little.
"?I see, Miss Lily. I suppose that is w hy you w er e so eager to w or k her e?"
Lily nodded, going a little r ed. "I admit I figur ed this shop was an ideal place to
finish my r esear ch. But w hen I ar r ived to chat w ith you last w eek, w ell-"
Lily motioned to the waves of books that sur r ounded the tw o of them.
"- it seemed as though this place was cr ying out for some or ganisation. So, I
figur ed I could help you for a w hile, in r etur n for a few books I could take away for
r esear ch."
Mister Gr egor y gr unted. A gr unt of r eluctant appr oval.
"Well, I appr eciate your honesty, my dear , though I w ish you had told me that
you w er e studying the par anor mal. I w ould have told you that you?d be out of luck
her e."
15

Mister Gr egor y glanced at the black door. It was just enough of a glance to be
noticed by Lily. The sor t of glance that told her all she needed to know.
As Lily delved back into the mur ky depths of Mister Gr egor y?s modified Dew ey
Decimal System, she continued w ith her discussion of the par anor mal.
"I?m sur pr ised you don?t believe in the par anor mal Mister Gr egor y, given the
histor y of Middleton and its connections w ith the occult. Resear ch into those
famous etched pieces of glass seems only to point in the dir ection of the
super natur al."
Mister Gr egor y r olled his tongue in his mouth.
"And then ther e?s the r umour s of the book that helped to decode the car vings.
The one that?s been lost for some time. Sur ely a super natur al book about haunted
glass epigr aphs w ould be something that you?d want to-"
Mister Gr egor y inter r upted Lily w ith a ster n tone.
"I do indeed know of such a book and I am awar e of such r umour s of 'haunted'
or 'super natur al' car vings. But they ar e just that: r umour s. I must kindly ask that
you r efr ain fr om talking about them in my pr esence. I am a r ational man, and
these tales ar e simply cr eated by fanciful people w ith nothing mor e to do w ith their
time than make up silly stor ies. Now if you?ll excuse me, I have some mor e office
w or k I need to see to."
Mister Gr egor y skulked up the stair case and thr ough the glass door , slamming it
shut w ith w hat seemed to Lily like a little too much aggr ession.
#
As the day w or e on, Lily mulled over w hat could have gotten the old man so
16

w or ked up. It was common know ledge that the collection of glass epigr aphs found
in Middleton defied r egular categor isation. All attempts to decipher them, or even
to place them into ar chaeological histor y, had not only come up blank but had
r esulted in ever y r esear cher disappear ing. And that was w hen the book that helped
decipher the inscr iptions was still ar ound, befor e it had been lost to the ages.
As she tr ied to find anything in Mister Gr egor y?s vast ocean of books that could
r elate to the haunted glass epigr aphs, Lily?s eye was again dr aw n to the black NO
ENTRY door that hid the oddly colour ed book in the glass cabinet. Paddling thr ough
the stor e, Lily paused to listen for any sounds of Mister Gr egor y upstair s, befor e
inching thr ough the black door.
Lily poked her nose inside, instantly tur ning it up at the foul smell. She cr ept into
the back r oom, spotting the str ange tome, only this time the thing began changing
its shade as if br eathing thr ough the spectr um. Wide-eyed, Lily star ed as its colour
changed fr om gr een to pur ple to r ed. And the mor e Lily star ed, the dar ker its black
binding seemed to get. She felt the sense that the book was alive.
She peer ed in closer , squinting as she tr ied to r ead the inscr iptions on the fr ont of
the book. It looked to be in Latin and fr om w hat Lily could make out, appear ed to
suggest that the thing was ?ar cane?and ?tr eacher ous?.
Betw een the changing colour and the str ange war nings, the book cer tainly
seemed to be par anor mal in natur e. Per haps even par anor mal enough to make
people disappear w hen they r ead it?
Like the feeling one gets w hen star ing dow n a pitch-black stair case at night, Lily
began to get a sense of unease as the book continued changing its colour.
And w hat was mor e, Lily?s r eflection in the glass began to defor m a little. Her
pupils seemed lar ger than nor mal, her limbs longer. Her eyes flicked back and
for th betw een the book and her r eflection, the sense of unease now tur ning to a
17

quiet sense of dr ead. Ther e was nothing r ational to dr ead, of cour se. Yet Lily
couldn?t help the feeling that she wasn?t alone.
It was not just the book that seemed alive, ther e was the pr esence of something
else. As Lily?s br eath har shened, the w ood once again ceased its cr eaking, Lily?s
br eathing now the only thing punctuating the stillness...
Until a shar p intake of br eath fr om Lily thr ew the place into complete silence.
Behind Lily?s shoulder ? she was cer tain it was ther e ? was a faint figur e. Lily?s
eyes focused back to the book in an instant, as she tr ied to watch the r eflection of
the figur e fr om the cor ner of her eye.
Lily r esumed br eathing as the figur e just stood in the r eflection, watching. Lily
closed her eyes, took in one last deep br eath and w hipped her self ar ound.
#
"Miss Lily." Mister Gr egor y sounded fr om the top of the stair case.
Lily r eplied in a shaky voice."?Just - just cleaning up in the backr oom, Mister
Gr egor y."
"Right you ar e my dear , just make sur e you?r e car eful ar ound the books. I am
going for lunch and then I?ll continue w ith my office w or k into the after noon. Feel
fr ee to take your s now if you w ish."
"Okay, yep. Will do."
Ther e was no figur e standing behind Lily.
Shaking the ner ves out of her self, Lily laughed off the figur e as a tr ick of the light.
Yet, again, just as one catches a glimpse of something at the bottom of the stair case
as they look away, ther e was still that nagging feeling that ther e was someone, or
something, ther e.
Lily was also baffled once again at how late into the day it was. It seemed that
18

only a few minutes ago it was mid-mor ning, and now Mister Gr egor y was having
lunch?
At least he seemed to be in a better mood.
Lily gr abbed her bag and dar ted thr ough into the fr ont of the stor e, avoiding
looking at her r eflection.
As she ate lunch, Lily mulled over the book in the cabinet. The idea that the tome
was not only super natur al, but was in fact the book containing the for eboding
tr anslations of those haunted pieces of glass, began to gnaw at her conscious.
What didn?t make sense was w hy old Mister Gr egor y didn?t seem to believe in the
super natur al. He cer tainly didn?t want her to r ead the book, so unless it was just
some big coincidence, sur ely he knew that the thing was pr obably not fr om this
w or ld either.
As Lily munched away on her little island in the stor e, she came to the conclusion
that she had to be subtle in her appr oach to the book in the back r oom. Both times
she?d ended up looking at the thing, time had seemed to pass by in an instant.
And w hat was mor e, Mister Gr egor y didn?t seem like the sor t of fellow w ho gave
second chances. Lily suspected that if he caught her r eading the thing, coupled w ith
her insistence on talking about the par anor mal ear lier , Mister Gr egor y w ould most
likely tell her to get lost. And she also guessed ther e was no chance he?d let her take
it away for r esear ch.
But the book was calling to her. Ever y time she glanced thr ough the black door
she felt the thing begging to be r ead. And as Lily finished up her lunch, she
concluded that it was no use; she had to see if it was indeed the book about the
glass inscr iptions that w er e found her e in Middleton so long ago. This find could
blow her disser tation w ide open. Imagine ever yone?s r eactions w hen she w ent back
to univer sity w ith the haunted book that made people disappear ?
19

#
The day dr agged on, the ear ly excitement of finding the str ange book in the back
r oom now r eplaced w ith a sense of ur gency. Lily was jumpy, par anoid that Mister
Gr egor y knew w hat she was planning. The old man had come dow n fr om his lunch
br eak and was milling about the bookstor e w ith no r eal sense of pur pose.
"Why don?t you go and get some fr esh air ??" Lily suggested w ith an air of
innocence.
Mister Gr egor y waved the idea away. "Thank you, my dear , but w inter doesn?t do
me a lot of good. Makes one?s 'bones ache'."
Lily smiled at the old man, cur sing him in her head.
Another half an hour or so passed. Lily, mor e r estless than ever , tr ied to keep
her self busy or ganising ar ound the old man?s potter ing. She was cer tain he must?ve
seen her looking thr ough the black door by now , she could har dly keep her eyes off
the book. She was star ting to sw eat a little too, per haps fr om ner ves. When Mister
Gr egor y told her he was heading back to the office to make them both a cup of tea,
she almost utter ed a hallelujah.
"Oh - oh okay, Mister Gr egor y, thank you. Would it be okay if you steeped mine for a
little longer ? I like my tea str ong."
Mister Gr egor y peer ed at Lily.
"Still w ith tw o sugar s?"
Lily gulped.
"Well- I mean, yes, yes tw o sugar s. But I like it str ong and sw eet, you see. Like me."
Lily cr inged at the joke as she handed Mister Gr egor y the dinosaur mug. But it
seemed to satiate the old man, w ho nodded and tr undled back up the stair s and
thr ough the opaque glass door.
20

Lily took a few seconds to ensur e the old man was indeed gone, watching the door
handle for any movement. Nothing.
Lily held her br eath and dar ted thr ough the shop and into the back r oom.
#
The smell of r ot had still managed to penetr ate Lily?s held br eath, and by the time
she?d gotten to the book, she?d given up tr ying to keep it fr om her nostr ils.
As Lily star ed once mor e at the book in the cabinet, the sinking feeling in her
stomach appear ed again. Unable to r esist any longer , she clunked open the cabinet,
r eached in and took out the book.
It felt cold and heavy in her hands. It had the same r otten scent that per meated
the r oom, and as Lily gagged a little, she noticed it was fastened w ith a small br onze
latch.
Lever ing the latch open, she peeled back the fr ont cover and smiled to her self. On
the inside cover was mor e Latin, and she could make out a few key w or ds she?d
lear nt thr ough her r esear ch. "Something, something glass," Lily quietly r ead aloud.
"Something, w r iting, something. I?m sur e that w or d means uncover. Oh, phantasma
definitely means ghost. A-ha! Middleton."
Glancing thr ough the r est of the fir st page, Lily mentally confir med that this was
indeed the myster ious, haunted book concer ning glass epigr aphs that made the
r eader disappear. How macabr e!
"I?ll tell the old man that I?ll close up shop tonight," she thought to her self, "and
w hen he?s left, I?ll sneak it out. Only for a few days, just to photocopy it." As she
flicked thr ough a few mor e pages, str ange lines of w r iting caught Lily?s eye. They
appear ed at the bottom of ever y page and w er e ar r anged in an odd five-pointed
patter n:
21

Ab Antiquo
Ab Incunabulis
Accipe Hoc
Liber o Nobis
Ex Infer nis
As if possessed to, Lily mutter ed the w or ds to her self. She star ed at the page for a
few seconds, befor e shaking her self out of the tr ance. The hair s on her neck stood
on end. She felt as though ther e was someone behind her. Watching.
Lily dr ew a deep br eath, tr ying to r egain her composur e and dispel the eer ie
thoughts. She fought the ur ge to look behind her befor e shutting the book. As she
gently placed it back into the cabinet, the book?s colour deepened again. And she
was sur e the gold leafing had spr ead fur ther acr oss the cover , towar ds her hand.
Lily let go of the book, pulling her hand away. Feeling a little uneasy, she closed
the glass cabinet.
In the r eflection of the glass was the figur e. Again.
Only this time, Lily was cer tain it wasn?t a tr ick of the light.
The figur e moved closer to Lily. She tr ied to look back at the book, to ignor e the
figur e in the hopes that it w ould per haps just go away. But it was in vain.
Deathly pale in colour , the figur e was cover ed in a long, tatter ed r obe that fell to
the floor. The stor e had once again gone silent as the thing slow ly r eached out a
w hite hand and extended its gnar led finger s towar ds Lily?s shoulder -
Lily w hipped her head back ar ound, fr ozen to the spot. Nothing. The silence
smother ed the stor e like a blanket, as Lily shiver ed. It suddenly felt aw fully cold.
Lily slapped her self out of it and decided she w ould continue to or ganise the
22

books in the fr ont of the bookstor e in an attempt to take her mind off w hatever that
thing was.
#
For the next hour or so, the shop saw zer o customer s. Lily tr ied her har dest to
keep her self busy. She r ear r anged a ser ies of books thr ee or four times. She cleaned
and r e-cleaned behind the counter. Anything to take her mind off the pale, r obed
figur e in the glass.
But Lily kept finding her self star ing thr ough the black no entr y door at the book.
At one point, she found her self in the door way, leaning out a hand towar ds the
cabinet. Shaking, Lily pulled her ar m in and shut her eyes to avoid looking in the
glass r eflection, befor e scur r ying backwar ds into the shop.
In an attempt to collect her self, Lily decided to get some fr esh air and clear her
head.
Though, w hen she tr ied to leave, she found the fr ont door w ouldn?t budge and
ended up almost shaking it off its hinges befor e catching her self.
After a moment of deep br eathing, Lily laughed at her par anoia. "Get it together ,
Lily. Ther e must just be a knack to opening it. I?ll ask the old man w hen he comes
back w ith the tea."
Lily looked back up the stair case at the glass door.
"That?s a point." Lily thought to her self. "It?ll be stone cold by now."
As Lily w onder ed w hy she hadn?t hear d fr om the old man, she once again noticed
that the shop had fallen deathly quiet. The ominous silence enveloped the place,
and the smell of the backr oom had now bled its way into the stor e. Lily couldn?t
help but glance once again thr ough the black door at the book in the glass cabinet.
It was almost as if the thing was pulsing and glow ing, and the golden ivy had now
bled acr oss most of the cover.
23

As Lily watched the ivy w r ithe, she suddenly felt her self walking towar ds the
cabinet. Tr y as she might, she couldn?t fight it. Her feet had a mind of their ow n. As
she appr oached to the cabinet, her r eflection became clear and the ghostly figur e
once again appear ed.
Closer this time, Lily could see exactly just w hat hor r or it was. Ghastly feet fell out
the bottom of the r obe as the thing glided along the floor towar ds her. Its face was
contor ted in a w ide gr in and its eyes, or w her e its eyes should have been, sat a pair
of glassy pools of black liquid. It r eached out a contor ted finger and delicately
pointed dir ectly at Lily?s hear t.
Lily didn?t know w her e she found the str ength to r ip her feet fr om the floor and
r un, but r un she did. She bolted backwar ds thr ough the bookstor e, clatter ing into
shelves and hur ling her self acr oss piles of books. She looked back in ter r or and
caught a glimpse of the spectr e in the cabinet, its w ide gr in still stuck in place.
White as a sheet, Lily clamber ed up the stair s to the office. Her hear t sank.
The door. The glass door.
Petr ified, she stood star ing at her r eflection. The thing was on the bottom step. It
cocked its head, star ing at Lily, its gr in gr ow ing w ider.
The thing flexed its long finger s and gr asped the handr ail as it began to ascend.
The stor e was icy cold now and Lily shiver ed, too fr ightened to look away.
Each step felt like an eter nity as the ghoul floated up the stair case, the pools
w her e its eyes should have been star ing thr ough Lily?s soul.
It r aised a bony finger and pointed again.
It climbed. One step. Then another. Finger still pointed at Lily?s hear t.
Edging closer and closer.
Gr inning.
24

Pointing.
Then, a click.
The glass door opened.
The ghoul?s gr in tur ned to a snar l as it spr inted up the stair case to Lily, scr eaming.
Lily clamped her eyes shut and leapt into the old man?s ar ms as an ice-cold br eeze
blasted past her.
The scr eam dissipated into the stor e and suddenly the w hole place became silent
once again.
"Ah, hello, my dear , I see you?ve met my colleague."
Lily fr oze.
She inched one eye open and looked up in ter r or. The man that had caught her
was not the man that had w elcomed her into the stor e ear lier that day. He had deep
pools of black w her e his eyes should have been, and his pur ple suit jacket and
bur gundy tr ouser s w er e now a pale bone colour.
"Didn?t I ask you not to touch the book, Miss Lily?"
The old man?s office was cover ed floor to ceiling in shar ds of br oken glass. Each
one had a var iety of inscr iptions on them, and the spectr e Lily had just managed to
escape fr om was r eflected in ever y shar d on ever y wall. It was star ing thr ough Lily,
its gr in once again spr ead fr om ear to ear.
Lily shook in fear. She didn?t have the ener gy to r ip her self fr om Mister Gr egor y?s
bitter gr ip.
"I apologise for misleading you my dear , but you see my fr iend and I ar e simply
dying to get out of this damned bookstor e and, w ell, you seemed like the per fect
solution. A young w oman, busy investigating the puzzle of the Middleton glass. All I
had to do was tell you not to look at the book, and w hat did you do? Inquisitive
25

young minds can?t r esist a myster y. Don?t you r emember w hen w e w er e like that?"
The pale old man looked into one of the mir r or s at the ghoul, w ho slow ly nodded
back. Dr opping Lily to the gr ound in a tr embling heap, the old man, now as pale as
moonlight, floated into the r oom of glass. He r eached into one of the mir r or s and
pulled out the other spectr e. The cr eak of bones and the scr ape of nails on
chalkboar d accompanied the ghost as it was dr agged back into r eality. Lily cover ed
her ear s, gr imacing at the aw ful sound.
"Thank you, Gr egor y," the spectr e w hisper ed, its gr in still unmoving. "And thank
you, Miss Lily, you have been invaluable to us."
The tw o ghosts dr ifted past Lily, still in a heap on the floor , and floated dow n the
stair case. With each step, the ghosts r egained colour in their faces. The spectr e?s
feet cr acked and contor ted as they w er e for ced back into shape. Lily just managed
to catch a glimpse of Mister Gr egor y smiling at her as he helped his colleague leave
the stor e.
Lily lay ther e a w hile, too afr aid to move. After w hat seemed like an eter nity, she
slow ly cr aw led to the stair case, still tr embling.
Fumbling her hands onto the bannister , Lily shuffled dow n the stair case, finally
r eaching the fr ont door.
She tw isted the door knob. Nothing.
She tw isted again. Yanked it. Har der and har der. She slammed her fists on the
door , scr eaming for help, befor e sliding dow n in a heap, sobbing.
Thr ough her tear s, Lily glanced at her r eflection in the w indow of the door. She
was sur e her clothes w er e looking paler than befor e.
26

About the author
When he isn?t at the beach on the South Coast, Stef is busy writing short stories,
film reviews, stage-plays and screen-plays. He is currently working with a youth
theatre improv-group and is always trying to find new ways to get involved in local
art projects, from independent short films to amateur stage plays. After all, some
of the greatest art is forged in the fires of micro-budgets, barebones production
and scary campfire tales.
27

T hey Walk Among U s
by Jane Collins
They Walk Among Us was inspired by the many walks I have taken along
the beautiful Suffolk coastline, the setting for some of M.R. James?s
wonderful stories, and a rich source of local folklore. Here, when the
mist rolls in, day-to-day reality slips away and the supernatural comes
to life.
The l i ght s of t he tow n t hat gl owed i n haught y def i ance of t he dar k ness wer e
now behi nd t hem . Winds, fir st funnelled thr ough the nar r ow str eets of Aldebur gh,
sw ir led about them unleashed. Uptur ning the collar s of their coats to the biting
squall that had tur ned the Suffolk coast into an outpost of Siber ia, they felt for one
another ?s hands. Hair blew acr oss their faces like finger s, obscur ing their view , but
they knew their jour ney of old. Leaving the war mth of the Chr istmas lights behind
them, they made their way along the shingle towar ds the shadow y outline of
Thor peness in the distance.
They walked in silence. Their s was a union of longevity and the w hip of the w ind
made w or ds unwanted. Tr aver sing steep pebble banks, they moved towar ds the
water ?s edge, keen to watch the tur n of the sea w hilst a fitful moonlight still gave
them the chance. Her e, the lee of the shor e gave shelter fr om the w ind; they stalled,
listening as the tide sucked the pebbles, r ooted by the hypnotic dr aw -and-pull of the
sea, w hich this night claw ed desper ately at the shor e. He pulled her towar ds him, as
he had done countless times befor e, a pr otective, loving instinct guiding her fr om a
wave w hich had outstr ipped the other s, sur f seeking feet. His actions saved the boot
only for a moment, w hen another wave lapped, r eaching to dr ag it fr om her. They
lost their footing, tumbling onto the stones. They lay, bodies pr essed w her e they
28

had fallen. One boot sopping w et.
What?s that? A catch of br eath.
In the distance, to the nor th, a mist had obscur ed the familiar shapes and sounds
of the bay. Thor peness had all but disappear ed; sea and sky now one. Each
instinctively pr essed their hand tighter into the other ?s. Bodies shifted inwar ds.
Ancient folktales in these par ts pr oclaimed a sea fr et a por tent of the unw elcome,
said to come befor e sightings of Black Shuck at Blythbur gh and w hen the lovesick
sailor w ho haunted w ild str etches of Suffolk coastline made his sojour n in sear ch of
a lost love. They had always laughed at those w ho r efused to under take this walk
except in br oad daylight but tonight, her e in almost total dar kness w ith only the
faint luminosity of the sur f, each had to w ilfully counter the doubt that enter ed
their minds. Their gr ip on one another steeled as they continued on their way.
Then they hear d it. The sound of a single chur ch bell car r ied on the air. Their
faces tur ned to one another , mir r or ing disquiet. These w er e not the bells of
Chr istmas Eve; the ghostly peal seemed to them to r esound fr om the waves, like the
knell for the w r etched souls of Dunw ich or a war ning to unwar y mar iner s. He
looked to tur n back, to r etr ace their steps acr oss the beach, back to the tow n, but
the str ength of her gr ip for estalled him. We have to go on. We always go.
Fr om the mist, the shape of tw o figur es emer ged. Each felt a momentar y jolt of
r elief for the company of other s. Tr ajector ies r eflected, they pr epar ed a season?s
gr eeting, but as they near ed, their counter par ts?footsteps fell in w ith the r hythm of
the bell, giving the impr ession of a spectr al wake and the dampened dr ead r ose
once again. Their ow n footsteps fr oze.
The mer est slice of moonlight shone, cutting thr ough the mist, a shar d
illuminating the w r etched appear ance of their company. Clothes, the w ell-heeled
fashion of another time, their hair likew ise, it was the look on their faces that so
29

ar r ested. The man: his eyes unnatur ally w ide and mouth fr igid. The w oman: face
blanched, blank as wax. And the bell continued its funer eal chime. They clutched
each other ?s hands, the air leaving their lungs as if stolen by the sea. An icy water
chill r an thr ough them. The other s opened their mouths as if to speak. Come on.
She pulled at his ar m. They r an, or r ather stagger ed, sliding and stalling on the
steep shingled incline, desper ate to r each the r oad. This way and that. Disor iented
and desper ate. And all the time, the mist r olled in mor e heavily behind them.
#
A gladdening glow appear ed ahead and they caught the bitter sw eet tang of
w oodsmoke. A congr egation of voices tr avelled, spir its high. In the near distance, a
chain of small bonfir es illuminated Aldebur gh beach thr ough the mist, like
beacons. They looked at one another. Back to the beginning. Fear , that had clung so
tightly to them for so long, began to r elax its gr ip. Moving quickly, they
cr iss-cr ossed fr om gr oup to gr oup, eager to tell their tale, but the r eveller s car r ied
on r evelling, w ine and wassail making them oblivious to all but their immediate
company. They passed unnoticed. A little way off, closer to the shor e, a splinter
gr oup, seated on w ood and uptur ned fishing cr ates ar ound a fir e, belted out a car ol.
To save us all from Satan?s pow?r,
when we were gone astray?
They made a tight-knit cir cle, their ar ms linked for war mth and pr otection.
Oh tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy,­­
Backs tur ned to the dar k in a supr emacy of shadow , the fir elight danced over
happy faces. The ur ge to tr espass futile, they hover ed a little way off, outside the
or bit of war mth, biding their time, watching for a lull.
30

Oh, tidings of comfort and joy.
The car olling r eached an untidy r allentando. Still, they watched. Their bodies
pr essed together against the night?s chill.
Singing tur ning seamlessly to stor ytelling: the or ator , offer ed dr ama by the
flames, was putting on a per for mance, his cloak sw ir ling about him as he
tr anspor ted his audience into his nar r ative. His voice shipped on the night?s chill.
?Let me tell you the tale of the lost lover s of Aldebur gh, doomed for ever to walk
these par ts on Chr istmas Eve. ?They looked at one another , r ealisation daw ning.
Her hand squeezed his. ?For get Black Shuck, the sight of these lover s w ill haunt you
to your ver y mar r ow. Ever y year , this ver y night, tis said they walk these par ts.
Aldebur gh bor n and br ed, one Chr istmas Eve, they made their way fr om home and
w er e never seen alive again. Young lover s, some as say they w er e destined to die so
as to stay in love for ever.
?Tis believed that they dr ow ned, near this ver y spot. A boot, an ominous mar ker
of their passing. For you see, that night, the mist r olled in fr om the east cover ing the
coast, and w her e shingle stopped and the sea star ted, none could say. All that lived
thr ough it knew those conditions w er e tr eacher ous, but they?d alr eady set out. And
w hen folk tr ied to find them, in pair s for safety, not one said as they expected to
find them alive." Fr om out of his cloak he pr oduced a small bell. ?Imagine their
ter r or ,? he continued, r inging it once, ?out ther e in the night, the water enveloping
their senses. The bell beckoning for their souls.? He paused to allow the effect of his
w or ds, silence but for tw o mor e r ings. ?Them that?ve seen ?em can?t for get the look
of their faces; her s as w hite as the snow that falls, his as ter r ible as sin. ?Tis said
they ar e dr aw n towar ds fir es, hoping to ease the deathly chill that clings to them.
Pr ?aps they ar e among us now. ?Heads tur ned w ithin the cir cle, suspicions r aised
then cr ushed by a r ipple of ner vous laughter. ?But I?m getting ahead of myself. Let
me tell you fr om the ver y beginning? ?
31

His voice was dr ow ned out by a sudden shouting.
?Help. Please. Help us.?
She looked at him. He at her. A couple w er e pushing their way thr ough the cr ow d.
?Please. Help us. They?r e coming. They?r e coming this way. Please. Please. Let us
thr ough.?
The cir cle opened to let in the new comer s, r efor ming immediately behind them,
swallow ing their fr ight. Minutes passed in a cacophony of competing questions and
answ er s. They looked on, bar r ed fr om entr y. Suddenly, their faces caught in the
glow of the fir e. Her s, bleached, his fixed, both in ter r or.
She looked at him. He at her. Finger s r eaching for one another ?s, they edged away,
backing dow n the beach. The cold sea inched its way towar ds them, feeling for
their boots. Moments later , the stor yteller , eager for the limelight once mor e, loudly
r esumed his nar r ative.
?The lights of the tow n that glow ed in haughty defiance of the dar kness w er e
now behind them? ?
About the author
Presently studying for an M.A in Creative Writing at YSJ(and juggling English
teaching and Casual Academic work). I am just setting out on my authorial
journey, taking my three boys, my cat Sylvie and my love of M.R. James along for
the ride.
32

33

T he House in Stepney Green
by Mark Lynch
The house in Stepney Green is a real house, and like no other. I used to
pass it by when I was young and wonder who lived there and what
history lay behind its gates. It stuck with me. I?ll let you decide which
house it is?
It stood behi nd a for t r ess of t r ees, bushes and dense hedges, shr oudi ng i t i n
dar k ness. All except for one single str eetlamp shining a dim light on the pathway
leading to the fr ont door. Of cour se, the house and fr ont door stood behind the
bushes so could only r eally be seen if you w er e to peek thr ough the shr ubs cover ing
the fr ont gate; w hich I did on many occasions w hile passing by. Neither I, nor
anyone else that I knew of, had ever seen a living soul leave or enter the house
pr eviously and yet, ther e always seemed to be a single light shining dimly in one of
the thir d-floor w indow s.
Having gr ow n up in Tow er Hamlets, I?d always been fascinated w ith all the old
houses and their histor y. Always questioning w hat might be going on behind the
closed door s of these illustr ious buildings. For me, ever y home car r ies the
happiness, har dships and achievements of the pr evious families. In my mind, this
didn't necessar ily mean that a place was haunted; just that the pr emises w ould still
hold the aur as in the air.
I was an only child and over the year s I developed a cur ious imagination ? a sense
of needing some slight adventur e in my life ? to make up for not having a sibling to
conver se w ith. Now that I was attending the Queen Mar y Univer sity on the Mile
End Road, w hich was just a stone's thr ow away fr om the myster ious house,
34

I got to see her mor e and mor e, w hich simply spar ked my cur iosity and
imagination fur ther.
Sometime later , I found out his name; he being the ow ner of the house that is. His
name was Henr y Chilter n and he was a tall, br oad-shoulder ed man, r ough ar ound
the face w ith chiselled featur es. Ar ound the age of for ty-five, I believe.
Now I know you'r e thinking: How did we get to this part? Well, I'll tell you. While
studying at the univer sity, a job opening came up in the local new spaper , the East
London Press, for a housekeeper in Stepney Manor. I knew it was the same house,
as this was the only house of its pr odigious natur e in the ar ea. My fr iends at
univer sity called me mad ? said I'd be lucky if I ever got out of the house alive,
consider ing all the old stor ies sur r ounding it. They mocked, but their subsequent
quietness r eeked of genuine concer n.
When fir st ar r iving at the house, I was even mor e aw estr uck at the sheer beauty
of the ar chitectur e. I delicately tr od the black-and-w hite tiled path leading to the
door. Being on the inside was differ ent, almost eer ie.
The fr ont door opened w ith a lar ge clunk and cr eak. He addr essed me by my full
name.
"Rose. Rose Emer son, I believe?"
"Yes, sir." I said.
"Please, come in. My name is Henr y Chilter n."
"Nice to meet you, Mr Chilter n."
"No, please, call me Henr y. Come, I'll show you to your quar ter s -"
"Quar ter s, Sir ? - I mean, Mr Chilter n." I said, taken aback.
35

A half smile fr om Henr y indicated that he knew I w ould never call him by his fir st
name.
"Yes, Rose. This is a r esident post. You'll stay her e w hile you w or k her e."
I didn't r eply. Simply nodded timidly and smiled.
The fir st night I stayed ther e it was dar k and quiet. Soft r ain patter ed on the
w indow s. I was situated on the top floor , w ith gr eat view s over the busy Mile End
Road. My r oom had one w indow and a w r iting desk in fr ont of it, w her e I placed
my diar y and pen.
After settling in, I tr ied to sleep, but couldn't. Betw een the r ain hitting the
w indow s and the sound of a low scr atching noise, I was too ir r itated to dr ift off. My
imagination r an w ild and my mind began to w onder about all the other r ooms in
the vast house; and now that I'd seen mine, I felt implor ed to explor e the r est.
Fir st, I took a look in some of the r ooms on my floor but they all looked the same
as mine. Consider ing the size of the r ooms and the types of w indow s they had, I do
believe that at some point the house must have had plenty mor e ser vants to
manage the upkeep. Now it was just me ? a scar y thought r eally.
I then descended the old w ooden cr eaky stair s cautiously to the second floor. This
is w her e Henr y slept. I decided to go in the opposite dir ection of his bedr oom to the
other end of the hall.
One of the r ooms I enter ed was untouched and stunningly beautiful. A four -poster
bed was dr aped in deep pur ple silks, fit for r oyalty. Por tr aits cover ed the walls
depicting families, soldier s and w ealthy mer chants fr om w hat I believed to be the
18th-centur y. A golden dr essing table sat by the w indow , over looking a pitch-black
gar den. I was in aw e -
36

"What ar e you doing, Rose?" Henr y said.
"I was - just - I'm sor r y, Mr. Chilter n, I -"
"It w ould be best for you to stay away fr om this r oom, okay, Rose?"
"Yes, of cour se, Mr. Chilter n," I said as I left, and he shut the door abr uptly
behind me.
And so, I stayed away fr om then on. Cleaning ever y r oom in the house, except that
one.
One par ticular night I was w r iting a letter to my par ents. I stopped to look out of
the w indow , gather ing my thoughts, w hen suddenly I spotted a gr oup of people at
the gar den gate looking str aight back up at me. It was my univer sity fr iends. I
jumped up and waved to them. They didn't r espond. They star ed, conver sed, but
didn?t r espond. How could they not see me? I thought. I was r ight ther e, waving
pr ofusely.
Refusing to not be hear d, I opened the w indow w ith gr eat effor t, to a gush of fr esh
air and the heavy noise of the main r oad. I shouted. No r eply. I waved and shouted
louder. Still, no r eply. My last shout like a dying piano note. And then it star ted to
r ain. The w eather made my fr iends shr iek and laugh befor e they left and
disappear ed into the distance. Distr aught, I closed the w indow , blew out my candle
and w ent to sleep.
The next time I was at univer sity I spoke to my fr iends, Sar ah, Mar y and Agnes,
asking them w hy they did not r espond to my calls fr om the w indow.
"Oh, w e saw you, Rose, and it was you w ho didn't r espond to us," Agnes said.
"But I was calling out to you. Fir st, I waved, and then I opened the w indow to-?
"Rose, ser iously, w e watched you the w hole time,? Mar y said. ?You sat by the
w indow and didn't look up once to r eceive us. We thought it r ather r ude,
37

consider ing w e ar e supposed to be your fr iends."
"It's ever since you star ted w or king in that old house. Ther e's something
differ ent about you." Sar ah added.
"But - " I said.
?Come on. Let?s go,? Mar y inter jected.
I sighed. It was too late. My fr iends w er e gone. Lectur e books in hand, and dow n
the cor r idor.
That evening, at sunset, I r an the length of Mile End Road, cr ying. I cr ied and r an
until my eyes dr ied out.
I eventually made it back to the house. The house w hich time had for gotten; the
old house w ith its shr ubs and over gr ow th pr otecting it fr om the moder n, outside
w or ld.
Wiping the r est of the tear s fr om my face, I slow ly looked up, to the w indow
w her e I sat each night. And then I saw it. A w oman sitting in my place. Her head
dow n w ith a flicker ing light beside her. I was fr eaked out. I took a step back w hen
suddenly she looked up, str aight at me. I thought I was seeing things ? so r ubbed
my eyes thor oughly ? but the same figur e sat ther e in the w indow , just star ing.
Pulling myself together , I gr abbed the key fr om my bag and hur r iedly enter ed the
house. I r an up the stair s as fast as I could to the thir d floor ; but once I had r eached
it, I slow ed, r ealising I didn't quite know w hat I might encounter upon enter ing the
r oom. Shiver s w ent dow n my spine, the hair s stood up on my neck as I r eached the
bedr oom door. I took a deep br eath befor e tw isting the door handle and opening.
Bit-by-bit, mor e of the r oom became visible. A sudden sur ge of confidence ar ose
and I thr ew open the door to r eveal ? nothing. No one was ther e. A dar k empty
r oom w ith no light. Just a bed, chair , suitcase and table by the w indow.
38

After a w hile, I began to calm dow n. I still have to sleep in this room, I thought. I
tossed and tur ned for a w hile befor e falling into a half-consciousness. That's w hen I
hear d it again ? the same scr atching noise I hear d on my fir st night.
I sober ed quickly, sat up and fixed my gaze ar ound the r oom. My fir st thought
was r ats or mice; w hich w ould be fair to assume in a house as old as this one. Then,
betw een hear ing the noise and guessing w hat it might be, the noise suddenly
stopped.
I thr ew the cover s fr om me ? slightly scar ed, mor e intr igued ? and flung myself
fr om the bed, sear ching the r oom for evidence. The floor was my fir st por t of call,
although I was w ell awar e that if it was r ats or mice they w ould have long
scar per ed by now. Then, the detective in me led me to the w indow.
I shook the w indow fr ame, listening for the noise, convincing myself it must be
that. It had to be. It wasn?t. A feeling of fr ustr ation fell over me. I dr opped my head
and closed my eyes.
When they opened, they fell upon the pages. The blank pages of my diar y. My
diar y was open, but I hadn?t opened it; and the pages w er en't, in fact, blank. Ther e
was something w r itten on them. They r ead:
"I am confined..."
Confined? Who? And to what? I thought.
Without hesitation, I gr abbed the diar y to inspect fur ther. The adr enaline r aced
ar ound my body. I then r ushed out of the r oom, acr oss the hallway and descended
the stair s.
I knew w her e he was. He was ther e ever y night: his study.
The door bur st open to r eveal Mr. Chilter n sitting in half-dar kness, at this desk, a
glass of w hisky in hand. He tur ned br iefly.
39

"Have you been in my r oom?" I said.
Mr. Chilter n was in no r ush to r espond. "Now , w hy w ould I go into your r oom,
Rose?"
Suddenly, w ith my diar y in hand, I felt hesitant, unconfident.
"So ? you haven't seen this befor e?" I said, r aising the diar y.
Mr. Chilter n glanced over , then looked away. He was dr unk.
"Come and join me, eh? Join me, dear Rose. Let us dr ow n our sor r ow s together ,"
he said, tur ning in his chair and tr ying to stand. I stepped back.
"No. No, it?s okay ? I ? I need to get up ear ly tomor r ow -"
"Oh, come on! Just one..." he said, near ly falling to the floor in fr ont of me.
"No, honestly... thanks anyway." I left the r oom and closed the door behind me,
his w hining voice now muffled.
"Your loss," he shouted. "You ungr ateful cow !"
His w or ds hur t. As I walked back up the stair s I hear d Mr Chilter n dr op to the
floor , sounds of cr ashing ar ound him.
As I made my way up the second flight of stair s, a str ange feeling came over me.
The w hole atmospher e in the house changed. The lights on the stair case flicker ed a
few times. I stopped in my tr acks, waiting to see if anything else w ould happen.
Nothing happened for a few moments. I car r ied on up the stair s. When I r eached
the second floor , the lights flicker ed again; but this time they flicker ed in the
hallway leading to the for bidden r oom.
Cur iosity, once again, got the better of me.
I opened the door and flicked the light on. The r oom was still untouched. I quietly
closed the door. Finally, I could explor e.
40

A gr and dr essing table sat over in the cor ner of the r oom. I couldn't r esist going
over and taking a seat. Maybe it was just me, but in the mir r or , I'm sur e my
r eflection looked pr ettier than usual. This was a r eal ladies?r oom ? a r oom I w ould
love to have for myself. Ther e was a musical baller ina box sat on the gr and dr essing
table. I picked it up and opened it. A beautiful tune played fr om it for a few seconds
befor e fading. I closed it, put it back.
A gr and old var nished chest of dr aw er s stood betw een the tw o w indow s. The
dr aw er s w er e stiff. Once opened, all I could see w er e old clothes, but under neath
these dusty gar ments, I found a book ? a diar y on closer inspection ? not too
dissimilar to my ow n. It was tied closed. I felt bad at fir st but was too intr igued not
to open it.
Inside, many of the pages had w or ds that you w ould expect to be in most ladies'
pr ivate diar ies; all manner of feelings and gener al gossip. I skipped thr ough the
pages to the back of the diar y. The back page caught my attention. Separ ate fr om
the r est of the diar y it r ead differ ently:
?In recent times I have become depressed. Affected by the person I once loved, in a
way that I cannot express clearly enough, except to say this...
I am confined within...?
I r ecognised these w or ds ? similar to the w or ds in my diar y.
?...these walls, for what seems like an eternity. He was so kind in the beginning.
That kindness slowly turned to control.?
These w er e his deceased w ife?s w or ds.
?I was so grateful to him for letting me stay when I had nowhere else to go ? ever
so grateful. I was surprised that he took such notice of me when in reality I was just
his cleaner.?
I dr opped the book in shock; now r ealising the danger I was in.
41

I never did feel completely comfor table in that house, and so most of my
belongings had stayed in my suitcase, in my r oom, w hich I pr omptly gr abbed
befor e tur ning to the bedr oom door ?
"Rose, w her e ar e you going?" Henr y said, standing in the door way.
"I ? I have to leave now. I'm sor r y." I said as I made for the door.
"Please, Rose, you don't have to go?"
"I'm afr aid I do. Now please, get out of my way." I pushed past Henr y into the
hallway. He stumbled, still dr unk.
"It's her , isn't it?" he slur r ed, as I tur ned at the top of the stair s. "She's still her e...
I doubt she'll ever leave. She loved this house. After she passed away-"
"Passed away? Fr om w hat, Henr y?" It was the fir st time I had called him by his
fir st name.
Henr y's attitude changed. He was sombr e, ther e was guilt in his voice.
"Melancholy, mostly. And consumption. The r oom I told you not to go into was
her s ? our s. As you've seen, it's untouched. When the depr ession hit, she w ithdr ew
up her e. Staying in this ver y r oom, in fact. All she did was w r ite all day in her
stupid jour nal - if only she w ould have just listened to me, this -?
That was w hen I r ealised that the w oman I saw in the w indow , that day, was
Henr y's deceased w ife. The lights in the house suddenly jolted on and off, as if
sending a signal. A feeling of fear consumed me. What he did to her, I thought, he
would do to me given the chance. To slowly wrap his controlling, depression-soaked,
tentacles around me -
I descended the stair s as quickly as my legs could manage. It wasn't easy in heels,
car r ying a suitcase. I could hear his dr unken steps behind me. He was shouting my
name w hen he wasn't tr ying to stop falling face-fir st dow n the stair s. I wanted out,
42

as quickly as possible.
On the last set of steps, I tr ipped, tw isting my ankle. My r ight high-heel toppled to
the bottom of the stair s. It hur t, but not enough for me to stop.
"Rose! Rose! Don't you leave me? " Henr y shouted.
Reaching the bottom, I gr abbed my shoe, slipping it on w ith one hand w hile
hopping towar ds the fr ont door w ith the other leg.
I gr appled w ith the door handle. Stiff as always-
"Don't do it..." Henr y said. I tur ned. He was at the bottom step. God know s how
he r eached me that quick.
My expr ession sw itched fr om sheer anguish, to pity, as I looked him str aight in
the eye. Then my deter mination kicked in all at once. I shr ieked as I gave the door
handle one almighty tw ist w ith both hands; it opened. A flood of cold fr esh air and
noise fr om the main r oad hit me squar e in the face ? fr eedom.
I pulled the door w ide open, tur ned and said, "Goodbye, Henr y."
My heels w er e clicking the floor tiles below me as I r an for the fr ont gate and
main r oad. I opened the gate and stepped out onto the pavement. Once ther e, I
consciously slow ed dow n, took a deep br eath, and r ever ted to sane human
behaviour to avoid attention. I looked both ways and tur ned r ight dow n the moonlit
r oad.
A shor t distance away fr om the house, I tur ned and looked up at the w indow. She
was ther e again, head dow n, w r iting. Then her head r ose, slow ly. This time I didn?t
feel scar ed. She looked str aight at me, for w hat felt like an eter nity, befor e fading
away, together w ith the light in the r oom.
I walked. And walked. And walked, cr ossing the busy main r oad, tur ning into the
cobble-stoned Hayfield Passage. Away fr om the house.
43

I sw or e to never tr eat cur iosity in the same way, ever again.
About the author
I grew up in Tower Hamlets, East London and have been interested in storytelling
for as far back as I can remember. I?ve done brief stints in amateur acting, having
once played Bill Sykes and taken some acting classes Central London.
The first time I was introduced to the three-act structure was in school. We?d write
short stories at least three times a week. Looking back, I?m extremely grateful to
have been allowed to do this. I was around nine years of age when I first tried to
get one of my short stories published. Ironically, it was a short ghost story. I took
it to the local newspaper and they wrote back graciously declining, but with a note
encouraging me to carry on ? my first piece of feedback.
Fast forward a few years and I?ve since written a few spec screenplays for TV and
film, as well as a few more short stories, and I?m currently working on a novella
and a novel. I?ll let you know when they are finished.
44

L onely this Christmas
by Robert Edgar
This story materialised following the annual blast of the 1970s via a Top of the Pops
special. With adult eyes there is something intrinsically and mesmerizingly uncanny
about the aesthetic of glam rock; the warm and familiar past becoming an
unsettling place. That, and Aidan Moffat?s haunting 2018 rendition of Lonely This
Christmas, led me to this.
A shar p spi k e of bi l e r ose i n hi s t hr oat as a bead of sweat edged i t s ways
dow n hi s l ower back and soak ed i nto t he wai st band of hi s t r ouser s. His anger
at the unseasonably mild w eather dispelled the bur ning nausea. Any concer n he
may have felt about climate change was entir ely due to how it affected his vision of
the festive season. Hur r ying ar ound the tow n centr e this late on Chr istmas Eve was
bad enough w ithout him feeling unsettled by an inappr opr iate aesthetic. He?d been
dr eaming of a w hite Chr istmas for the last for ty year s and w ith temper atur es r ising
ther e was little chance of it happening now. His r esentment at this was nothing
compar ed to that he felt about shopping at this hour. If he had insisted on being
solely in char ge of their planning, as usual, then ever ything w ould have been
completed by now and they w ould be settling dow n as a family to listen to Car ols
fr om Kings befor e heading out for their year ly visit to chur ch. Despite his deep
fr ustr ation he mused br iefly on how the city centr e looked differ ent at night, not
being able to r ecall visiting this r ow of Geor gian shops befor e. His eyes landed on
the display in a shop w indow , the image a soothing balm. An elegant display of
glass baubles, Ger man Chr istmas far e and yuletide Victor iana took his attention
fully, all other ir r itations dispelled instantly fr om his mind. He patted his chest
pocket w ith his r ight hand, feeling for the extensive shopping list he had been
45

given, simultaneously hefting the plastic bags in his left, positively assessing his
success. His gaze settled on a slim and delicate glass pink and silver tr ee topper.
The desir e to r etur n home to implement the festive plan was sw iftly over taken by
his attr action to the object. Natur ally, a por tentous tr ee had alr eady taken pr ide of
place in the bay w indow of his lar ge Victor ian home and this w ould sit atop, a
per fect r eplacement for the shoddy cr ayon and cr epe paper star fashioned by one
of his childr en.
It is a w ell-know n ploy engaged by estate agents to ask a pr oper ty view er w her e
they w ould put their Chr istmas tr ee, invoking sentimental memor ies, the happy
family huddled together in the deep mid-w inter. Estate agents had no need to pull
such tr icks on him; he had pictur ed a tr ee and then had found a house to go ar ound
it. The four th move in ten year s, each house gr ander , each mor e fitting to the cover
of a Chr istmas car d. Ther e had been a w hir lw ind of activity since the family had
taken occupancy; the unpacking, decor ating, choosing the r ight fur nitur e and
r enovating the fir eplace. His tir ed family had sat back and watched as he levelled
the tr ee in its pot, br icks being car efully positioned to hold it in place.
Remonstr ated into action, his childr en handed him the decor ations one-by-one,
acting on clear ly pr ovided instr uction, r emoving each glass bauble fr om layer s of
tissue paper and car efully attaching a w ir e tr ee hanger. He had lifted the youngest
of the tw o high to put the star on top, the child w r iggling w ith discomfor t at being
gr ipped tightly in his hands, being now too heavy to lift. He felt the w eight and
str uggling of the child keenly, but this was tr adition and tr adition was w hat
Chr istmas was all about.
The shiny tr ee topper , glinting seductively at him fr om behind the w indow of the
shop r eeked of tr adition; he w ould put it on the tr ee himself later that night. His
family w ould be able to enjoy it in the mor ning. The per fect Chr istmas. Defying the
w eather , he w r apped his scar f tightly ar ound his neck and enter ed the shop, the
46

six-panelled Geor gian black gloss door cr eaking on its hinges and a bell tinkling to
her ald his ar r ival. This was w hat Chr istmas shopping was supposed to be like. He
squeezed his finger s against his hands on noticing the electr ic fair y lights ar ound
the edge of the shop?s counter. Their inauthenticity and the fact that they w er e on
his tr ee at home was a sour ce of mild ir r itation, but he had been per suaded by his
w ife that they w er e necessar y and that his childr en wanted them and he was
w illing to compr omise that much. At the ver y least they w er e the same subtle plain
w hite dots as the lights in the shop. He had watched as his w ife had slow ly
unr avelled them, the w ir e tangled despite them being new ly bought. He let her
place them on the tr ee, deep in the br anches, plugging them in to a cheer fr om their
childr en, befor e he star ted the r eal decor ative w or k. He closed his eyes and
pictur ed the lights glinting on the tr ee in the w indow of his house, for a moment
allow ing himself the thought that per haps they w er en?t such a bad addition after
all.
An assistant appear ed fr om a back r oom of the shop and, on hear ing his choice of
decor ation, congr atulated him on his taste and timing as the shop was about to shut
for the season. He smiled as the assistant commented that it was ?always Chr istmas
her e?and follow ed him thr ough to the r oom in the back. The compliment sat w ell
and it took him a moment to r ealise the differ ent audience intended for this r oom.
A chill hand gr ipped him as his eyes r anged acr oss the plastic baubles, fake w hite
tr ees and shimmer ing, luxur iant str ands of tinsel. He blinked har d against the
gaudy display as if it w er e a hallucination; a phantasm that he could dispel by
closing his eyes and w illing it away, but the br ight lights had bur nt themselves into
his r etina, the outline of the r oom shar p and clear. He shook his head tr ying to
dislodge the tableau, desper ate to make it go. The mor e he scr ew ed his eyes tightly
the mor e the pictur e shar pened. As it came into clear focus, he allow ed it his full
attention, absor bed by a scene long distant in his past.
47

Ther e was his father , kneeling by a small tr ee dr aping thin str ands of silver tinsel
over the tw isted w ir e and gr een acetate br anches. His dad held out a hand towar ds
him, offer ing a shiny bauble fr om an old shoebox. The per spective suddenly shifted
and he saw himself, a young boy smiling at his dad, r eaching out to him, his ar ms
outstr etched. He could feel their hands touching but was jer ked back to the pr esent
as he felt the shop assistant placing the tr ee topper in his hands. The attentive
r etailer gave the impr ession of mild concer n but was given assur ance he was fine,
that all was w ell, that he was over come by the cold outside and the heat of the shop.
He paid and left hur r iedly, the tinkling door bell mar king his exit. He falter ed on the
door step as, for a br ief second, he hear d a faint but distantly familiar r asping voice
loudly announcing that it was Chr istmas. The exper ience had so affected him that
his only thought was to r est for a w hile and he looked ar ound, the line of small
shops on either side sw itching their lights off in sequence, funnelling him towar ds a
building at the end of the str eet. He hur r ied towar ds it suddenly keen to shelter
fr om the chill air that had ar r ived w ith nightfall.
He was so distr acted that he failed to notice the oddity of the flat-r oofed pub until
he was upon it. He paused, star ing at the br ight pink car dboar d sign in the w indow
announcing the Chr istmas Eve star tur n and pr omising a fr ee buffet and r evelr y.
His hand gr ipped the painted scaffold tube handr ail that led to the door way. He
paused and br eathed deep, taking in the distantly familiar odour of stale beer and
cigar ettes; he felt a war m glow somew her e deep in his chest and pushed open the
door. It was as he imagined it w ould be. A lar ge over -lit r oom, br ow n chipped
For mica tables and a small stage w ith a fr ayed and taped glitter y cur tain behind. A
handful of lone dr inker s sat at individual tables, pints of flat br ow n beer war ming
in fr ont of them. He or der ed a dr ink and a packet of peanuts, w hich the bar man
plucked fr om a sheet of car dboar d behind the bar , fur ther compr omising a smiling
young lady?s modesty. He took his place on a shiny vinyl cor ner bench, placing his
48

br ow n beer in fr ont of him next to a lar ge plastic ashtr ay pr omoting a
long-depar ted br ew er y. Collecting himself he looked ar ound, impr essed w ith the
authenticity of the design; this was bound to appeal to people of a cer tain age
looking for nostalgia or hip young things seeking a new tr end to follow. The
punter s star ing at their beer didn?t look like they w er e enjoying the r etr o
exper ience, but no doubt their mood w ould pick up later.
He watched as the bar man wander ed to a teak encased television set high up on a
plyw ood shelf. Balancing on a chair he r eached up to tw ist the volume contr ol and
change the channel. As he clicked a button the images moved thr ough a couple of
ear ly evening television pr ogr ammes befor e settling on a seasonal music show. His
eyes landed on the snow -w hite bear d and bobble hat of a singer shouting about the
bells r inging out for Chr istmas. He began sear ching the dar k r ecesses of his
memor y for the name of the band as if he w er e hur r ying to answ er a question in a
pub quiz. The name suddenly popped into his head and he shouted ?Wizzar d?to the
empty table, his eyes r etur ning to the television scr een in tr iumph, only now he
was met w ith the sight of four men in w hite suits sitting close together as fake snow
was pour ed over them. Looking up at the bar man he mouthed the name of the
band; ?Mud?. The bar man looked back at him silently. The singer gr inned out
pleasantly fr om the television scr een. He had a ventr iloquist?s dummy on his knee,
making light of an other w ise tr agic song, telling the assembled car ouser s and all
those at home how lonely he w ould be this Chr istmas. He r ead the name of the
singer in a br ightly w or ded caption on the scr een; Les Gr ay. Closing his eyes against
the singer ?s attempt at humour , he listened to the w or ds and w ith this an image of
him and his father once again appear ed.
He was sitting near the small deep gr een Chr istmas tr ee, only now it was fully
decor ated, the gaudy colour ed lights casting a magical glow ar ound the r oom. It
was on top of a television set ver y similar to the one in the pub, a light
49

enter tainment pr ogr amme played the same music, only the per for mer s w er e taking
their job mor e ser iously. He looked dow n to see thin and shiny sheets of w r apping
paper acr oss the floor. His father knelt, w r apping pr esents for his mother , telling
him ever ything w ould be okay, that this w ould make it r ight, that this w ould show
her that he car ed. He felt the heat of the gas fir e sear ing into his side and looked up
into his dad?s eyes and saw they w er e br imming w ith tear s. He r eached up and
str oked the side of his father ?s head, his unkempt hair hanging over his ear s. He
looked again, this time into tinted glasses, as his father car r ied on singing about
how lonely he w ould be this Chr istmas, mor phing fur ther into Les Gr ay. He
str ained, tr ying to r etune the image, tr ying desper ately to r emember w hat his
father looked like, w hen he hear d the r asping voice once again, now complete w ith
the pulsing beat that her alded the star t of festivities. His hear t skipped a beat and
he fitfully opened one eye to look at the television set, but he alr eady knew w hat
was about to happen, just as it happened year s ago. The spr ite was upon him, not
fixed behind the thick glass of the television set but standing ther e in fr ont of him,
manifest in flesh, platfor m boots and silver spandex. It looked at him w ith its
buck-toothed gr in set below a high fr inge befor e stomping, dancing, haunting him
as it had done w hen he was a child. The other patr ons car r ied on star ing at their
beer , imper vious to the pr esence that had come amongst them as the entity moved
fr om the stage, making its way inexor ably towar ds him, befor e tur ning and
stamping its platfor m soled boot in time w ith the beat of the music.
Taking advantage of the moment w hen the spir it looked away he gr abbed his bags
and backed out of the building, dar ing not to r un in case the imp noticed him and
follow ed. In the now cold dar kness of the str eet, he star ted to half r un and half
walk his way to the main shopping str eet and safety. As he looked back, the lights in
the pub blinked out; it too was now cold and empty. Taking a deep br eath, he
steadied himself and star ted to move slow ly thr ough the ear ly evening r eveller s.
50

They w er e falling in and out of the fashionable bar s that had taken over fr om the
shops of his youth. He walked slow ly and car efully, like a dr unk tr ying to give the
appear ance of being able to walk in a str aight line. His concentr ation on his gait
had no effect. He battled w ith his ow n r ationality, telling himself over and over that
it wasn?t r eal, but he couldn?t convince himself, stumbling for war d unable to collect
himself. He knew it w ould be ther e again befor e he saw it. It had been the same for
most of his childhood, but he thought he had dispelled it for ever.
As a child and in the lead up to Chr istmas, the figur e w ould appear to him at night
as he huddled in bed, dancing, taunting, getting ever closer each day so by
Chr istmas Eve so he could feel its br eath on his neck. The memor y was star ting to
for m clear ly now , something he had suppr essed, something he had hidden fr om
himself. He could hear the ar guing, he could hear his dad pleading, his mother
yelling, the sound of door s slamming above the sound of the r ecor d player , of Slade
star ting the Chr istmas season; Mer r y Chr istmas ever ybody. He could feel the r ough
blanket scr ape his ear as he pulled it up against the sound of the ar gument below.
He hear d his father pleading for quiet, that their son w ould hear. Then the needle
being put on the r ecor d again, and again, and again. Lying under the cover s,
scr ew ing his eyes tight as the cr y of "It?s Chr istmas" echoed ar ound the house. He
saw himself watching the band on Top of the Pops, focussing on the other w or ldly
figur e of Dave Hill pr ancing ar ound the studio, the audience dancing under the
br ight lights, batting away balloons, smiling. Happy.
He stopped dead at the sound of the gentle gr ating of br oken glass and
r emember ed his r ecent pur chase. In his hur r y to get away his must have caught it
against the wall. It lay ther e br oken. His pause had cost him dear ly and he looked
up again to see the image of Dave Hill in fr ont of him gr inning, his head swaying as
he star ted to dance once again, stomping r ound, clad in silver lur ex, the Super yob
guitar clutched in his fists. He hear d the sound of ?Mer r y Chr istmas, Ever ybody?
51

playing fr om a passing car. As he star ted to r un he r emember ed Chr istmas Eve
fr om year s past, excitedly listening to the sound of a car pulling up outside, waiting
for his dad to come home fr om w or k. He r emember ed his mum sw itching off the
fair y lights, picking him up, str uggling against her fir m gr ip being too big to be
lifted. He r emember ed kicking the tr ee and the glass tr ee topper falling to the floor
br eaking. Most clear ly, he r emember ed his dad r unning after the taxi shouting for
them to stop, shouting for them to wait. Shouting for him. He could see the outline
of his father stopping, bent over , str aining for br eath as the taxi picked up speed.
His dad?s face indistinct against the str eetlamps and ear ly evening gloom.
He r ounded the cor ner of the Victor ian mew s and stumbled towar ds his house,
his chest heaving. He stopped, bent over , str aining for br eath. Pushing the door
handle he found it was locked. Dr opping his bags, he scr abbled in his pockets for
his keys in desper ation, but he alr eady knew w hat he w ould find. He?d seen a taxi
dr iving dow n the str eet, away fr om the house. He?d clear ly seen thr ough the
other w ise w ell-appointed pictur e w indow fr om the str eet. All the lights on the
Chr istmas tr ee had been snuffed out.
About the author
Robert Edgar is a writer and academic based in York. He has published on film,
television, popular music and science fiction. His recent publications include Music,
Memory and Memoir (Bloomsbury, 2018) and Adaptation for Scriptwriters (Bloomsbury,
2019). He is currently developing a collection on weird and eerie children?s television
and literature provisionally titled ?Horrifying Children?and texts on folk horror. Robert is
Associate Professor of Creative Writing, in the York Centre for Writing in the School of
Humanities at York St John University
52

53

L e Casino En Nuages
by Iain Travers
At the top of a mountain in Cambodia is a very grand hotel, in great
disrepair. When I discovered it whilst biking one summer, a large cloud
rose over the mountain and engulfed both the hotel and myself. I
always wondered suspiciously, just what that secretive cloud was trying
to hide.
In i t s day befor e t he war and t he ter r or , i t had been beaut i f ul . Then i t had
been k now n l ocal ly as ?The Bl ack Casi no?. The name had been gained on account
of the lavishly decor ated walls, w hich had been clad in the finest-cr afted black
mar ble, impor ted as the folly of its or iginal ow ner. It had been built at the top of a
mountain that was small enough to dr ive up, yet high enough that it was still
car essed by clouds at its summit. The casino and the hotel that contained it had
been the w himsy of w ealthy Fr ench colonialists-past and held a clear view acr oss
the ver dant jungle canopy str ew n far below.
The Fr ench ar istocr acy and attending bour geoisie liked to gamble. The Black
Casino or ?Le Casino en Nuages?, (?The Casino in the Clouds?) as it was mor e
for mally know n, was built to satisfy their hunger and lust, to slake the thir st of such
desir es.
Once it had been the playr oom of a king, a playgr ound to the idle r ich and then by
later tur ns, an escape r oute to hell, a hospital, a hideout for gangster s, a mausoleum
and finally a near -for gotten cur iosity, slow ly being seduced by the cover ing char ms
of natur e?s encr oachments.
It was to be r emember ed by many of its patr ons as a symbol of the liber ation of
54

youth, in an age w hen class and pow er w er e seen as natur al pr ivileges,
pr e-or dained by accidents of for tune at bir th. They w er e for tunes that did not
always per sist at the tables. At the Black Casino, w hole dynasties had been know n
to r ise and on occasions, quite liter ally, to fall.
Ar ound tw o sides to the exter ior of the casino, w er e balconies that affor ded a
view w hich, (moonlight and clouds per mitting), allow ed a scenic and br eathtaking
view acr oss the fr onds of the for est canopy on the slopes and valleys below the
mountain. The balconies allow ed a degr ee of socialisation, w her e patr ons might
talk, str ike business deals and seduce one another among the heady scent of cigar s
and br andy. Expectation was always hidden among the br eathtaking view s, r ipe
and expectant in the moist war mth of the mountain air.
Some guests used the balconies for other pur poses, as an oppor tunity to take a
br eath of another sor t, to step back fr om adr enaline-r ushed decisions that might
benefit fr om mor e temper ate thought. A man may consider w hether to r etur n to
the tables and attempt to r egain a lost family for tune or to r isk losing mor e in a
pr obably futile attempt at r egaining one.
Some consider ed quietly the imminence of a fr esh life to come, w ith new w on
for tunes, estates and titles. Mor e than a few consider ed the pr ospect of shame and
penur y and could envisage declaiming the new s to distr aught w ives or enr aged
father s. For some of these, the walk to the balcony became the last that they w er e to
take, as the fall of their for tunes became r eflected in a long, silent fall to the for est
below.
The balcony to the r ight became the favour ed spot for such suicides. It had a
shar per , mor e for bidding descent mor e suited to the pur pose. It did not take long
for it to become know n as ?the loser s?balcony?or mor e r obustly as ?the suicide
balcony?. Its counter par t to the left, the ?w inner s?balcony?by tur n became know n
as ?the celebr ation balcony?.
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On each, public pr eening, postur ing or despair could be emphasised. A walk
along the dour suicide balcony might elicit the sympathies and patr onage of
fr iends. The simple theatr ical beauty of the balconies mer ely added, r ather than
detr acted fr om the dr amas of the casino.
With no inner unsightliness or debr is caused by the confusion and deaths of
patr ons, a dar k mystique developed w hich enhanced the r eputation of ?The Black
Casino?. In the cocktail bar s and fine houses in the tow ns below , intended tr ips
w ould always contain a bleakly humour ed r efer ence to the possibility of a ?Sw ift
r etur n fr om the Black Casino?, should calculations at its tables go aw r y.
These w er e the hey-days of the casino. When it had enjoyed r ich young cr ow ds as
w ell as a Bohemian r eputation for a cer tain style and elegance in bygone days of
compar ative peace. The Fr ench w er e to leave in time, w hen r umour s of war began,
w ith only mar ginally less haste than some of the less for tunate visitor s to the tables
w ithin. The casino was sold cheaply and sw iftly, though was unable to r etain its
custom, for mer glor y or indeed its pur pose.
As the war and its atr ocities tr uly unfolded, the high gr ound w her e the casino
stood became the shelter of the r etr eating and defeated r ebels. At fir st, its size
allow ed it to be used as a hospital. In time, as the number of r ebels became few er
and few er , it became mer ely a hideout for hunted br igands and bandits as the
peace of the new r egime below became established.
And so, ther e it still stood. Its decadence became w ither ed and dr ained. The
mar ble cladding was str ipped and sold w hile the Casino En Nuages itself melted
slow ly into disr epair , hidden fr om view by cr eeper and cloud. It became
near -for gotten as one age passed into another , into one w her e money was har d
enough fought for , that even those now seen as r ich in the new establishments had
56

neither w ill nor excess enough money to gamble w ith for fun in amounts that
might justify its r estor ation.
And so it was for a long time. It is a cliché too fr equently acknow ledged, that a
man in sear ch of cer tainty need look no fur ther than death or the taxman to find it.
The Black Casino had always, in w hatever state of r epair it stood, held the attention
of both such cer tainties. In the end, it was the taxman r ather than death that was to
deter mine the beginnings of its r esur r ection.
Char les Denholm stood in the dusty offices that ser ved simultaneously as the tax
office, law yer s and estate agents. Its single appointed official Mr Le?Ap, w ho held all
thr ee posts for the tow n stood befor e him. In his duties, Le?Ap had noted that the
lease for the land upon w hich the casino stood was now expir ing. A sale might
pr ovide the tow n?s coffer s w ith some input by vir tue of sales tax, thr ough the
pr ospect of an impr oved fr eehold. A new influx of tour ism and over seas
investments, at an enhanced r ate, seemed possible once again in a new er
mar ket-based economy should a suitable buyer be found.
His adver ts had been noted by a number of multinationals and cor por ations,
though it was Denholm w ho stood befor e him, mor e w illing to r isk a cavalier
investment fr om his ow n pocket than w er e the notor iously closed pur ses of lar ger
investor s. Denholm was independently successful and intended to r e-develop the
casino as the beginnings of futur e luxur y pr oper ty-ow ner ships, as tour ism and the
economy developed fur ther.
He intended that the Black Casino w ould r ise again. That its temptations w ould
dr aw the cash for hotels. For chains of hotels, shopping complexes and a br anded
dynasty all of his ow n. His vision and dr ive had br ought him eventually to Mr Le?Ap
to make final ar r angements and discuss details that might br ing benefit to each.
?I am 'Lucky' you ar e her e,? Le?Ap said, shaking hands befor e the tw o men
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seated themselves. They sat separ ated by a vintage table, batter ed and clutter ed
w ith sheaves of tor n deeds and paper s. Some w er e tied in pink r ibbons, some
mer ely stained w ith tea.
?Not at all Mr Le?Ap.? Denholm r eplied.? I am lucky too. I believe this is an
investment w e can both pr ofit fr om. Le Casino en Nuages w ill r e-open. It w ill be the
star t of something far , far bigger for both of us.?
?No Mr Denholm. You misunder stand. I am Lucky. Le?Ap...My name, it means
for tune and luck in my language. I am know n as Lucky. It seems ... cor r ect... that a
casino should br ing you Luck. A Lucky deal for us both you might say! People call
me Lucky. I hope w e w ill have much business in the futur e together.?
?I hope so too Mr Le?Ap. I mean Lucky. Ther e ar e a few things I need to discuss
befor e w e move for war d though. I am told ther e may be ?cer tain things?I should
know about the casino befor e I buy??
Lucky allow ed a gener ous smile to spr ead slow ly acr oss his face. It was a smile
w hich may have been mor e r e-assur ing had his eyes not become mor e fixed, as if
small glass shutter s had closed behind the lids.
?If you w ill per mit, Mr Denholm, per haps you need a Le?Ap of faith?? He smiled
at his ow n small joke and continued.?I am a man of business. Not pr one to
super stitions. I have tr avelled w idely. I too am concer ned that you should know a
few facts about the casino. I say facts r ather than stor ies, as you w ill hear many
stor ies of ?The Black Casino?. To my mind, for your pur poses, many of the stor ies
w ill do nothing but good for your , or should I say, our, shar ed ventur e.?
Denholm shifted in his uncomfor table w ooden chair , r e-cr ossing his legs. He
leaned for war d towar d the law yer , tr ying to pr omote intimacy and honesty
betw een them, that might benefit the deal.
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?I know about its name, ?The Black Casino?. It used to be mar bled in black. I
hear d that the bandits stole the mar ble and sold it all. I plan to r eplace it. I have a
good supplier of mar ble. It?s cheap enough that per haps it?s also sour ced by
bandits. The local name doesn?t bother me. I think of it as adver tising of a cer tain
type.? He paused befor e looking mor e closely at Le?Ap and continued.
?I know about the deaths, the ?suicide balcony?up ther e. That doesn?t bother me
either. It just adds a little ... theatr icality to the place. People often leave a casino
penniless and desper ate. It?s not unknow n for people to kill themselves after a bad
night at any casino. It?s just a little mor e immediate up ther e should desper ation
take hold. I think it dar es the bold to tr y their luck. To me, Lucky, that?s exactly
w hat this w hole ventur e is about.?
?All this is tr ue Mr Denholm. I think you ar e r ight. The glamour of a public
flir tation w ith death w ill, in fact always has, pr omoted the casino in a str ange way.?
The law yer r e-positioned himself and dr ew br eath befor e continuing.
?I was mostly concer ned to know if you w er e awar e of the cur se. Of the other
deaths. And of the ghosts. I am hoping these matter s have alr eady come to your
attention? It is impor tant to me that they should if they have not done so alr eady.
I w ould like to discuss them in the way men might do. Not the way far mer s might.
Or dar e I say of my ow n countr ymen and neighbour s, in ways that super stitious
peasants might.?
Denholm uncr ossed his legs and pulled a lar ge Robusto cigar fr om his pocket. He
clipped and lit it as if alr eady r ewar ding himself on the celebr ation balcony far
above them.?I have not hear d of them Mr Le?Ap. Per haps you w ould be so kind??
Le?Ap looked at the Wester n man in fr ont of him. He watched the man?s eyes
thr ough the cigar smoke. Just for a moment they r eminded him of the empty
w indow s of the casino, swathed as they often w er e in clouds at the high peak of the
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imposing mountain. He w onder ed w hat other men might think w hen looking
thr ough either.
?The villager s (and believe me, Denholm, these ar e lar gely ignor ant, stupid men)
w hen they r emember the Black Casino at all, say that it is cur sed. A few men say
they know of this fellow or that w ho has gone up to the abandoned place, per haps
desper ate to for age for any mar ble that so many other eyes may have missed or to
escape justice or an angr y father ?s gun. They say, (as men of a cer tain type often do
w hen pr essed, or w hen full of w hisky), that people do not r etur n and live. Str ictly
speaking, of cour se, it isn?t tr ue. I have been ther e many times myself for one thing
and r etur ned quite intact as you can see. Per haps I am just Lucky. But it does
enable me to advise you w ell about the place.?
Denholm inhaled his cigar thoughtfully then r eleased its smoke in a thick sw ir ling
miasma. He appr eciated the law yer ?s candour and self-r efer ential humour.
?Str angely Lucky, I have hear d only w hisper s and r umour s. I have been given
hints that I should ask you, but nothing beyond that. Nothing substantial.? He
br eathed out again, a hypnotic dr agon?s br eath of fine blue Cuban mist and looked
at the law yer intently.?Smoke and fog Mr Le?Ap? I w ould appr eciate your clar ity.?
?They say that the casino is cur sed by the souls of the dead.? Le?Ap r eplied.?By
the r estless souls of the men w ho killed themselves. By the ones w ho lost all their
money on foolish debts at the tables. They say that the ghosts live in a ter r ible
pur gator y and haunt the casino still. They say that, in fact, the ghosts caused the
death of the bandits w ho lived ther e and that these dead then added to their
number. They say that w ith such a dense number of ghosts, all full of r emor se and
bitter ness, hungr y for r estor ation of their for mer lives and w ealth, that in some
sense they coalesced? Is that your w or d? That they joined together if you w ill and
then somehow seeped into our w or ld at the casino.?
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Denholm appear ed unfazed by Le?Ap?s candid r evelation
?Smoke and fog, Lucky. Tell me...Do you believe the stor ies? You have been
ther e. Do you believe in the ghosts of the Black Casino??
?I believe in ever ything, Denholm. In the village, they say that w hen a per son is
close to death a black cr ow w ill cir cle the house for days on end. Its ter r ible cr ies
her ald death?s appr oach. Per sonally, I think per haps they ar e looking for r ats to eat.
Mostly at the moment Mr Denholm, I believe in good business and making us each
some money. If ther e ar e ghosts, let them haunt. I believe tour ists may like w hat
char acter they may br ing. I cer tainly don?t believe in the ghosts of super stitious
tales. When I have been up the mountain and visited, I saw nothing untowar d that
a few good builder s and few of your for eign dollar s could not make r ight. Pover ty
and war have taken a gr eat deal fr om us, Denholm. Many year s ago, a ver y
w ell-educated Gr eek said that the fir st casualty of war is the tr uth. I sometimes
think he was w r ong; per haps it is education that suffer s fir st. The lack of education
allow s tr uth to become a flexible, inconsistent thing, held in the hands of those
pr ivileged enough to maintain life, an education of their ow n and to w r ite their
ow n tr uths for other s. My countr y and this r egion have had few such luxur ies in
r egar d to education.?
Denholm leaned back to listen to the law yer. He was not an unsympathetic man,
nor an uneducated one. He knew w ell the void that war left behind among people
w hose talents and exper ience mer ited positions of gover nance or instr uction. Her e
at the time of war and ter r or , anyone w ho had ventur ed fr om far m to school had
been among the fir st to die, so that a new r egime may be bor n unclutter ed by the
cor r uptions of education. He listened closely to the w or ds of a man w ho had clear ly
managed to navigate a path thr ough such deadly obstacles. The value of his
par ticular w or ds must ther efor e have been evident to many men far mor e
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danger ous than himself, so that Le?Ap had sur vived against the odds.
?Ther e have been deaths up ther e it is tr ue.? The law yer continued.?Not just the
suicides. But in the same way that I think the suicides themselves may help you, so
too the other deaths have ser ved a pur pose. Stor ies have been allow ed to gr ow that
ser ve a gr eat many people. Dur ing the war and indeed after war ds, let us r emember
that bad men lived ther e. Their ow n inter ests w er e ser ved by maintaining obstacles
to pr event other s appr oaching them. Bad men, Mr Denholm. It w ould not have
been unusual in those times, had one or tw o deaths not been the r esponsibility of
the type of char acter s that lived ther e. You must also r emember that it is isolated on
the mountain. Ther e w er e many deaths w hen it was a hospital. Ther e was disease
and not enough medicine or car e. Ther e is not an easy way to descr ibe it my fr iend,
but locally since the war , ther e was also the ?Infection Muer tas?. Per haps that is the
basis of belief in the cur se.?
??Infection Muer tas?? A plague of some sor t??
?Pr ecisely. One that is no longer ther e, mind you. But a par ticular ly nasty one all
the same. One w hose r eputation was played up by bandits and war cr iminals, w ho
mur der ed and hid as best they could in hill, cloud and r umour. But no mor e than
that. Thieves, cr iminals and the illnesses of pover ty, these ar e the r eal spectr es up
ther e, Mr Denholm. So despite the misgivings of the super stitious, no ... I believe
ther e is nothing to fear up ther e above and beyond some r ather tedious paper w or k
for both of us.?
Lucky watched Denholm closely, finger ing a few sheets of paper w or k on the desk.
It gave him the air of a man confident, though mildly impatient to pr oceed beyond
the inconvenient embar r assments they had just shar ed.
?A plague though, Lucky? One that may still be ther e? A plague that men
descr ibe as a cur se and live in fear of? Our futur es w ill be tied together if w e
62

pr oceed w ith this ventur e. If ther e is mor e to know , I w ould r ather know now than
to find w e have both been ill-pr epar ed.?
The law yer ponder ed for a few moments, and as if decided in his ow n hear t, he
sighed mildly and looked Denholm squar ely in the eye.
?Per haps not a plague, Mr Denholm, cer tainly not a cur se. An infection. One not
seen for many year s now. The ?Infection Muer tas?caused death to any w ho caught
it. Ther e was no know n cur e. It was caught only by people w ho had been to the
mountain top, and all that is ther e is the casino. It star ted after the war. Per haps
poor hygiene. Too many dead and dying, uncar ed for , up ther e w er e the cause. It
acted sw iftly and was ter r ible to behold. Within a day of r etur ning fr om the casino,
the infected per son w ould simply r ot away. Quite r apidly. Within a matter of hour s.
Open sor es w ould appear and w iden, skin w ould waste and melt fr om bone until
ther e was little to contain the or gans and finally until ther e was nothing left to
cover the bones. It was a ter r ible sight to see. The Infection Muer tas was ver y easy
for people to see as a cur se. City doctor s advised good cleanliness and the bur ning
of the dead. No-one was infected fr om contact and no-one contr acted it w ho did not
go to the mountain. What is cer tain how ever is that many have been ther e since;
myself included, Mr Denholm, and have come back w ithout har m. The illness has
gone. The bandits have gone. It is only oppor tunity that r emains, for the man bold
enough to climb ther e and gr asp it fir st.?
Ther e was no mor e talk of ghosts, bandits or bodies that r otted and died.
Denholm finished his cigar. The law yer talked mor e of contr actor s, schedules, legal
r equir ements and the inevitable costs. The investor mentally tr immed and
r edefined the same costs and deals, r esolving in his ow n mind to pr oceed. The
Black Casino was to be r ebuilt and r e-opened. It was cer tainly a gamble. Denholm
was pr epar ed to bet high.
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When the paper w or k had been completed and r ecr uitment for the w or k finalised,
w or k began sw iftly on the casino. It took sever al hour s for tr ucks to dr ive up the
w inding paths to the top of the mountain. Each mor ning and each evening a small
convoy w or ked its way to the site w ith men and tools to begin w or k for the day.
Initially, the pr oject w ent w ell. The r obust r eality of a good wage packet appear ed
to have a pow er ful effect on r educing fear and super stition locally. Labour was easy
to find fr om the tow ns and far ms near by. Ther e w er e no deaths fr om the r umour ed
cur se, no sightings or talk of ghosts. Wor k w ent w ell. The casino r apidly began to
achieve a sense of gr andeur and pur pose.
It was w hen the cladding came back, dar k mar ble bought fr om Denholm?s cur ious
sour ces that the atmospher e among w or ker s began to change. Nothing was said to
star t w ith. Tr ucks began appear ing w ith few er men until few er tr ucks and even
few er men ar r ived to complete the w or k.
Denholm met w ith the men in the village below that he had char ged w ith pr imar y
tasks, the for emen and the engineer s, in an attempt to r esolve the difficulties. He
had been sur e it w ould have been an issue of money, a pay r ise to ensur e the final
phases w er e completed. He was sur pr ised to find that this was not the cause of his
declining w or kfor ce. To a man, they cited the ghosts. The Black Casino?s r eputation
had r etur ned w ith the cladding. Men had star ted to w or r y, to feel ?something was
w r ong?. They hid, ashamed behind the skir ts of their ner vous w ives?advice, to take
w hat money they had ear ned and r isk no mor e.
Most fr ightening, they r epor ted, w er e the noises. They believed them to be the
cr ies of the dead w hich r ose pitifully w ith intent, fr om the valleys far beneath the
suicide balcony. It was as if those desper ate souls w r ithing in pur gator y below
called to those above. Like a cr ow cir cling a villager ?s house, anticipating a death.
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?Per haps,? they said w hen pr essed, ?The dead had begun a slow climb back up
the mountain to the last scene of a life past lived.?
Denholm was unable to pay them enough to r etur n. He had hear d the cr ies too
w hen inspecting pr ogr ess at the site. Like Lucky Le?Ap, he was not a super stitious
man. He found many r easons other than the pur gator ial wail of lost souls for the
noises he himself could hear.
Ther e w er e far ming accidents, w ild animals and the sound of w ind thr ough the
tr ees that may account for the many str ange noises that w er e to be hear d car r ied
upwar d to an ar ea w ith so many cur ious featur es. The men r emained unconvinced,
never theless, and w ould not r etur n to w or k. Finally, a day ar r ived w hen Denholm
stood alone one mor ning at the site. Not even the sound of an appr oaching tr uck
could be hear d.
It was ear ly mor ning and the clouds below the mountain top gather ed, r ising
fr om the for est until they finally spilt over the pr omontor y. They dr ifted not unlike
a r olling fog, until Denholm, the casino and the mountain top itself w er e encased in
the passing cloud. It was a cur ious and beautiful exper ience to stand inside a cloud,
one of natur e?s hidden magical exper iences. It was scenes and exper iences of this
sor t that had tempted the fir st ow ner s to build r ight her e, w her e such phenomena
might enchant cr ow ds w ith their money, to the spectacle.
It was her e on that day that Denholm fir st saw a ghost. It walked str aight towar d
him and was dr essed in a fine blue jacket, stitched and embr oider ed in the
decor ative manner favour ed by the Fr ench of a bygone age. He was solid and
confident and str ode thr ough the cloud as if usher ed onstage at a lavish tr agedian
play. As if tr anspor ted ther e by a cloud all his ow n, simply to meet at this time and
in this place.
65
65

Other shapes emer ged fr om the cloud. Denholm stood among a lar ge number of
figur es w ear ing clothing of assor ted styles and ages, some tr aditional and some
much finer. They w er e an incongr uous gr oup that had no r eason to be either
together , or in point of fact, to be ther e at all.
The man in blue stood befor e the investor. The gr oup stood silently behind at a
r espectful distance. He extended a smooth hand, w hich pr oved to be w ell
manicur ed and cold to the touch as Denholm shook it tentatively.
?Mr Denholm ...We ar e the dead.?
Denholm was usher ed into his ow n casino, past the planned gaming floor , to a
near ly completed office at the back by the figur e in blue. It was har d not to think of
him as a fellow man r ather than a shade of a man fr om beyond the ear thly r ealm.
They sat together in the lar gely unfur nished office. Denholm was r eminded of his
fir st meeting w ith Lucky.
He consider ed in his ow n mind w hether the law yer may also have had such an
inter view w ith the same ghost at some stage. He w onder ed too w hether the law yer
tr uly held the gr ounded view s that he had pr eviously expr essed on such matter s to
him.
It has been said that a man can r ealise a thing in a single moment, and still lose it
in the long hour s that follow. For Denholm, the sw ift r ealisation that not only did
the dead co-exist in the same w or ld that he did, but that they may r equir e
something of him, became lost in such a way in the time that follow ed. It was lost
among the dr eams held of his futur e empir e, w hich he for esaw as spr inging fr om
the pr ofits of the casino?s success. It was lost in the r oute to this dr eam that the
figur e befor e him began to descr ibe.
?We ar e the dead, Mr Denholm. I believe w e may be able to help you w ith your
hotel. Per haps w e may help our selves at the same time. We have a shar ed aim. We
66

w ish this casino to r e-open and to flour ish. We can help you, Mr Denholm.? The
cr eatur e in the blue coat spoke fluently and dir ectly, w ith a mild Fr ench accent.
The investor was, as he had told Le?Ap, a man gr ounded in business and science.
In the quieter pr actical r ealities of life. Having r eassur ed himself of his ow n
continued mor tality amongst his cur ious new companions, he r esponded.
?You ar e the dead. I am the living unless your pr esence w ith me or your plans
indicate other w ise. But w hat might the dead possibly want fr om the living? Have
you come to inflict some deadly cur se? Do you thr eaten me w ith the ?Infection
Muer tas?Mr...??
?Mr See-and-Kill.? The figur e r esponded gr avely.?Ver y liter ally, I am at your
ser vice. No... We do not come back to cur se you or inflict any ter r ible for eign
illness. I am a for eigner her e myself, Denholm. Why is it that such as w e ar e always
blamed for such ter r ible things? The Spanish w er e her e br iefly. They w er e few in
number and yet people pr oject r esponsibility for this ter r ible local sickness to
them. Sometimes I feel for the for eigner abr oad, don?t you??
The ghost adjusted the cuffs of his aquamar ine jacket and dusted away a few
imaginar y specks of the mountain?s r ed dir t fr om its sleeve.
?I am indeed a for eigner myself. Fr ench, fr om good stock and a time of plenty. I
gambled her e a lot. I lost ever ything one night in a single hand of car ds. Everything,
Mr Denholm. I lost mor e than all my money. I lost an empir e, and as a r esult I lost
my life fr om the balcony you see ther e. It was per haps the last of a ser ies of
ostentatious gestur es I had been pr one to make. In life, I was an impor ter of fine
fabr ics and it was fr om ther e that my nickname ar ose. Do you know much about
the business of fabr ic, Mr Denholm? Per haps you w ill indulge me to tell you a little
in explanation? Blue is always the most difficult colour to pr oduce as a dye for
cloth. It is not a natur ally occur r ing shade, you see. It takes skill and no little
67

expense, par ticular ly for the finer colour s and shades that ar e r ar ely seen in cloth.
To w ear them, (as w ith this par ticular jacket Mr Denholm), it is a mar k of finesse.
Of class, and a sign of no little w ealth. It signifies w hat you may call a cer tain
amount of ?Je sais toutement quoi?. This r ar e and beautiful colour and I became
synonymous. It became the motif by w hich I was know n. By w hich the colour itself
became know n, such was my r enow n at the height of my pomp. A blue of my ow n.
This light, difficult to achieve aquamar ine is know n as cyan. ?The blue that He
w ear s?they called it. ?Cyan qu?il por te?. They nicknamed me in this way ?Cyanquille?
you see? And the name r ather stuck. After my death, and subsequent meeting w ith
this r ather ... dispar ate gr oup, they r ather liked it too. See-and-Kill. It?s a good name
I think they felt, for a man among bandits. Cyanquille, Mr Denholm, fabr ic mogul,
long r etir ed...At your ser vice.?
Denholm sat acr oss fr om Cyanquille and obser ved him. It was his clothing, the
older cut and finer y of a bygone age and class, that mar ked him as differ ent, r ather
than the quietus of his for mer being. Denholm had never befor e spoken w ith the
dead. His initial obser vation was that he found them to be str angely attir ed.
?M?sieu Cyanquille...I am at a loss as to w hat to say. How do you do? Pleased to
meet you? They seem such inadequate gr eetings. Yet I hear your w or ds and am
pleased at them. Salutations. I am pleased you intend me no har m and ver y pleased
that w e have a shar ed pur pose too. I am at a loss, how ever , as to w hat you may
want. Why w ould the dead, indeed, w hy w ould you M?sieu, want me to open the
casino so much again?? Denholm r esponded in the same dir ect manner that
Cyanquille had appr oached him. Fear was not something he focussed on in his
business tr ansactions
?When it comes r ight dow n to it, I am unsur e how you could help. So far all you
appear to have done is to fr ighten away my staff to ensur e I cannot r e-open. This
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said, I am a man of business. So, although this w ould be an unusual ventur e, to say
the least, it w ould not be the fir st str ange alliance or cur ious deal that I have done. I
w ould have this building r e-opened, Cyanquille. You may r est as best you might
upon that intention.?
?I bet you w ould Mr Denholm. I ver y much bet you w ould. Please... Allow me to
clear up a few matter s for you, w hich may be bother some. I have not...We have not
scar ed away your staff. They have left as a r esult of their ow n gr eed and fear. We
have r etur ned, in fact, simply because they left. We ar e ver y committed to your
plans, Mr Denholm. In fact, in the absence of a w or kfor ce, w e ar e her e to be that
w or kfor ce for you. We w ill mix cement. We w ill plaster and car pet, polish shine
and sw eep for you. We w ill do ever ything that needs be done to pr epar e Le Casino
to be opened. Among our number , w e hold gr eat exper ience and no little amount of
valuable skills in such matter s. Then on completion Mr Denholm, w e w ould ask our
wage. It w ill be simply to be allow ed to r emain and to assist you her e. We w ould
like that gr eatly and w e ar e pr epar ed to w or k, as you alr eady have. We w ould ver y
much like to be her e on a...more permanent basis,? the ghost concluded.
?You w ill mix cement for me? And assist me her e? For give me Cyanquille? You
ar e indeed the dead. Can you do such things? Why on ear th...Why in any r ealm in
fact, would you do such things? And w hy Cyanquille? ? Why, if you can mix cement,
w ould you w ish to stay her e? Ar e ther e no families that any of you w ould r etur n to
and build palaces for ??
?The fir st of these points is easy, Denholm. We can do these things. Ver y much
so. We can w or k longer and har der , for none of w hat you w ould call pay. We ar e
committed and do not tir e. We ar e an exemplar y w or kfor ce. It is tr ue that it is a
r ar e occur r ence that w e might be muster ed and motivated for such a pact.
How ever , for this casino Mr Denholm, not in fact for you, w e can do this. We ar e
69

ver y keen to do so.? The ghost looked pained for a moment.
?You ar e the victim, (so many people ar e), of your ow n pr ejudice. Why should
the dead be as the living conceives us to be? We ar e as w e ar e, Denholm. In fact, w e
ar e as you w ill be. And as you ar e now , is not so ver y differ ent to how once w er e
w e. It takes effor t for us to be her e. In time you w ill r ealise the effor t it takes for
you to r emain in this w or ld of your s. For us, it takes effor t mer ely to be. Motivation
and effor t Denholm; good qualities in a w or kfor ce keen to be behind you.?
?But w hat do you want, Cyanquille? What can you want fr om me? Fr om this??
Denholm gestur ed ar ound him at the walls and the unfinished, unfur nished
building ar ound them.
He had not been thr eatened, he felt no fear. His dr eam now dr ove him on, eager
that per haps these most str ange appar itions may yet be allied to his cause.
The meeting that follow ed was not br ief. It was, how ever , ver y clear ly and
familiar ly a business meeting. Almost fr om the outset, Denholm gr asped the
oppor tunity offer ed and under stood the deal that was to be dr iven. A deal that ver y
clear ly might happily ser ve the ambitions of both himself the living, and those of
the dead.
Cyanquille invited sever al other s of his gr oup to join them. Intr oductions w er e
made w hich included the old manager of the casino, w ho had stayed to guar d the
mar ble and had been put to w hat had passed for a sw or d w hen the bandits came.
Ther e w er e bandits too in the gr oup and another w ho claimed to be a doctor.
The medic was full of shame, r egr et and diseases too easily tr ansfer able. He had
slipped away on the suicide balcony w hen money and self-r espect had been
fr itter ed too casually away. Each of them had a stor y, a passion, a r eason to want to
r emain at the casino. To find w hat for many might pass as a good life.
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?What do any of us want Denholm?? Cyanquille had said. ?We want to w or k. We
want happiness and w e want to spend time doing the things w e w ould do. Ther e
ar e not such gr eat differ ences betw een the living and the dead as you might
imagine. Per haps w e become a canvas upon w hich the living may paint the fear s of
their super stitious lives. Per haps in dismissing the dead, the living can feel mor e
alive and less fear ful of the limits of their ow n inevitable demise.? Cyanquille and
the dead had spoken w ith passion and conviction.
Denholm felt smaller and mor e humble than he was w ont to in business usually.
He lear ned mor e about life fr om the dead and mor e about himself in that one night
than in all those that had gone befor e. Their passion fed his passion and his passion
fed his ow n dr eams. His dr eams then dar ed to find for m, almost as easily as a ghost
might, fr om a cloud or a mountain fog.
?People judge us and judge us w r ongly,? Cyanquille had ar gued. ?They seek to
make of us w hat they want. They r ar ely ask w hat you have, Denholm, ?What do w e
want??Ever yw her e, in this land and elsew her e, they find w or ds to tr y and descr ibe
us, as if they may w r ap the w or ds ar ound us and contr ol us in the way a deser t
conjur or might tr ap a genie in a bottle. The w or ds of the living ar e fear ful and
inadequate. We ar e not w hat they w ould call us. We ar e not Easter n ?mer ikonville?,
childish ghosts, nor Amer ican ?polter geists?, angr y adolescent spir its. We ar e simply
the dead. And it is our conjectur e that this should be no bar to w or king har d, and
having a good...how should I put it Mr. Denholm? A good life.?
Denholm had paused for a moment and r eplied in kind.
?I am the living, Cyanquille. Per haps it is our fate to have w or ds that still have
the pow er of life w ithin them. It is a consequence that those w ith pow er , even those
that w ould tr y to use pow er w isely, ar e condemned to misuse it by accident or
design. You do r emind me of descr iptions I have hear d of the dead.
71

For give me. Yet you defy them too. In Japan, they talk of ?the hungr y ghosts?, in
this land they speak of the ?Pr eta Chum Ben?, spir its w ho always hunger , w ho have
an insatiability for something. It is har d not to see it in your eyes. How ever dead
they may be, Cyanquille, they ar e still full of year ning. So, despite my inadequate
w or ds, despite the labels, despite the unusual natur e of our business together...I ask
again, w ith r espect of our differ ing per spectives? What do you r eally want??
The dead moved r estlessly as Denholm pr obed Cyanquille?s motives. The elegant
Fr ench figur e str aightened the br ocade at the immaculate seams of his cuff and
flour ished a fine linen ker chief to affectedly daub his dr y lips. He moved close to
Denholm, his lifeless eyes for ming por tals to the dead, connecting dir ectly to the
hotelier.
?Look at us mor e closely, Denholm. We too have pr ide. For many of us, it was
this pr ide that w ent befor e a r ather ? might w e say, undignified fall.? He glanced
upwar d towar d the balcony to the r ight, in a small gestur e to emphasise his point.
?Per haps pr ide continues to be a w eakness. Yes, Mr Denholm, w e ar e hungr y
ghosts, not unlike the Pr eta Chum Ben. But w e have pr ide. Wor ds seem so
inadequate in descr ibing any of us. We ar e not, as w hat you w ould call ?the Junkilil?
ar e, for ever r avaging the foulest of things to satisfy a physical hunger. No, our
shameful cr aving is her e. We each of us gambled Denholm. Each of us her e. Not the
other s still below , w ho jumped for love or despair , or for those other dead all
ar ound us, unseen by you. We came back because that hunger to gamble was so
str ong. Now that your w or kfor ce has scar ed itself away, the opening of the casino is
thr eatened. We w ould so ver y much like mer ely to be ar ound gambling and the
cur ious taste of it, a taste w hich uniquely nour ishes each of us, r etur ned to you as
w e ar e her e.?
Denholm was finally convinced and came to an under standing w ith the dead.
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They w er e not mer e appar itions but could physically affect the building of the
casino.
They w ould build, r epair and decor ate it. He w ould finance the pr oject and
employ men of gr eater for titude w ho w ould staff it. Men w ho w er e pr epar ed to
over look a few str ange nuances of their peer s and colleagues. The dead w ould
w or k at the r efur bished casino alongside the living and w ith Denholm w ould stay
to over see it.
Ther e was one small concession upon w hich Cyanquille insisted. As a sign of faith
to them, as a way to seal the deal and ensur e that the dead w ould not also become
the unemployed at the completion of building, they insisted upon a token of
assur ance.
?It is unpleasant for only a moment, Mr Denholm. In itself, given the differ ence
in our cur r ent for tunes, per haps it is not unr easonable...?
Cyanquille opened his mouth and coughed a little. A small fly emer ged and flew
for a moment ar ound the head of the azur e ghost befor e settling on his palm. He
took Denholm?s hand and allow ed the fly to settle on the exposed skin on the back
of it. The small black fly seemed blacker than it ought to be, almost metallic in
appear ance. Within a moment, it bur ied itself into the flesh of Denholm?s hand and
disappear ed into the cr imson tunnel of the r aised vein it found ther e.
?Ther e now ! All done, Mr Denholm. He w ill find somew her e to r est and w ill be
of no mor e distur bance to you...Unless, of cour se, you leave befor e our pr oject is
done, or should you fail to employ us w hen the casino opens, assuming our w or k
maintains standar ds, of cour se. Under either of these cir cumstances, how ever , Mr
Denholm, should you br eak our agr eement, my little fr iend w ill find a small vein,
in a ver y impor tant place in your head and w ill mer ely sit ther e until you have
str oke after str oke after str oke and pass away to w hatever fate you might secur e in
our w or ld.?
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Denholm had w illingly agr eed. Cheap labour and cheap staffing w ould mean
incr eased pr ofits. Far fr om shir king the deal, this was his defining moment. One
that he gr asped sw iftly and w illingly. It was his intent to make a killing.
The dead w er e as good as Cyanquille pr omised. They w or ked long and har d. They
needed to take no r est and pr oved to have an ample mix of skill and labour to allow
completion of the w or k. Denholm financed supplies, negotiating for these via a
nominee of Cyanquille, w ho under took efficient tr ansactions w ith Lucky in the
tow ns below , on Denholm?s behalf. Wher e business was concer ned, par ticular ly for
a man of Lucky?s flexibilities, death was no obstacle to good r elations. Men w er e
again w illing to ascend the mountain and w or k in the building at its peak.
Finally, the casino was r eady, staff w er e r ecr uited and tr ained. A suitably gr and
opening was pr epar ed. The die was cast and in a flur r y of car ds and notes, for tunes
again began to be accr ued to the sound of satisfied chips being banked.
The natur al beauty of the casino ensur ed that the balconies w er e once again
filled. Success and failur e at the tables still ensur ed a familiar polar isation in the
dir ection guests w er e to take along them, dictated by the fall of dice, car ds and the
ball of La Roulette.
Weeks tur ned to months and all Denholm had dr eamed of came to pass. Tour ists
sought out the casino. The tow n pr osper ed below and its gr ow ing w ealth tr avelled
back up the mountain, coming to eventual r est in Denholm?s gr ateful coffer s.
Tur nover exceeded expectations; costs w er e far below the most bear ish of
for ecasts, thanks to the alter nate ar r angements secur ed for staff and the labour s of
the dead. The casino had become mor e of a success in this r eincar nation than ever
it had been, even in its fir st.
The hunger that Denholm had for his dr eam, for his empir e, r emained
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undiminished. It spr ang fr om the capacity of the casino to gener ate w ealth for him.
A point was r eached w her e it was time to expand and pr oceed to still gr eater aims
and gr eater pr ofits.
Cyanquille and the dead had fully kept their bar gain. They w or ked w ell and
w or ked har d.No pay other than to fulfil the hunger r equir ing them to be close to
men?s gambling had been needed.
Denholm deter mined that the next phase was to begin. A small complex of
high-class lodgings, the beginnings of a chain of pr oper ties and hotels, w ould be
built low er dow n the mountain. It w ould be a staging post for his dr eams and a
r est-place for guests tr avelling to the casino. Her e they may stay and spend even
mor e, he r easoned. Denholm himself w ould over see it. He w ould live ther e and
dir ect the gr ow th of his empir e.
It was on an evening as str ange as their fir st meeting, that Cyanquille met
Denholm at his r equest to discuss the matter. For his par t, Denholm envisioned the
possibility of continued cheap labour and a str engthening of his links to the dead.
Ther e was, as ther e so often was w hen they met, a cloud that dr ifted acr oss the
top of the mountain. Fr om it, the blue spectr e emer ged, str iding pur posefully
towar d Denholm once again. His inner visions r emained hidden fr om the living in
the ancient emptiness of his eyes. The r emaining dead w er e hidden by cloud. It
seemed to Denholm that smoke and fog had always obscur ed something in the
deals that he had str uck for the casino.
?Move, Denholm?? Cyanquille quer ied dar kly.? Do you not r ecall that w e had a
deal? You can no mor e leave the casino than I. No, my fr iend. You w ill stay her e, not
halfway dow n the mountain or anyw her e else. The Black Casino is the br idge
betw een the living and the dead. You, of all people, know this. You w ill not be
moving to a new site.?
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?Will not? You for get that this is all mine. This land, these br icks, this stone, the
mar ble, tables and car ds. All mine. This is my casino, Cyanquille. You ar e my
w or kfor ce. I w ill not be told counter to this by any man alive. Nor w ill I be told so
by the dead. Our pact stands, but our pr oject is done. You may stay, you may also
join me in other pr ojects. But I w ill not be told w hat I may do. This pr oject is done,
sir , and for my par t, I have kept our pact.?
The spectr e r ose befor e him, and adjusted the sleeves of his jacket, ensur ing his
laced cuffs w er e exposed to the length he desir ed and no mor e. When he spoke
again, his countenance was mor e sombr e and his voice gr aver than Denholm had
know n of the dead.
?Dust and dir t, Mr Denholm. You ow n paper s...and dust...and dir t. You do not
know w hat this casino is. Nor do you ow n it in any tr ue sense. You ow n fleeting
daubs of ink on par chment. Our pact does indeed stand. For a businessman, you
lacked the ser vices in its dr afting fr om a good law yer , like the r ather r esour ceful
Mr Le?Ap. The pact, Denholm, betw een you and I, r efer r ed to our pr oject. Your
misunder standing, how ever , is that our pr oject was not betw een you and I. Nor is it
in any way completed. Our pr oject, Denholm, is a pr oject of the dead. It is a pr oject
of those w ho r etur ned. To it, you ar e as inconsequential as any of the chips on a
gaming table. As inconsequential, per haps, as a fly.?
Denholm shifted uneasily. He had often fear ed implications fr om the act of
assur ance he had betokened the dead. Somew her e in him a fly, at the contr ol of
Cyanquille, waited to r espond w hen instr ucted.
?A fly I can have r emoved,? he said. ?A str oke I can be nur sed back fr om in the
tow n. Le?Ap can ar r ange these things for me. So yes, I believe our pr oject is
achieved and that I w ill move w her e I w ish.?
?Oh, my dear Mr Denholm. Somew her e I think w e both knew it w ould come to
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this. Le?Ap is in debt to us for a ver y lar ge consider ation. One w hose size w ould be
quite unseemly to disclose. The ar r angement of the dead is ver y Lucky indeed. It is
one that br ought you to us, r ather than w e to you. The fly w ithin you. It was mor e
than a fly. It was a par t of me. It is something fr om beyond. A small piece of death.
Now ther e is no fly, ther e is only death. A death that waits w ithin you. The fly
dissolved easily, quite some time ago. Now only death r emains.?
?In w hich case, as it has been no hindr ance to you, the dead, then for the living
death should pr esent far less of an obstacle,? Denholm r eplied stiffly, r esolved to his
cour se.? As I so please, so I w ill do. I w ill indeed go back dow n this mountain, and I
will build hotels and mor e. The dead have had their day, M?sieu Cyanquille. The
living all have death w ithin them and I for one can live w ith that.?
?I am afr aid you still misunder stand. You have been ver y r ight about so many
things, and such a mar vellous player to shar e this pr oject w ith. But you have not
yet under stood all. Death comes in many ways. For that fly, now dissolved and
contained in each and ever y cell of your body, its melting came as a
metamor phosis, to enable it to become... a catalyst. On its ow n, it is har mless and
completely natur al. You have lived w ith it for so long now. It has affected you no
mor e than, say, a passing cloud. And yet, my fr iend, ther e ar e clouds, and ther e ar e
clouds at the top of this mountain. Some that w e have met each other in have been
filled w ith some r ather nasty spor es. Again, they ar e quite natur al on their ow n.
Completely har mless. How ever , should those spor es (w hich you have been
br eathing in now for many months her e, Mr Denholm), have the misfor tune to
become mixed w ith an admittedly r ar e, but quite natur al catalyst of the r ight sor t,
under the r ight conditions, then ther e is a r ather unfor tunate and somew hat nasty
consequence...?
?The Infection Muer tas...? Denholm guessed aloud.
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?Infection Muer tas. Indeed, Mr Denholm. It has tw o constituent components,
each har mless. Har mless even w hen combined, in fact, you may r est assur ed. At
least so long as they r emain beneath a cer tain pr essur e, that w ould be. Like her e,
Mr Denholm...Her e at the casino. Just at the r ight distance above gr ound w her e air
pr essur e is pr ecisely low enough not to activate the Muer tas. A little fur ther dow n
this mountain, unfor tunately...Well...I think you know w hat happens? Each cell of
your body is eaten away fr om w ithin. Your flesh and or gans r ot, and the canker ous,
necr otic flesh w ill fall fr om you, as you fall fr om gr ace to the favour of our r ealm. I
w ould not suggest going dow n this mountain to live at your new complex at all.?
?But to w hat end, Cyanquille?? The now ter r ified hotelier asked in desper ation of
the spectr e befor e him. ?You want to w or k? You want to be ar ound the gambling I
cr eate? What w ould my r emaining, or going, even my living or dying do to benefit
the dead??.
?We ar e the dead, Denholm. All of us... We ghosts, you, Lucky, all of us. WE ar e
the dead. It is just time and cir cumstance that dictate the when of the matter. For
my gr oup her e, your w or kfor ce as you w ould have them...They ar e hungr y ghosts
as you have r ightly know n, and death came to each of them some time ago. But it
w ould, how ever , tr ivialise their ambition to say that it is just to be near to gambling
that feeds that insatiable hunger. You might w ish to consider the games her e a
mer e ?amouse-bouche?to the mor e satisfying entr ee w e have planned. Human
lives...now ther e is food. What w e cr ave Denholm, it is not to be near La Roulette or
Les Car tes, but to gamble on a life. In this case your s.?
The enigmatic ghost paused, allow ing his w or ds to be digested by Denholm.
?That is our pr oject her e at the top of this lonely mountain. ?How w ill it end??w e
have mused. Will you gamble on a flight dow n the mountain, to test the tr uth of my
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w or ds? Will you seek some expensive doctor w ho can so quickly cur e w hat cannot
be under stood? Or w ill you per haps make a shor ter tr ip dow n the mountain, as so
many of us alr eady have? Dead you ar e and dead you w ill be. At pr esent you feed
on dr eams and long may they sustain you, w ell after death, per haps. But our food is
your life, Mr Denholm. Much is at stake for us, in your decision as to how you w ill
end it, you see..??
The full r ealisation str uck Denholm.
?You have w or ked and built all this? Spent all this time? That you may bet among
your selves as to how I might kill myself? This is the pr oject of the dead for w hich I
too must die? Then per haps I w ill choose to live! What do you say to that,
Cyanquille? Per haps I w ill stay her e, at high altitude, r un my casino and live among
the dead! Your hunger may not feed on me then!?
?The r oad or the balcony? In time, Denholm ... In time. All death comes in time.
I?d bet on it.?
About the author
I am a Social Worker and bone collector living in London. Though I have written
quite a few dark pieces of fiction, I am only now starting to share them more
widely, though have not, as yet been published. I like to interlace local legends
and events with a slightly twisted thread, in order to hopefully weave it into
something just a little more sinister.
79

On the Feast of Stephen
by D ean Newman
This EC-inspired story about how a dog is for life and not just for
Christmas has a seasonal sting in its tail. It was born out of the idea
that Christmas drink-driving messages are hard-hitting this time of year,
so why shouldn't one about pet cruelty be so?
Steve hated Chr i st m as. He hated ever yt hi ng about i t . In f act , he went out of hi s way
to m ak e i t as hor r i bl e an ex per i ence as he coul d for as m any peopl e as he coul d. His
only pleasur e was other people?s miser y.
He knew that people loved their animals, so ever y year on the r un-up to Chr istmas, Steve
w ould go ar ound tr apping and hiding other people?s cats and dogs in his cellar and then
enjoy hear ing the distr aught ow ner s tr avel out in all w eather s to tr y and find them, but
they never did? and this year w ould be no differ ent.
This had gone on for year s and w henever people came pr ying or asking too many
questions, he w ould simply pack up his few belongings and move on. It wasn?t a pr oblem
as ther e was only himself to w or r y about and no one ever noticed him w hen he was ther e
so they w ould miss him even less w hen he was gone.
This year he had done himself pr oud and managed to smash his ow n ?pr evious best?. His
haul this year though had been gained at consider able r isk, as nor mally he w ould pick up
cats and dogs fr om the str eet or tied up outside shops, but this year for the fir st time he had
br oken into backyar ds and gar den sheds.
Ther e was no doubt that he w ould have to move befor e next Chr istmas as such dar ing
r aids had undoubtedly ar oused suspicion, but he knew that no one could touch him. He
even used to joke to himself that even the police had no leads, w hen in fact often that was
all that often r emained of people?s canine companions.
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Still, just to be on the safe side, Steve had joined hor des of locals on sear ches of the local
ar ea such as w oods, str eams and the local quar r y. He had even helped fly poster the usual
local shop w indow s and lampposts.
Steve always ensur ed that he kept one of the photocopied ?missing?photos that he w ould
neatly put into a r ing binder file, alphabetically in the name of the pet, of cour se, so he
w ould always have a memento.
And to think that his teacher had always told him he w ould amount to nothing and he
w ould never make a differ ence to people?s lives. Well, this w ould show his English teacher ,
Mr Or sett, this w ould show all of them. Indeed, all those year s ago Mr Or sett?s cat, Bilbo, a
beautiful tor toiseshell, had been his ver y fir st ?pr ize?and fr om then he had never looked
back.
The ?booty?Steve had collected was plentiful and var ied, as he laid claim to the usual
menager ie as w ell as r abbits and even a fer r et! Time for celebr ation indeed as Steve
pur chased the lar gest tur key that money could buy.
Come Chr istmas Day, Steve, complete w ith cr umpled paper cr ow n fr om a cr acker , ate like
a King and gor ged himself. He ensur ed that no mor sels w er e tossed to the animals below. If
he hear d their cr ies and w himper s, then he w ould just tur n up the volume of the tir ade of
festive r epeats on television to dr ow n it out.
As usual, Steve fell asleep in a dr unken stupor in the chair. As he slept, he felt something
suspiciously like a cat br ush against his leg. Can?t be, he thought, as he knew the door to the
cellar was fir mly bolted. Then he felt his hand licked by something that felt like the tongue
of a dog. He w oke w ith a star t and peer ed ar ound the dar kened r oom, lit only by the flicker
of the television? nothing.
He dr ifted back into sleep. Again, he felt something against him, this time he hear d the
noise of padded feet on the floor. It sounded like a small dog, a Jack Russell he thought. He
r ose fr om his slumber as he r emember ed that he had not 'kept' a Russell for at least a
couple of year s. Suddenly he felt the clenching of teeth against his naked hand. The w ound
bur ned as the Jack Russell hung on for dear life.
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As Steve w hir led r ound in pain, he sent empty beer cans flying in all dir ections. He
stopped momentar ily as he noticed that the entir e r oom was full of r ag-tag dogs and cats,
dogs and cats that he had thought he had long seen the back of, dogs and cats that had
come for some justice. Standing at the fr ont, leading the ar my of quadr upeds was a
tor toiseshell cat, its fur stood on end, claw s dr aw n for attack and eyes w ild w ith r evenge. It
let out a migr aine-inducing hiss that penetr ated ever y bone of Steve?s body.
Finally, he managed to pr ise the Russell fr om his hand, along w ith half of his skin and
r etr eated back to the only safe haven that he could find, the cellar door. He hadn?t hear d
any noises dow n ther e for a w hile so knew he w ould be safe. As the animals cr ept slow ly
for war d, Steve finally managed to flee into his dar k, dank place of sanctuar y.
He stood at the other side of the door until the noise of claw ing and w hining ceased.
Thr ough a cr ack in the door , he could see that the living r oom was now empty. Steve
chuckled to himself as he knew those animals w ouldn?t be getting out no matter w hether
they w er e upstair s or dow n below in the cellar. Ther e was no food left because he had
eaten it all just as his beloved mother had taught him to.
Satisfied that the coast was now clear , Steve w ent to open the door and w hen he found
those ?ver min?he w ould star t pulling fur as any nor mal per son w ould pull cr acker s. He?d
be r eady for them now , as it was something he had been looking for war d to all day, feeling
somew hat r ejuvenated after his Chr istmas Day snooze.
Steve yanked at the door , but it w ould not budge. He hammer ed at the heavy w ooden
panels until his hands bled. Whether it was the noise he was making or the smell of blood
fr om his self-inflicted w ounds that had r oused them he wasn?t sur e but r oused them he
had, ther e was no doubt of that. Steve hear d sever al lar ge gr ow ls and hisses. These noises
w er e not the ghosts of pets past but the ver y r eal and ver y hungr y ones of those of
Chr istmas pr esent.
The other side of the door , Bilbo the cat cur led up by the door and pur r ed contently. The
pur r ing incr eased in intensity and Steve held his head as it shook his ver y br ain. Clutching
his scalp, he moved back fr om the door and stumbled backwar ds, landing aw kwar dly.
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He felt something snap as he fell. Steve fell fr om the steps r ight in fr ont of the dozen or so
dogs and cats, even the r abbit and fer r et w er e ther e for the ensuing fun. The huge Ger man
Shepher d was the fir st to investigate but cer tainly not the last to enjoy the feast of Stephen.
About the author
Dean is chief writer for The Daily Jaws, the world's number one Jaws site and he's
always been a huge horror fan who grew up reading Scream comic and James
Herbert. When he's not trying to write films he is writing about them for Horrified.
Originally from Nottinghamshire, Dean lives in Westcliff-on-Sea in Essex with his
wife, daughter and chocolate Labrador.
83

84

Good- N ight
by T he Somnambulist Society
A recurring dream involving my late grandparents was the inspiration
for this story; I find it strangely comforting how memories of people
long since gone can be so persistent, even in the unconscious
limbo-state between sleep and waking.
In a way, memories are perhaps the most potent kind ghosts.
The f uner al was wel l at tended, for a dr i zzly gr ey day i n Febr uar y. They
pl ayed Mum ?s f avour i te song; ?Aval on?by Rox y Musi c, and w e said goodbye to
her for the final time as the or gan played, and the door s of the chur ch closed
behind us. The pictur e Dad had chosen for her memor ial was nice, and w e all
imagined she w ould have appr oved; though it was str ange, seeing her smile
peeking out fr om betw een the cr eased pages, sandw iched betw een w or ds of
r emembr ance. We had str uggled w hen the time came to w r ite it all dow n, for how
on ear th do you sum up a life in less than tw o pages of A4 paper ? How can you
condense a legacy in five hundr ed w or ds?
My sister and I stood by Dad at the chur ch gate, as fr iends and r elatives lur ched
slow ly acr oss the sodden gr ey ear th beneath a soggy, gr ey sky. We r eceived war m
embr aces and cold ones too; timid pats on the ar m fr om old dear s w ho w er e sor r y
for our loss, and mour nful shakes of the head fr om bur ly men w ho r efused to cr y
in fr ont of their w ives. Our Mother had touched so many lives, it seemed, not just
our ow n. But w e w ould bear the br unt of it all, my little family, now minus one.
Cold sandw iches and w eak tea. Boxed w ine and the metallic chime of the pub fr uit
machine, as w e sat on folding chair s and made small talk w ith those w ho had
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know n Mum in her youth, in her pr ime. She was a rebel, they said, always thinking
one step ahead of everyone else. Then some r emember ed us as childr en, all messy
hands and unr uly cur ls. You were quite the handful, you two, they told us. We never
knew where she got the energy from, to raise two young girls and keep her career
afloat. Then once all the plates w er e clear ed, and all the stor ies told, w e got in a taxi
and dr ove home.
Dad cr ied on the dr ive home. Sandw iched betw een my sister and me, he shook
like a leaf betw een gr eat w heezing sobs as w e held him close. He kept telling us, I?m
sorry, I?m sorry, and w e believed him. Ther e was nothing he could have done.
Nothing at all.
Cancer is a bastar d, a malicious and cunning one at that. And so, w e w ear pink
r ibbons, like poppies in November to honour our dead. But the war is never tr uly
over , and w e w ill never see an ar mistice.
Putting Dad to sleep, on the couch in the sitting r oom, cover ed in a blanket that he
and Mum bought on holiday befor e I was bor n. He has stopped shaking, though his
eyes ar e r ed-r immed and his dar k suit is stained w ith cr usted tear s and spittle
dr aw n fr om clenched teeth. We tur n the heating on, to br ing a spar k of war mth
into this empty house. My sister and I, w e do not talk, but get on w ith things as they
come. We check the post, w e wash the dishes, w e sor t the r ecycling into its neat
little boxes. We do this, to avoid noticing the absence that w e dar e not name.
I hug my little sister in the bathr oom, as she collapses in sputter ing tear s on
finding one of Mum?s per fume bottles in the medicine cabinet. She was looking for
toothpaste w hen she spied the little bottle of No.5 nestled betw een the Colgate and
the TCP. She didn?t even take it out, to uncor k its war m delight and smell the scent
of our Mother linger ing in the air ; she star ed at it, for a long, long time. Then, w hen
the spell was br oken, her feet gave way fr om under her , and she let the gr ief begin
anew.
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I tuck her into bed, in the spar e r oom beside the study. That was w her e Mum had
w or ked w hen she was w r iting her books. Cooker y, mostly, w ith a few tr avel guides.
Nothing genuinely notew or thy ever emer ged fr om behind that door , but it ear ned
enough to keep the family afloat w hen times got tough. I r each out to touch the
door handle, then w ithdr aw ; I need to keep it together , for the sake of my sister and
Dad. I feel like I am at the edge of a pr ecipice, and that one misstep w ill send me
tumbling dow n into a place I w ill not r etur n fr om.
I find my old r oom, up at the top of the house, and sit on the bed tr ying not to
think of Mum. I had spent the last six months in this bed w hen w e knew the
tr eatment w ould no longer be enough, and that w e should spend w hat little time
w e had left together. I could hear Mum in the r oom below in those days, being sick
and hacking up bits of her self into the toilet. I hear d her gr oan and sob as Dad
car r ied her into the bedr oom after he?d w iped away the mess. Only silence now :
only an absence r emains.
I find I cannot sleep. I check my phone, and a hundr ed messages of sympathy and
sickly sentiment come flooding fr om my inbox and into my lived r eality. I slam the
phone face dow n on the duvet cover , feeling a r ush of anger.
Why can?t they all just leave me alone?
Why do you all need to keep reminding me that she?s not here?
Finally, as the str eet lamps star t to flicker , I feel sleep take hold. It is deep,
dr eamless and exquisite. An opioid slumber that r ocks me gently, evapor ating all
my tensions and thoughts until I am a numb, liquid thing. I do not dr eam of Mum. I
must not dr eam of her. Though the ocean of sleep is calm, the gr eat abyss I fear
lur ks just beneath its sur face.
Knock at the door.
Knock at the bedroom door.
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Knock once. Knock tw ice. Gentle, r apping tip-taps, like the scuffing of w ooden feet
on a car peted floor. Muffin-the-mule tip-taps that vibr ate on the edge of my
consciousness. Someone puts their head ar ound my bedr oom door , a soft shadow
that stands on the thr eshold of my sleep. A shadow w ith my Mother ?s voice:
?Ar e you up yet, dear ? It?s past seven.?
?I w ill be, Mum. Just give me ten minutes, and I?ll be dow n.?
?Ok, love. Tea or coffee??
?Mmmm? tea, please. No sugar.?
?No sugar then. Your sister w ill be up in a bit, I should think. See you dow nstair s,
love.?
?Thanks, Mum.?
Awake. Aler t. My eyes ar e dr y and w ide, and I feel ever y hair on my neck and
ar m stand up. I feel cold, dr ow ning sw eat dr ip fr om my por es as I star e towar d the
bedr oom door. It is closed; ther e is no one ther e. I heard her.
I heard her voice. I felt the r eassur ing aur a of her timid little body as she looked
dow n at me. She was her e. I know she was here. It is a new day outside: the clock on
my phone r eads 7:30. I r ise fr om the tangle of bedsheets and go thr ough the
motions of existence.
My walk to the bathr oom feels like an eter nity, as I stumble on scar ecr ow feet
towar d the basin. I br ush my teeth in long, zombie str okes, and sw ir l it in the sink
and watch it cur l and foam in the dr ip-dr op of the leaky tap. I do not look in the
mir r or ; I look too much like Mum. It?s not fair that I look like her. To be constantly
r eminded of w hat is now missing.
Dad has changed into his pyjamas, his suit hanging fr om a hook behind the door.
His dr essing gow n is too big for him, and he has to r oll the sleeves up to stop them
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spilling into his br eakfast. My sister is still in bed, it seems; I br ew a pot of tea for
the thr ee of us. I add as much sugar to my cup as I can stand befor e my teeth begin
to ache. She comes dow n at last, and I can tell she has been cr ying. We sit at the
table, hands joined like a séance ar ound the cr ocker y.
The day goes by, hour by aching hour , and w e begin to chip away at the layer s of
Mum left in the house. Her clothing, fir st. Handfuls of shir ts and socks, blousy
nightdr esses and sensible knicker s that w e cr am into bags for the r ubbish dump.
She had lost so much w eight towar ds the end. It was doubtful any of her clothes
w ould fit us. We take a little keepsake each, a silver br oach for my sister , and a silk
scar f for me. Neither of us suited our mother s?taste in clothes, but w e convince
our selves that w e w ill w ear them someday w ith pr ide. ?This used to be my
mother ?s, you know.?
Dad goes out in the ear ly after noon and comes back w ith bags full of food w e
didn?t eat w hen Mum was alive. Arctic Roll. Angel Delight. Fr ozen chicken nuggets
in a big, colour ful plastic bag like a sack of dog food. All the things she disappr oved
of. All the things w e could indulge in, now she was gone. It seems tr ite and
infantile, and just a little bit spiteful. But in a way, it means w e can star t to accept
that she is no longer par t of the house anymor e. We love her , and miss her , and
w ould give anything to have her back, wagging her finger as w e slam the tr ay of
chips and fr ozen dinner s into the oven. But she is gone now , and that is all ther e is
to say about it.
Dad sleeps on the couch again; he w on?t say it, but he?s too afr aid to sleep alone in
their bedr oom. His bedr oom, now. My sister stays up w ith him, to watch old movies
as they sip fr om mugs of cocoa and star e vacantly at the black-and-w hite facsimiles
that dance on the TV scr een. Faces and names of people long since dead, their
spectr al for ms for ever tr apped in celluloid? necr omancy, w ith chor eogr aphy
cour tesy of Fr ed Astair e.
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My headache has gone, or at least I no longer feel it. The pr essur e that bubbled in
my head this mor ning has dissipated, like steam on a w indow pane. I br ush my
teeth again, and in the bathr oom mir r or , I tr ace the image of a butter fly, flitting
above my head. My finger mar ks dr aw smudgy lines acr oss the glass, and they
begin to dr ip and smear as the air cools and the steam fr om my show er condenses.
I hope that in dr eaming, my mind w ill do the same.
I w ill need to r etur n to my ow n home soon. I have a job, and a life outside my
family, w hich I must nur tur e and attend to. My boss has been for giving, and the
endless missed messages and calls fr om clients have been dealt w ith as best they
can. But their for giveness is not infinite, and soon I must wade back into the pool of
ever yday existence once mor e. No mor e Mum. No mor e goodbyes. Time to move
on.
Another knock at my bedr oom door , in the hour s befor e the daw n. My Mother ?s
voice:
?Sor r y to wake you, dear. Did you sleep w ell??
?S?okay, Mum. I have to get up ear ly anyway. Is Dad up??
?No, he?s still asleep, bless him. And befor e I for get: r emember the cleaner is
coming ?r ound tomor r ow at six. Make sur e your Dad leaves her money on the
table.?
?I w ill, Mum. Thanks.?
?See you in a bit, love. I?ll put the kettle on.?
Awake. Aler t. Knocking at the door. A soft shadow , a war m light that flicker s at
the per ipher y of sight. The smell of her per fume, the shuffle of her slipper s on the
car pet by the door. I clutch the duvet up to my chin and w ill myself not to cr y. She
was her e. But she isn?t her e, not anymor e. She?s gone. Ther e is a Mum-shaped hole
in the w or ld, and something is tr ying to fill it.
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After br eakfast, I mar ch out the fr ont door , the skin on my face naked and dr y,
and my body bundled in soft jogging-pants and ugly gr ey fleece. I am angr y, so
angr y. I?m mad at ever yone, for acting as if they feel sor r y for me. I don?t want pity.
I want my Mum back.
I?m angr y w ith her. That she didn?t fight har d enough, didn?t have the w ill to keep
on living. Did she do it on pur pose? Did she not love us enough to want to stay? She
abandoned us, and now I am a young w oman, w ith a younger sister and a gr ieving
father , and I must act as if I have ever ything under contr ol. I must act as if the
w or ld is not spinning beneath me, and that I am clinging on for dear life in the
hope that I w ill not fall. It?s not fair. None of it is.
I want my Mum.
I hate her. I love her, and I miss her, and I wish I had died instead of her. I don?t
want to live in a world where she isn?t there with me.
As I pass the par k, and the gr ey sky tumbles dead leaves ar ound my ankles, I feel
a cr eeping w or r y set in. What if I for get her voice? Her face? The sound of her
laughter ? What if I only ever r emember the bad par ts; the ar guments, the insults,
the bitter feuds and the angr y w or ds left unsaid. Wor ds that fester , like cancer ,
beneath the skin until they can be ignor ed no longer. Or until it is too late to fix
them. The black ir on r ailings follow me as I tr ead hollow steps beside the par k, like
r egiments of silent soldier s. Inside the gr een, the bar k-less tr ees stand pale and
sentinel, r ustling as their leaves fall to the fr osty gr ound. The playgr ound is empty,
and the gr eat expanse of law n beyond the tr ees is tr eacher ous and dar k.
I r etur n home to an empty house. A note on the fr idge tells me they have gone to
put some flow er s on Mum?s gr ave, and they?ll be back befor e dar k. It?s only been
tw o days, and alr eady they?r e going back for mor e. A cycle of miser y that w ill only
be br oken w hen w e have lear ned to for get. No, not for get. To accept.
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I don?t know. I?ve never lost someone I loved befor e now. I don?t know how to
adapt. I want ther e to be a book, w ith r ules and r egulations, facts and figur es and
exams that w ill help me pass this stage of my life. This empty miser y that clings like
w et sheets to my numb body. I fling a fr ozen pizza in the oven and watch the
minutes pass on the kitchen clock until the smell of bur ning dough and gr easy,
plastic cheese fills the r oom. I am not hungr y. But I must eat.
I wash a plate. I fill a glass w ith w ine fr om a bottle that has been sitting uncor ked
since the funer al. It tastes bitter and sw eet, just like tear s.
I sit at the kitchen table, eating my loneliness away. I look at the mar ks on the wall
beside the fr idge, w her e Dad measur ed our childhood heights fr om year to year. I
see stubby, dar k gr aphite scar s cut deep into the wallpaper , w ith our names above
them. Summer, ?96: Five feet 1 inch. Winter ?99: Five feet 4 inches. I want to tear away
the wallpaper , upr oot this shade of memor ies past and fling it into the oven w her e
it w ill smoke and bur n, w ith all the accumulated gr ease of a thousand family meals.
Instead, I dr ink mor e stale w ine and toss my plate in the sink.
I r emember Mum?s cooking, mor e than I r emember anything else about my
childhood. The smell of ginger br ead on Sundays, fish on Fr idays and the bubbling,
r oiling stockpot that was always on the stove. Funny, as I am utter ly useless at
cooking. You could set fire to cereal, my sister likes to say. Our Mum left us a legacy
of r ecipes, and w e have squander ed it all on r eady meals and oven dinner s. I look
out at the back gar den fr om the kitchen w indow , w her e the sun has begun to set
behind the lar ge eucalyptus tr ee, the last of its pur ple leaves lit w ith amber
br illiance. This house is full of memor ies, so many that they spill out into the
gar den and over the hedges. I cannot stay her e too long, or I w ill dr ow n in them.
I go to bed, up the cr eaking stair s. I do not know w hat time it is, and I don?t
par ticular ly car e. Dad is pr obably clear ing dead leaves away fr om our Mother ?s
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headstone, w hile my sister holds a r ustling cellophane w r ap of daffodils in her
hand. They w er e Mum?s favour ite flow er. Ther e w ill be many mor e yellow bundles
yet to come, to be placed at the altar of our Mother.
Sleep, hush now , I tell myself. The r oom is cold, and I w r ap a spar e duvet ar ound
myself until I am cocooned in sheets and soft quilts. I pull the cover s over my head
and embr ace the war m dar kness I have cr afted. The w ine, still bubbling in my
stomach, makes sleep a little easier.
Despite myself, I am dr eaming of Mum. We ar e in a car par k, somew her e on
holiday in a cold, w indsw ept par t of the countr y w her e the gr ound is slick w ith
mud. I am tir ed, and my clothes ar e soaked thr ough. We bundle towar ds the car ,
holding hands, and Mum str uggles w ith her keys befor e w e can get inside. The sky
is gr ey and r elentless, lashing waves of cold r ain acr oss the w indshield. We get
inside, and Mum sw itches on the heating: a blast of war m air fills the car , and for a
moment I am not so tir ed. The r adio begins to play, soft and r iddled w ith static
hissing, but the song is so familiar to me.
Avalon, by Roxy Music. Mum?s favour ite song.
I am still in the car. Mum is gone. I look ar ound and see that she is out in the r ain,
waving to me. I pull on the door handles, but I am locked in. I hammer on the glass,
but it w ill not yield. I cr y out to Mum, to tell her to get back in the car , she?ll fr eeze
out ther e, but she cannot hear me. I am dr ow ned out by the r ain and w ind, and the
over cast clouds hang above the cr aggy black mountains that have appear ed all
ar ound us. The water is getting higher , and Mum is beginning to dr ift away, like
flotsam on a r olling sea. I have to save her , I must save her. It?s not my fault.
I?m sorry, Mum.
Tw o knocks at the bedr oom door. I wake and see that it is now dar k outside, the
str eetlamps flicker ing like fir eflies. The door to my bedr oom is ajar. Maybe Dad has
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come to check on me.
No, it?s not him. I know it isn?t. I put on my dr essing gow n, and walk dow nstair s to
the kitchen, w her e I hear the kettle boiling.
Someone is sitting at the table, w ear ing my Mother s clothes. Her face, it is
indistinct and blur r y, like an out-of-focus polar oid. This is my Mum, or per haps it is
the idea of my Mum. The way she sits, w ith one elbow on the table to steady her self,
the other by her side, that is how Mum used to sit. She is small, and fr agile, but
contains the str ength and fur y of a steam engine if she feels it is r equir ed. I sit at
the table, and the thing that may or may not be Mum cocks its head to one side. It
speaks to me, w ith my Mother ?s voice.
?Sor r y, dear , I didn?t mean to wake you up. Only, I was w or r ied you hadn?t had
your tea.?
The Mum that isn?t, she cr adles a mug now betw een tw o hands that look like
silver smoke: on it, the cup r eads ?Happy Mother?s Day?in br ight yellow letter s, the
colour of daffodils. She, or it, waits for me to speak. I tr y, though I cannot tell if this
is r eal or not:
?Who ar e you, r eally? My Mum died last w eek. I was ther e. You ar en?t her. You
can?t be her.?
The thing that looks like Mum waves a foggy hand in the air , sear ching for a w or d
on the tip of its tongue. It finds nothing and w r aps the hand back ar ound the yellow
mug.
?Well, you see, it?s all r ather complicated dear. In fact, I?m not entir ely sur e how
it all w or ks myself.?
?Well, you can?t be her. Whatever you ar e, you need to stop this. It?s not making
things better , it?s making it all much, much har der.? I clench my fists as I say this,
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and the thing in fr ont of me sags its shoulder s. I feel a pang of guilt, to talk to my
Mum this way. No, it isn?t Mum. It is something else.
The thing r eaches out befor e I can stop it, and takes hold of my hand. It is a war m,
soft touch that spr eads up thr ough my body like a wave of shimmer ing light. I see
colour s of childhood, smells and tastes of delight and summer , ar guments and
laughter and the quiet, intimate moments that only small childr en know in the
ar ms of their par ents? the fir st exper ience of love at fir st sight.
I gasp, and the thing that is or isn?t my Mum lets go. I feel at the ver y edge of tear s,
and hot pinpr icks cr eep fr om behind my eyes. I swallow , and my lip tr embles.
?Mum??
?Yes, dear ??
?You?r e not supposed to be her e. You can?t be her e.?
?I?m her e, so long as you want me to be her e, dear.?
?I want you to, I never want you to leave. But you have to. It?s not r ight.?
?Right, love? I?m not sur e I follow.?
I tr y to gr asp for w or ds, though I want to hold onto her and never let go. I want to
stay her e at this table, sitting acr oss fr om Mum until the end of time.
?The night befor e you? w hen you w er e r eally sick, I tr ied to imagine w hat it
w ould be like w hen you w er e gone. To tr y and pr epar e myself. I w ent thr ough so
many differ ent ver sions of the futur e, but never one w her e you existed. I thought if
I could lear n to live w ithout you then, I could do it after you w er e gone.?
?But I couldn?t do it. And ever y time I left the house, to go to w or k or to pick up
the shopping, I thought might be the last time I?d ever see you again. I never
wanted to leave your side, not even for a moment. And I still miss you, Mum.?
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?I know dear , and I am sor r y. What w ould you like me to do??
I know the w or ds I must say, but I dar e not speak. Ever y second, ever y tur ning
minute is like a lifetime in this r oom. I do not want her to go.
She must go so that I can live. But I cannot live w ithout her.
?I love you, Mum.?
?I know , dear. I love you too.?
?You have to go, Mum. You have to leave.?
The r ippling silhouette of light that sits w ith me at the kitchen table nods its head.
?Yes, dear. I?ll be on my way now. Goodbye, love. Look after your self.?
Awake. My eyes ar e open. I am sitting at the kitchen table, alone and in the dar k.
A mug w ith yellow letter s the colour of daffodils is held betw een my hands. I hear
the sound of keys in the fr ont door ; Dad must have taken the long way home in the
car. I r est my hands betw een my shaking finger s, and for the fir st time in w hat feels
like year s, I sit and w eep soft, silent tear s.
I visit the gr ave later that month w hen I find the str ength to do so. I go alone, w ith
a handful of daffodils w r apped in cr inkled cellophane. I stay for a w hile and talk. I
imagine how Mum w ould r eply; it comes easier to me now. Then I dr ive home in
the car , and the r adio is playing Avalon.
About the author
The Somnambulist Society write stories, prose and poetry based on dreams and
the twilight hours before sleep. They are based in Hackney, London, and enjoy a
decent coffee and a nice view of Abney Park cemetery.
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Ghosts of Kersal Moor
by Ellis Reed
Very little remains of Kersal Moor, but the surviving heath would make a
wonderful home for some ghosts? especially with the graveyard right
next door! In this story, I try to imagine what they?d be like, and when
you might be able to meet them.
They say som e f unny t hi ngs 'r ound Ker sal Moor , and by 'f unny', I m ean
queer . If t hey ever m ade m e l augh t hey don?t any m or e.
Ther e was a time w hen the moor s r an all the way to the r iver , but that was long
ago, and all that r emains is a w ild patch of land by St Paul?s Chur ch. On that little
heath, footpaths cr oss the sandy hills, w hich ar e dotted w ith gor se and Scotch
br oom.
Ever yone in a tw o-mile r adius know s the moor s w er e haunted once. Few er know
they still ar e. They think the ghosts all left, fading away as the moor s got smaller.
The tr uth is they?r e still ar ound. They just have less r oom to br eathe now.
This is the stor y of how I met them.
When I was young, Gr andpa had an aw ful-smelling dog called Din-Dins, w hich he
used to walk dow n Moor Lane.
Fr om time to time I?d tag along. Mostly to listen to his stor ies but also to watch
him smoke. Ever yone smoked back then, but Gr andpa r olled his ow n w hich wasn?t
as common. He used to pinch the tobacco in a Rizla and lick the edge to seal it.
Sometimes he let me do it for him, but I was sw or n to secr ecy on that point. I used
to like it w hen a speck of tobacco stuck to my tongue because it gave my mouth a
danger ous little buzz.
97

One day, just by St Paul?s, Din-Dins stopped and gazed acr oss the moor. He shook
himself and w himper ed.
?Let him off the lead,? I suggested.
Gr andpa shook his head.
?Not her e,? he said. ?That?s not year ning. It?s fear.?
?What of??
?Ghosts!? he said unexpectedly. ?Moor ?s full of ?em.?
I looked at him in alar m.
?Don?t be daft,? I ur ged.
He smiled w ith his eyes.
?Have you finished that cigar ette??
?What? Oh.?
I licked the paper , pr essed it dow n and handed it over. He lit the end and gr unted
w ith satisfaction.
?Ther e?s a thing coming up,? he told me - r esuming the stor y thr ough a cloud of
smoke - ?called the winter solstice. Longest night of the year. When it falls on a new
moon, it?s the dar kest night ther e is. The tw o w or lds ar e ver y close then.?
?Two w or lds??
?One of the living,? he clar ified, ?and one of the dead.?
He tur ned to the dr ear y heath that lay beside the r oad.
?If you come to Ker sal Moor ,? he added, ?on that one special night, you can see
the ghosts w ith your ow n tw o eyes. They call you to join ?em w ith a song. ?O, unless
you are a vicar / Hell will have your soul for sure / The Devil?s quick but we were
quicker / Now we hide on Kersal Moor.??
98

I shudder ed.
?I don?t think I?d like that,? I said.
He seemed sur pr ised.
?Really? Well, you don?t go str aight away,? he explained. ?It?s like a deal you
make for later. When the sun r ises, you go home and live your life as nor mal. You
just don?t have to w or r y about hell any mor e. When you die, you join ?em on the
moor instead of taking your chances w ith - you know - up or down.?
?When does it happen??
?Which bit??
I tr ied to r emember the r ules.
"A new moon on the shor test night, I r ecalled."
He shr ugged and smoked his cigar ette.
?God know s,? he said at last. ?It happened in 1957, I know that much. Come
on, Din-Dins!?
He gave the lead a little tug and w e continued dow n Moor Lane.
#
Gr andpa was a big man. I?ve been told he was six-foot-four , but to me, he was
like the Colossus of Rhodes. He wasn?t made of br onze, like the or iginal, but
heaps of har d muscle, w r apped in layer s of thick w inter fabr ic.
He was always kind to me, but I found out later that he?d mellow ed in his old
age. Eventually, Dad told me a few things about his ow n childhood, and some
of them w er e har d to hear. Back in the fifties, Gr andpa dr ank spir its in the day
and beat him often. He even beat his w ife w hen she tr ied to inter vene.
99

I never met Gr andma because she bailed on the mar r iage, r unning away in the
middle of the night. No note - nothing. No one had hear d fr om her since, and I
know that hur t my father ver y badly. He was only ten at the time and used to
dr ive himself mad, tr ying to w or k out w hat he?d done to let her dow n or
disappoint her. After ten year s of pr otecting him, she?d simply walked away
w ith no explanation. The silver lining was, once it was clear she wasn?t coming
back, Gr andpa sw or e off the booze entir ely and slow ly r ebuilt his r elationship
w ith his childr en.
It?s har d to r econcile all this w ith my ow n memor ies. The Gr andpa I knew was a
quiet man w ith a sense of humour , w ho smiled r ar ely w ith his mouth but often
w ith his eyes. When he did, they w er e like tw o br ight gems in cr umpled chamois
leather. I couldn?t imagine him dr unk, let alone violent. In the mor ning, he smelled
of coal tar soap and aniseed toothpaste, and at night he smelled of Old Holbur n.
Even today, these ar e smells that make me feel safe. I thought he?d be ar ound
for ever - but he was an old man, of cour se - and how could he be?
One day, w hen I came home fr om school, it was clear something bad had
happened. Mum and Dad w er e talking in low voices. When I enter ed the hall, they
r etr eated fur ther into the kitchen, quietly closing the door.
At last, Dad emer ged.
?Do you want to knock on Gr andpa?s,? he said - tr ying to make it sound like a
bit of a game - ?and walk the dog your self tonight??
It wasn?t Gr andpa w ho answ er ed the door but Auntie Jill. Fr om that point on,
100

it was my job to walk Din-Dins, and I did it alone. I don?t know w hat happened to
Gr andpa - w hether he?d had a fall, or w hatever - but I don?t think I saw him
standing after that. He always seemed to be sitting in a chair , like he was shr inking
in on himself.
When Autumn came, he was moved to a nur sing home. It wasn?t long befor e Dad
took me to visit. The lobby smelled of gr avy gr anules and disinfectant. Ther e was a
communal hall w ith pr etend car pet laid dow n in squar es, and the ar mchair s w er e
like the ones in a hospital. Ther e was something about it that made me uneasy, so I
held back ner vously.
?Come on,? said Dad impatiently.
We found Gr andpa watching snooker w ith the sound tur ned dow n. Dad r eminded
him of all the things he?d done ther e, like fish on Fr iday, r oast beef Sunday. They?d
watched a tape of Brief Encounter. Ther e was even a chess set by one of the
w indow s, though one of the paw ns was a cor k stood on end.
?It?s not bad, is it?? said Dad. ?I mean, all things consider ed, it?s not too bad.?
Gr andpa smiled but not w ith his eyes.
?It?s not too bad,? he agr eed.
When w e got back in the car , w e sat ther e quietly for a moment.
?Gr andpa?s not all r ight,? I said at last.
Dad looked at me in the r ear view mir r or.
?What do you mean, ?not all r ight??? he said in alar m. ?He was smiling, wasn?t
he??
?Well yeah. But not pr oper ly.?
101

I didn?t have to w or r y about Gr andpa for long. On the ninth of December , w hen
the fir st specks of snow w er e sw ir ling in the air , he w ent to sleep and never w oke
up. He was laid to r est in St Paul?s cemeter y, on the edge of Ker sal Moor. Din-Dins
died a w eek later.
#
Four year s later , it was 1995 and I was sixteen. The w inter solstice fell on the
tw enty-second of December that year.
I kept looking at the moon in the nights leading up to it. Over the cour se of a
w eek-and-a-half, it slow ly waned to a cold shar p cur ve. On the tw enty-fir st, it
vanished altogether.
I w ent to Moor Lane and found the path by St Paul?s Chur ch. It led fr om the r oad
into utter dar kness. I walked dow n it, beginning to stumble as I left the or ange
str eet-light.
Ther e w er e humps of long gr ass to tr ip me up and patches of gr it w her e the soil
had w or n away.
Eventually, I found my way to the highest par t of the moor and stood ther e in
tr iumph, looking all ar ound me. As dar k as it was, the hor izon was jew elled w ith
city lights.
?Hello?? I called.
Nothing came back fr om the dar kness. All I could hear was the sound of car s on
Moor Lane. As I waited, they became less fr equent and eventually stopped.
?Hello?? I called r epeatedly.
102

O, unless you are a vicar
Hell will have your soul for sure...
My hear t quickened. It was so faint I cupped my ear s and held my br eath to listen.
I r esisted the ur ge to shift my w eight in case it made the gr ass r ustle under foot.
O, unless you are a vicar
Hell will have your soul for sure
The Devil?s quick but we were quicker
Now we hide on Kersal Moor
I looked in the dir ection w her e it seemed loudest. I wasn?t sur e if my eyes
w er e playing tr icks on me, but I suddenly thought I could see the ghosts. I wasn?t
scar ed because it felt like a dr eam. This is real, I kept telling myself? but I couldn?t
make it stick.
?Via, veritas, et vita,?
Says the guard on heaven?s door
But no one has to face Saint Peter
If they hide on Kersal Moor
They shuffled towar ds me as they sang, making their way up the long dar k
slope. As they came closer , I no longer had to concentr ate to hear them. Their
voices made me shiver in the night.
Butcher, baker, barrel-maker
Hunter, hatter, even whore
No one has to meet his maker
103

In the dark of Kersal Moor
By the time they finished singing, I could see them quite clear ly. They had long
hungr y faces w ith sunken cheeks and hollow eyes. Their featur es had no colour , as
far as I could see, or even substance to speak of. It was like they w er e etched on the
dar k in faint gr ey glimmer s.
?Gather round!? cr ied a voice in the dar k. ?Gather round!?
One by one they joined me on the dar k summit. In that eer ie cr ow d, lor d and
leper stood shoulder to shoulder as equals. I thought I could make out their clothes,
or maybe just the memor ies of clothes, conjur ed out of nothing. A gr eatcoat her e
and a flat cap ther e, knitted fr om the thr eads of the night itself.
?Hallo!? called the r ingleader.
I tur ned to look at him and star ted w ith sur pr ise. His neck had been cleanly
sever ed. He car r ied his head like a football, holding it aloft to pr oject his voice.
?Do you fear the hereafter?? he began. ?Have you been a sinner? Are you willing
to face God and the Devil, and risk your immortal soul??
?I - I don?t know ,? I said honestly.
A mur mur of concer n r ose fr om the cr ow d. Their leader looked disappr ovingly
dow n at me, then stamped his foot for silence.
?Swear the oath instead!? he ur ged. ?Take the pledge! Promise to join us when
you die! Spend eternity here, on the moor!?
The ghosts began to sing again. This time, the chor us had a mor e ur gent quality. It
was almost a touch of menace. I scanned their faces in w onder , looking for signs
104

that they w er e happy w ith their chosen after life. I couldn?t see any. Just a nagging
kind of hunger.
Then I saw him.
A familiar face like chamois leather , looming over those of his neighbour s. He
hadn?t changed at all - or r ather , he?d only gr ow n fainter. He was singing w ith the
r est of them, and w hen our eyes met he nodded in encour agement and smiled.
But not w ith his eyes.
?Gr andpa?? I said in sur pr ise - but he melted back into dar kness, singing as he
w ent.
I tur ned my attention back to the r ingleader. He low er ed his head until the pale
face was level w ith mine.
?Swear!? he bellow ed.
His br eath was a r ush of cold air , like a bitter w ind blasting my face. As I
stagger ed backwar ds, my dr eamy fascination tur ned to alar m. I?d seen and hear d
enough.
I looked behind me and saw no escape r oute. I was sur r ounded on all sides by
ghosts.
?Swear, swear!? they chanted.
They began to close in on me. As they did, I span helplessly on the spot, then
tur ned skywar d in desper ation. Nothing could be seen. No star s - no clouds -
nothing. Not even the faint gr ey glow of light pollution. Ther e was nothing left
in the w or ld but me, the ghosts and per fect dar kness.
105

?Swear!? they scr eamed in chor us.
?I don?t want to,? I begged.
I cover ed my ear s and sank to the gr ound. A how l of disappointment w ent up
ar ound me, r inging in my ear s.
#
The stor y ends exactly w her e I left it. I must?ve passed out? or maybe w oke
up?? because the next thing I knew it was mor ning. The long br ow n gr ass was
w et w ith dew. The silver sun was sliding up the sky. The ghosts w er e gone
fr om Ker sal Moor.
I?m for ty now. People tell me I look older.
I w ouldn?t say I believe in ghosts, exactly, because I waited a long time on the
moor that night. Maybe I just fell asleep and had a nightmar e. I don?t think I
did, but it?s cer tainly possible.
The next w inter solstice to fall on a new moon was the one at the end of 2003.
I don?t mind saying I was too scar ed to leave the house that night. I just sat in
the kitchen w ith a six-pack of beer , pr aying that I w ouldn?t hear them singing
on the near by moor. It happened again in 2014, but I?d moved to Br istol by
then and didn?t feel as thr eatened.
The w or ds of the song w er e:
O, unless you are a vicar
Hell will have your soul for sure
The Devil?s quick but we were quicker
106

Now we hide on Kersal Moor
?Via, veritas, et vita?
Says the guard on heaven?s door
But no one has to face Saint Peter
If they hide on Kersal Moor
Butcher, baker, barrel-maker
Hunter, hatter, even whore
No one has to meet his maker
In the dark of Kersal Moor
Tell me, have you been a sinner?
There?s a loophole in the law:
Meet us where the veil is thinner
In the dark of Kersal Moor...
The next w inter solstice w ith a new moon w ill be on 21 December 2025. When it
happens, I know I?ll be far fr om Ker sal Moor. I hope you?ll follow my example.
In any case, I tr y not to think about it. If it was r eal, then Gr andpa must be stuck
on the moor for ever. I know it?s not good ther e. He was singing and smiling w ith
the r est of them, but I could see it in his eyes. He?s not all r ight. And w hen I
107

r emember his face, I can?t help but w onder : why did he say yes? Why did he take
the pledge? What had he done in his life, to be so scar ed of God?s judgement?
I mean, don?t get me w r ong - I know he used to dr ink and beat my father - but
didn?t he make amends? Why did he choose eter nity on Ker sal Moor , r ather than
taking his chances w ith Heaven and Hell?
And then I always think - w hat really happened to Gr andma?
About the author
Ellis Reed is a writer, reviewer and podcaster from the north of England.
He writes ghost stories set in my home town of Salford, Greater
Manchester.
108

109

On e H ear t
by Andrew Lyall
In ?One Heart?I wanted to conjure an atypical ghost, one more biological
than spiritual. Every one of us, after all, is fashioned from the genetic
information of our ancestors. In this sense, we are all made from
memories of the dead.
Can a m em or y be a ghost ; even a for got ten m em or y?
What about a genetic memor y?
*
I AM I AM I AM
Those liquid w or ds boom all ar ound me, a constant mantr a, for as long as I can
r emember. War m, steady and pow er ful. For a long time that is all ther e is.
I AM I AM I AM
Then I am given hands enough to touch and r each enough to explor e. With that
per petual benediction all ar ound me I str ike out in sear ch of my God, and I touch
my br other ?s face. We lie together and I r ealise I am no longer alone. We cling to
one another , war m beating w or ds enveloping us, and soon I can hear the faint echo
of those w or ds pulsing inside his chest, and for the fir st time, I feel that tiny r hythm
sounding inside me also.
I AM I AM I AM
Our w or ld contr acts, violent spasms. The w or ds pound angr ily ar ound us as w e
ar e squeezed. My br other is pulled fr om my gr asp. I tr y to hold onto him, but his
foot is slick and I lose my gr ip and I am alone again, sur r ounded by r ough w or ds
110

and the r apid hammer ing r esponse w ithin my ow n chest. My w or ld pr esses in on
me again; ejects me. Ter r or clutches me as I thr ash ar ound in emptiness. I can no
longer hear God. The w eak w or ds inside my chest falter.
I am.
I cr y out. Once.
Am I?
*
The dr eam ended suddenly but Adam was not suddenly awake. He could still feel
the edges of sleep and tr ied to sw im back dow n; but ther e was a cr ack in the
cur tains and a finger of late mor ning sun poked at his face, har assing him
r eluctantly into the r eal w or ld. He stir r ed fur ther , r ubbing at his eyes, and felt
Cassy move beside him. He squir med gr acelessly to face her in time to see her nose
w r inkle in denial of the daylight befor e she pulled the cover s up over her face.
?Mor ning,? he said softly. She made a noise of pr otest.
?Typical student,? he mutter ed and str oked her stomach under neath the
bedclothes.
?S?alr ight for you, dr opout,? she slur r ed sleepily, ?you w er en?t the one getting
kicked all night. Some big dr eams you w er e having; all night mutter ing and
tw itching, keeping me awake. Please tell me I?ve at least slept thr ough my nine
o?clock lectur e.?
?I don?t r emember any dr eams,? he said.
?You ar e joking.?
?What was I saying??
?Nothing, just nonsense w or ds, now shut up and let me sleep thr ough my eleven
o?clock.?
111

?It?s Satur day,? Adam said matter -of-factly to her back as she r olled away fr om
him, dr agging most of the cover s w ith her. She har r umphed a non-ver bal r eply and
hunker ed dow n deeper into the cover s. Reaching for the floor on his side of the bed
Adam r etr ieved his cigar ettes and an empty beer can that he?d been using as an
ashtr ay. The smell of stale beer and cigar ette butts stung his nostr ils. He smoked a
philosophical cigar ette in silence and about half an hour later Cassy tur ned back
ar ound, mor e awake now , and snaked an ar m ar ound his waist.
?Satur day?? she said.
?Uh-huh.? She kissed his chest and w r iggled a little closer , letting her hand glide
dow n to his thigh.
?Have you decided w hether you?r e going to see her ?? she asked. Her nails tr aced
the inside of his leg, making his hear t beat faster.
?I haven?t decided,? he said.
?Because if you are going,? a r ude smile played acr oss her lips, ?I?ll have to give
you your bir thday pr esent now.? Her finger s stopped playing and she ducked her
head beneath the cover s. By now his hear t was pounding in his chest.
#
Once a few stations had passed Adam r elaxed a little into the swaying r hythm of
the tr ain. He laid his head back and gazed out of the smear ed w indow , the nap of
the seat cover br ushing his cheek as he r ocked slightly.
Ur ban gr eys r ushed past the scr atched NO SMOKING sticker on the w indow , but
they soon gave way to ter r aced back gar dens and splashes and str eaks of subur ban
gr een. As the tr ain slow ed for each station he became mor e attentive, mentally
ticking each one off a list that br ought him closer to his destination. Betw een
stations, though, his mind wander ed w ith the syncopated clacking of the tr acks. He
112

closed his eyes against the sun, w hich was angling into his car r iage and tur ning it a
cur ious yellow ; and behind his eyelids the sunlight became r ed and veiny, flashing
and pulsing. In betw een those flashes, his memor y began to gr asp at r agged tatter s
of his dr eams w hich w er e still flapping at the back of his mind.
? Running?
The sun war med his face and the tr ain r ocked him gently.
? Running thr ough plush gar dens, the shar p smell of gr ass, dew cooling his feet.
Impossible fr uits hanging heavy upon tr ees, their sw eet juices spilling dow n his
chin as he bit into their flesh. A str ange sun above him sending dow n war mth and
love in hot, r egular waves. The long gr ass tr ipping him. Soft falling. Rolling thr ough
the under gr ow th; his hear t beating in time w ith the pulsing heat above. Someone
was ther e w ith him?
The tr ain lur ched and slow ed, br eaking his r ever ie. Br icks and buildings had built
up again outside the w indow and the tr ain was coasting now , gliding towar ds his
stop. He pushed himself up fr om his seat and made his way to the end of the
car r iage.
Once the tr ain had judder ed to a standstill he opened the door and hopped dow n,
one of only a few other people w ho w er e disembar king. He headed for the br idge
that w ould take him acr oss to the other side of the tr acks and out into the
after noon. Outside the station a w oman was selling flow er s fr om a small stall.
Adam paused, decided, then str olled towar ds her. The flow er seller looked up fr om
her paper and smiled at him, folded the paper in half and tucked it out of sight
beneath her seat.
?Yes, love?? she asked, r ubbing her hands against a pr etend chill.
?Uh,? he sur veyed the bouquets on offer. ?What can I get for a fiver ?? he asked.
?For a gir lfr iend??
113

?Mother.?
?Mother ?s pr efer a mixtur e. We?ll save the dozen r oses for the young ladies, eh??
she said, plucking a colour ful spr ay fr om her selection. As Adam w r angled the
change fr om a deep coat pocket and began counting it out in his palm she
consider ed him, per haps felt a little sor r y for him, then lifted a second bunch and
held it out, saying: ?Tw o for a fiver today. Special offer for good sons?.
?I don?t know I?m that,? he mumbled, accepting the char ity, ?but thanks.? Making
his way to his mother was a little like playing hide and seek w ith déjà vu. It had
been just over four year s since he?d last been her e, and in that time new shops
amongst old buildings blur r ed the familiar just enough to keep him uneasy. Good
son. Those w or ds made him uncomfor table. He?d been thinking of visiting for a
w hile now but in all honesty, it had been Cassy w ho?d given enough gentle
encour agement to tur n thoughts into action. Once he?d finally opened up to her ,
shar ed a little of his r egr ets, told her about some of his childhood, she?d simply
said:
?Why not just go?? And he couldn?t come up w ith a r easonable answ er as to w hy
not. Maybe he?d get Cassy some flow er s too, on the way back, if the stall was still
ther e.
The fur ther he walked fr om the station the mor e the bustle and tr affic was
r eplaced by quieter str eets. Houses instead of shops. Eventually, he was walking
w ith mor e cer tainty. His memor ies of this tow n hadn?t been as vague as he?d
thought; they?d just needed a little dusting. Cassy had been r ight about this; it
w ould be good for him. He decided that he?d call her on his way back; per haps she
could meet him at the station and they could go out for a dr ink. He could see the
steeple betw een the houses now and he clutched his thinly w r apped flow er s a little
tighter. At the end of the str eet, he tur ned left, slipping into the shadow of a gr and
oak tr ee, taking the slight incline at a steady pace.
114

The chur ch was emer ging now , and a r ook was caw ing somew her e in the
gr ounds. The Chur ch of the Immaculate Passion. He passed thr ough the gate and
the pebbled path that led to the main entr ance clicked under foot. He follow ed it for
a few paces befor e cutting acr oss the gr ass, cir cling r ound to the r ear of the
building. He w eaved his way betw een slanting headstones and made his way
towar ds her. He came up quietly and stood for a few moments, hear t in his thr oat,
befor e softly saying, ?Hello, Mum.? The r ook caw ed again, fur ther away now. ?I?ve
br ought some flow er s,? he said, feeling a little foolish; but he laid them dow n all the
same, in fr ont of her headstone.
*
I am I am I am
I am a ghost, of sor ts. Existing inside a pr e-bir th memor y that is never called
upon. I am par t of a r eptilian br ain. What r emains of me is that par t w hich w ent
w ith my br other w hen w e w er e expelled. We w er e split and moulded fr om the
same mater ials. I cour se thr ough his blood and sw ell in his chest and thud in his
ear s, but he cannot hear me.
He is for getting.
*
Cassy noticed a differ ence in him almost str aight away ? nothing dr astic, but a
little something, nonetheless. A few days passed befor e she could put her finger on
w hat it was, though. They w er e out for the evening, some small pub on the way to
see a movie, and he was saying: ?I?m r emember ing so much mor e about her since I
w ent to her gr ave. It?s like I?d locked myself out fr om my ow n childhood, but it?s all
coming back now , y?know ? The good times.? That was w hen she r ealised: He?s not
frowning.
Over the next few months, his smile came mor e easily; she found ways of getting
115

closer to him that he had blocked off befor e. Cassy eased cautiously into this new
stage of their r elationship but never spoke to him about it for fear of scar ing it
away. He spoke mor e hopefully about finding a job, talked mor e openly about
ever ything; they talked mor e and touched mor e and shar ed silences. She felt this
new thing that clamour ed in her hear t to be named, but she ignor ed it. Best to let it
alone, she thought. Best not to lean on it now , w hile it?s too fr agile.
*
?How did the inter view go?? Cassy asked at the fr ont door.
?Pr etty good; you coming up?? Adam jogged up the stair s and she gently closed
the door and follow ed. She could hear his music befor e she was even on the
landing and she hear d him tur n it dow n befor e she r eached his r oom.
?Cup of tea?? he asked fr om the other side of the bedsit, r eaching for a
half-smoked cigar ette that balanced on the ashtr ay. The w indow was open and he
placed himself on the w indow sill, leaving the only chair in the r oom fr ee for her.
He was still w ear ing his shir t and tie fr om the job inter view and she studied him
appr ovingly. The small r oom smelt faintly of the after shave he?d used and it seemed
to her as if someone else had been her e moments befor e but had left just befor e
she?d ar r ived.
?Have you been bur gled?? she cast her eyes ar ound the r oom befor e tiptoeing
towar ds the chair thr ough the clutter on the floor.
?Just going thr ough some of my Mum?s stuff.? He held his cigar ettes out to her
and she shook her head.
?When w ill you hear ?? she asked.
?Mmm? Oh, they?r e inter view ing all next w eek as w ell, so not for a for tnight at
least. Tr eating it as a pr actice r un r ather than getting my hopes up. Check this out.?
He leaned acr oss his bed, plucked something off the duvet and handed it to her.
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?Photo album.?
?Oh my God!? Cassy squealed, ?little baby Adam!? She flipped thr ough the
photos, at tur ns aah-ing then giggling.
?Ther e?s one r ight at the back,? he was leaning over her shoulder now , ?must?ve
been taken w hen I was only a few hour s old.? She flipped to the last page and
indeed ther e was a pictur e all on its ow n: a tiny baby w r apped in a w hite blanket;
eyes closed.
?Sickly child,? she mur mur ed.
?Poor lighting? Adam defended.
?But you?r e almost blue!? She flipped the photo over. On the back in thin black
bir o was a date ? Adam?s bir thday ? and a quote: ?And they shall be one flesh, one
hear t, one soul ? EMMA? she r ead.
?You ever hear of a poem called ?Emma??? he asked. She shook her head.
?Ther e?s a book. Jane Austen. The quote doesn?t r ing a bell, though.? She flipped
the pictur e back over to consider the tiny, w r inkled gr ey face.
*
Cassy w oke smoothly to the noise but wasn?t sur e if it had come fr om inside the
r oom or fr om her sleep. She came to a little mor e, could smell smoke, and str etched
a hand acr oss to the empty side of the bed next to her. The noise came again and
she sat up a little. Adam was in the shadow s, sitting in the chair in the far cor ner ,
the tip of a cigar ette bobbing w her e his hand shook. He was cr ying. She slid out of
bed and as soon as he r ealised that she was awake he began to r ub at his eyes. She
sat by his feet and r ested her head in his lap.
"Hey,? she w hisper ed.
?Didn?t mean to wake you,? he said, his voice a little cr oaky. He took a pull on his
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cigar ette.
?What?s the matter ?? she asked.
?Oh? ? he wasn?t shaking anymor e; he was getting contr ol of his voice quickly;
the tear s had stopped. ?Just, sometimes? it?s nothing.?
?Tell me,? she ur ged quietly. She took one of his hands and kissed them. ?Tell
me.?
?I just ? this is embar r assing.?
?No, it?s not. It?s just the tw o of us her e.? He was quiet for a w hile, and then she
felt him shaking silently in the dar kness again.
?I just get these thoughts, sometimes,? and she could tell in his voice that tear s
w er e sliding dow n his face again. ?I get thoughts, Cassy.? She held him until he
stopped cr ying. Then she took his hand and led him back to the bed. They lay in
each other ?s ar ms in silence for a long time; she could feel his hear t. Then they
moved closer , came together ; ar ms, lips and legs; joined. After war ds, she held him
until he fell asleep; but w hile they had been connected something had passed
betw een them.
*
Months passed and the dr eams still came ? cr eeping up slow ly ? almost nightly
now ? to br oil and billow in the back of her sleeping mind.
Dr eams of Adam in the gar den, falling, hugging the ear th.
Dr eams of Adam at a mir r or ; pushing thr ough the mer cur ial sur face, at play w ith
his r eflection, for ming str angely-limbed cr eatur es, all fleshy loops and melted
for ms.
Dr eams of Adam gagging, pulse pounding in his thr oat, coughing up his hear t to
steam and thr ob on the floor. Not one hear t, though, but tw o small, eager or gans
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joined like cher r ies w ith a stalk of ar ter y. Cassy was ther e sometimes, pulling one of
those slick, feeble hear ts fr om its stem w ith her teeth like an animal at its
after bir th; swallow ing it; feeling it beating inside her belly.
With the mor nings, w ith consciousness, these dr eams w ould fade. In per ipher y,
in the last puffs of sleeping, they w er e r emember ed only by the uneasiness they left
behind -? the leviathan was never seen, only the distur bance in the water after its
sounding. Ever y mor ning Cassy w ould wake to this uncanny sense of loss, like the
face of a childhood fr iend that memor y couldn?t conjur e. Ever y mor ning she w ould
wake befor e Adam w ith a name almost upon her lips and then daylight beat its way
into her thoughts. Ever y mor ning she w ould watch him sleeping, listen to him
br eathing, and keep the feeling fr om him once he aw oke. She let him sleep.
*
?You look tir ed,? Adam said, looking into Cassy?s dar k eyes; ?w e can go another
time.? She shushed him.
?I told you I?d come,? she said. ?I want to come.?
?You still not getting a decent night?s sleep?? he asked. Above them, the number s
on the station?s clocked flipped over w ith a loud clack and the milling cr ow d began
to shuffle on their feet expectantly. He cr aned his neck dow n the tr ack to see if he
could spot their tr ain and slipped his hand into her s. He liked the way that it fitted
ar ound her s so comfor tably. She let her head sag onto his shoulder and he said to
her , ?Rest on the tr ain if you want.?
The jour ney seemed shor ter to Adam this time. Per haps because he was eager this
time to shar e his new s at his mother ?s gr aveside. He didn?t want to keep Cassy in
the cemeter y too long, so if she per ked up a little he?d pr obably suggest a str oll
thr ough the tow n or a pub lunch. If not, then he?d get her home nice and ear ly.
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Cassy tr ied to close her eyes, but the r ocking of the car r iage dislodged too many
thoughts and unsettled her. She made her excuses and stumbled dow n the lur ching
aisle to the toilets. In chemical astr ingency of that small, swaying r oom she felt
nauseous and dr y r etched a couple of times into the stainless steel bow l. Once
they?d r eached their stop she was glad to be on the solid platfor m and took in
lungfuls of air as though the cold might flush this uneasiness out of her system. All
the time she could see unspoken concer n in Adam?s eyes; she noticed each small
scr utiny of her w ell-being. She for ced smiles to her lips and w ished that she could
settle her self for his sake. She couldn?t walk as fast as he, so once they began their
way to the chur ch it took longer than he had expected. It was a full half-hour befor e
they spotted the steeple betw een the houses, and the easy slope to that empty place
w or e her out. The nausea had gone, though, and as Adam tr ied the locked door to
the chur ch so that she might sit dow n inside Cassy said that she?d r ather r est for a
w hile on the bench in the gr aveyar d.
?Is ther e a bench back ther e?? Adam asked, and they began to make their way to
the r ear of the chur ch.
?Ther e?s always a bench,? she said; and although she?d never been her e befor e
she knew ther e w ould be an old w ooden seat under neath high, ivied r ailings.
Sitting w ith a loud exhalation, she pulled her coat collar up and watched Adam
str oll thr ough this silent gar den towar ds his mother. In his long coat, w ith his legs
hidden behind headstones, he seemed to glide thr ough the gr aveyar d. She watched
him for a few minutes but felt like she was intr uding upon something pr ivate.
Instead, she looked up at the w hite Autumn sky, tr aced the naked tr ee limbs and
listened to the distant sounds of tr affic. She wanted to go to his side, she wanted to
see for her self, but it was calm w her e she was sitting, and she was afraid of
remembering her dreams of this place.
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She?d dr eamt of Adam again. He had been her e, at his mother ?s gr ave, but not to
see her. She?d dr eamt of him pulling the over gr ow th away fr om the tiny headstone
next to his mother ?s; clear ing the leaves fr om that plot. It had been night-time in the
dr eam but they?d both been able to r ead the w or n inscr iption: Adam?s bir thday, the
name Emma, and the fr agment of poetr y taken ? she knew this somehow ? fr om a
book that Adam?s mother had studied w hen she had been at univer sity. His tw in
sister ?s gr ave. She watched him now , feet fr om the small plot w hich she knew was
ther e. He was oblivious and she w ouldn?t have said a w or d to snatch that innocence
fr om him now that he was finally happy. In the dr eam he had been on his knees,
digging his finger s into the moist ear th as dr izzle patted his head and back w ith
cold kisses. Pulling up clumps of musty ear th and pr essing them to his face. Feeling
the sod that had lain betw een him and his sister for 19 year s heave upwar ds
slightly.
Now he glanced over at her and she smiled. She saw him saying something to the
gr ound and then he was gliding back towar ds her thr ough the mar ker s and stone
memor ies, as though he w er e a ghost alr eady and she had met him too late.
In her dr eam, the w ind had pushed the gather ing r ain into his face as he tor e at
the gr ound. The loneliness beneath him r ose like a smell to gr eet him. He r eached
the tiny coffin. He claw ed ar ound the fr agile w ooden casket until he had enough
pur chase to lift the w eightless load out, br eathing heavily, feeling a thr obbing fr om
inside the box, w r enching the lid off and cr ying out.
?You hungr y?? he called out to her and she shook her head.
Ther e she lay. The dr eam r ushed back to Cassy now. All of it. Adam stood in the
pit he?d dug, r ever ently cur led his hands under his sister as if she w er e a kitten and
lifted the tiny skeleton out of its coffin. The smell of fr eshly dug ear th filled his
nostr ils and he cast the empty casket aside, his head giddy, blood pounding in his
ear s. And ever so slow ly ? as if he w er e tr ying not to wake her ? he dr opped to his
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knees then onto one elbow , then finally dow n onto his side. He held her close,
cur ling himself ar ound her as the r ain began to fall in ear nest, filling the hole in
w hich they lay. The ear th ar ound them tur ned to mud and began to slide back over
them, but he didn?t car e. He lay his head next to her s and closed his eyes.
?You look a little better ,? Adam said as he r eached Cassy, dr opping himself onto
the bench beside her. She leaned acr oss and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ?Do
you feel okay?? he asked.
For a time, in her dr eam, befor e the mud closed over them completely, Adam and
his sister shar ed his hear tbeat betw een them and w er e at peace.
?Do you feel okay?? he r epeated, and Cassy nodded wanly. He placed a light
hand on her stomach, leaned conspir ator ially towar ds it and w hisper ed, ?And w hat
about you? Ar e you doing okay in ther e too??
Cassy answ er ed for the gir l that gr ew inside her. She knew it was a gir l.
?I am.?
About the author
Andrew Lyall is an aspiring horror writer and lifelong horror lover. He lives in the
South of England with two dogs and a very understanding fiancée (who has now
seen more horror films than she?d ever imagined she would). He hosts a YouTube
channel called Grumpy Andrew?s Horror House and his first short story,
?Crowthorne?, was published earlier this year in ?Local Haunts?, a charity anthology
written by horror YouTubers.
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Quercu de Cordibus Vestris
by John Clewarth
I?ve always had a love of ?period?ghost stories, M.R. James and H.P.
Lovecraft ? and this story combines flavours of all three! Add in a
generous sprinkling of trees and the great outdoors plus a tablespoon
full of suspense, and Quercu de Cordibus Vestris is the result of this very
strange recipe.
Can't you see? I love you
Please don't break my heart in two
That's not hard to do
'Cause I don't have a wooden heart
Wooden Hear t : Elvi s Pr esl ey ? 1960
Si r Cl ar ence Whi t l ock dr ew deeply on hi s l ar ge ci gar , sl owly ex hal i ng t he
bl ui sh sm ok e.
It sw ir led in the war m air of the Club, w r apping itself ar ound the gas lights,
tw isting thr ough the br anches of the tastefully-decor ated Chr istmas tr ee like an
indolent ghost. Whitlock was a lar ge man, in all aspects; br oad-shoulder ed, hefty of
gir th, and gr uff-voiced. He looked evenly at me, thr ough eyes that bor e clar ity
nor mally seen in much younger men: they w er e small, br ow n and eagle-like.
Bushy w hite br ow s bor der ed these, set in a r uddy face, bear ded and lined, giving
mute testament to ever y one of his seventy or so year s.
He leaned for war d, taking up the glass of br andy fr om his side table, befor e
settling back in his gr eat leather chair - a metaphor ical king on his thr one. The
image was compounded by the lar ge por tr ait of Whitlock, star ing out gr andly,
alongside the pr eceding pr esidents of the Club. A Latin phr ase, car ven into a
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polished br ass plaque, was set into the wall above the paintings: Quercu de Cordibus
Vestris.
Whitlock saw my inter est in the inscr iption. ?Hear ts of Oak, old chap. A fitting
epithet for the pr esidents of the Elmsall, w ouldn?t you say?? The question was
pur ely r hetor ical and he immediately continued. ?So, Bainbr idge, you?ve declar ed
an inter est in member ship of this histor ic establishment. What is it that you think
you can br ing to our Club, w er e w e to gr ant you entr y??
The man was so pompous.
?Well, sir ,? I r eplied, w ith a gestur e to the cluster s of tw eed-suited gentlemen
situated about the high-ceilinged r oom, ?I feel I have much in common w ith your
member s; I have acquir ed a ver y comfor table standar d of living, fr om my
accountancy business. I w ould cer tainly have no difficulty in managing the annual
fees.
In fact, I w ould be mor e than happy to make a gener ous donation to the Elmsall,
in addition? ? I paused, in or der to take note of the glint in Whitlock?s eye, and
r ealized that the bait was being sniffed.
He nodded, sagely, mur mur ing, ?Go on.?
?I am an old Etonian.? Flashing the old school tie couldn?t do any har m. ?And
my father is confident that my application to the Fr eemasons w ill be appr oved in
the near futur e.?
I obser ved a know ing smile flicker on his lips, befor e it disappear ed as quickly as
it had come. ?Mmm? Indeed. But one thing puzzles me, Bainbr idge. My sour ces
infor m me that you ar e w idow ed. This is a gentlemen?s club; that is, a club for
gentlemen w ho, to be fr ank,? (he tapped the side of his nose, conspir ator ially) ?w ish
to escape, for a time, the pressures of domesticity ? w ife, childr en, ser vants... Ther e
ar e a gr eat many other s that w ould appeal to a single, available young man. Why
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then, I ask you, do you w ish to be a par t of our exclusive society, w her e the female
is not per mitted acr oss the thr eshold?? A low r ipple of laughter emitted fr om a tr io
to my left, w ho w er e clear ly eavesdr opping.
Whitlock smir ked, ?Would your good lady have appr oved??
Fr om his ver y tone, I could elicit that his view of w omen was, at best, scor nful.
?I have been the victim of a ter r ible tr agedy, sir. My w ife was taken fr om me by
the hand of a killer. Ther e can be no other w oman for me. I am a single man,
unattached until the day my time comes to join dear Emily again.?
My r evelation achieved pr ecisely the r esponse I had anticipated: not sympathetic,
but bland. The man didn?t car e at all about my loss.
His next w or ds, how ever , contr adicted his facial expr ession: ?I am impr essed by
your fr ankness, and mor e than a little intr igued by your sad tale.? He gestur ed to a
passing waiter , indicating for him to br ing tw o mor e dr inks. ?Come, Bainbr idge.
Our glasses ar e to be r echar ged - tell me the backgr ound to your ter r ible loss. How
did the death occur ??
Dr aw ing on the cigar again, his face became fleetingly masked in smoke, save for
the beady eyes. Time elapsed, as I ponder ed how to begin.
?Sir ?? The waiter placed another br andy beside Whitlock, then lifted my scotch
and water fr om his silver tr ay and set it on my ow n side table. The waiter depar ted,
and I sipped my dr ink, closing my eyes as it war med my gullet.
?Bainbr idge?? Whitlock ur ged me on, a hint of impatience in his voice.
?Ver y w ell, sir ,? I r esponded, star ing into the or nately-bor der ed fir eplace.
Tw isting, cr ackling flames, w elcome in the cold of this December night, dr ew me
back in time to the war mth of the mid-August evening that had become the w or st of
my life. The images began to for m in my mind?s-eye, and I commenced to r elate my
stor y to the hungr y ear s of Whitlock.
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?Emily and I had been at tea at her mother ?s house in Tr epping-New or th. We
w ould often visit on Sunday after noons. Such a char ming and elegant old lady; it
was easy to see w her e Emily inher ited her natur al beauty.? My eyes misted, yet I
steeled myself to continue. ?We decided not to take a Hansom for the jour ney back
to our ow n house, electing instead to walk the tw o or thr ee miles, to take the
summer evening air.
I r emember , most vividly, the fading of the daylight and the gr adual appear ing of
the star s; the evening was clear and the heat of the day had not yet faded. A
favour ite walk of our s was along Old Coach Road, w hich r an for about a mile and a
half betw een the tw o villages of Tr epping-New or th and Hague.
It was a tr uly beautiful and r estful place for a str oll.? I mentally noted, to my ow n
sur pr ise, that I was speaking in the past tense about the location, as though it no
longer existed.
I continued. ?The r oad itself was r eally no mor e than a tr ack. Coaches r ar ely
tr avelled ther e, since the constr uction of the new er cir cuitous r oad, w ith its smooth
sur face. The r utted gr ound was unpr oblematic for r omantic walker s, such as Emily
and myself.? I momentar ily paused, to take a shar p dr ink of my scotch. The flames
in the gothic gr ate continued their mesmer ic dance. I became lost in time once
mor e, visualising the tr ee-lined ver dancy of Old Coach Road.
?This par ticular day was a ver y special one. We had the best of new s for Emily?s
mother ? she was to become a gr andmother.? Difficult as this was for me, I was
deter mined to obser ve Whitlock?s ever y r eaction. His eyebr ow s r ose at this, and
the fir st look of genuine sur pr ise cr ossed his face.
I pr essed on. Ther e was impor tant business to attend to. "Yes, w e had been to the
physician and he had advised that, although it was ver y ear ly days, Emily was
undoubtedly w ith child. He said it might be pr udent to wait befor e telling fr iends
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and family, as this stage of the pr egnancy often pr oved most difficult; and, God
for bid, the chances of miscar r iage w er e higher at that time.
Emily was conscientious and w ould have entir ely heeded the physician?s advice,
but it was I w ho per sisted in ur ging her to tell her mother. ?Just your mother,?I
badger ed. And, inevitably, she had given in, although she r eally did not take too
much per suading...?
The gener al mur mur of conver sation continued in the oak-panelled r oom. On the
far side, a small, thin, bespectacled gentleman was being given his cape, hat and
cane, by a door man. Even fr om w her e I sat, as the door opened I felt the icy blast of
the w inter w ind per meate the r oom. A few unmistakable bar s of O Christmas Tree,
wafted in on the shar p br eeze; the Salvation Ar my band r aised many a pr etty
penny fr om the lubr icated gentlemen, as they depar ted the Club, making dow n
payments for their seats in Heaven? A glance at one of the lar ge w indow s r evealed
a lar ge oak, thr ashing w ildly in the huge gusts. It was in contr ast w ith the Nor way
Spr uce, pine-fr esh and peaceful in the cocoon of this r oom; and unlike the r estful
boughs of the tr ees that had bor der ed Old Coach Road that day. How ever , tr ees in
any for m commanded a special place in my hear t; I felt such an affinity for them,
such empathy w ith them. After all, like me, those tr ees w er e helpless w itnesses to
the atr ocities of that evening.
The fir e emitted a loud popping sound, as a knotty piece of w ood exploded in a
show er of spar ks. ?Bainbr idge,? Whitlock gr uffly spoke, ?The hour is gr ow ing late.
Please ? pr oceed.?
It was clear that I had him gr ipped. Did I detect the slightest tr emor of uncer tainty
in his voice? ?Of cour se, for give me, sir. As I said, coaches w er e r ar e on Old Coach
Road, but not unhear d of, even in these moder n times. Emily and I hear d the
appr oach of the w heels long befor e w e saw them. It caused us no concer n; w e w er e
too w r apped up in our happiness. It became appar ent, how ever ,
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as the coach and four dr ew near er , that it was tr avelling at a r ate far fr om safe.
As w e tur ned to look, I saw that the hor ses foamed at the mouth, maybe due to the
ear ly evening heat and the demands of the dr iver ! The coach thundered on and
bounced madly on the cr acked ear th. Then, to my hor r or , I saw that the left-hand
w heel had become detached!?
There it was! The fear that I had been waiting to see, in his icy eyes!
?You ar e per spir ing, sir. Per haps w e sit too close to the fir e??
The eavesdr opper s mur mur ed to one another uneasily, as Whitlock mopped at his
br ow w ith a pocket-handker chief. I pr essed on, r elentless now that I felt close to the
goal?
?The w heel bow led for war d ? unstoppable, inescapable; such was its velocity.
Tr y as I desper ately did, I was unable to pull dear Emily fr om its path! She was
hopelessly cr ushed, along w ith ever y dr eam I held close to my hear t. The w heel
car eer ed onwar d until its jour ney was finally halted by a huge oak tr ee.?
Whitlock star ed at me now , his face ashen, his w or ds stilled, as sur ely as the
coach w heel on that fateful day.
?You know ,? I half-w hisper ed, ?I could have sw or n that, as the huge w heel hit the
oak, I hear d that tr ee scream!? The volume of my voice had incr eased, and I
became awar e that all other conver sation in the caver nous r oom had halted. The
stor m outside had r eached epic pr opor tions - mighty sw ipes of w ind r attled the
panes and sleet batter ed the glass.
Whitlock?s jaw hung slackly, gr im awar eness beginning to unhinge his mind. But I
hadn?t finished w ith him yet! I had to put the final punctuation mar k - the full STOP
- on his sanity. Befor e?
?I knelt by Emily?s poor br oken body, as the coach cr ashed to a stop. Thr ough
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blur r ed eyes, I could see that it had collapsed onto one side, and the hor ses had
br oken fr ee fr om tor n tether s, pounding away dow n Old Coach Road.?
?Get this man out of her e,? Whitlock half-shouted, half-moaned, as if in agony.
Yet not a man moved.
?As I cr adled Emily in my ar ms, I saw the dr iver stagger ing to his feet in the r oad,
ahead of the over tur ned coach. As he stood, swaying in the dusk, he pulled fr om his
belt, a pistol!?
Whitlock tr ied to get up fr om his chair , but was unable; per haps due to the effects
of the alcohol - inebr iated, just as he had been on that dr eadful day. He clutched at
his chest, gasping for br eath w hich labour ed to come.
?You pointed that pistol str aight at my hear t, Whitlock. And you pulled the
tr igger ? You couldn?t affor d the scandal, could you?? He shook his head feebly,
quietly w hining now , eyes pleading.
?Even intoxicated as you w er e, you made off acr oss the fields then had your
?men?r etur n to satur ate the coach in petr ol or some such thing. Shielded by tr ees,
they disposed of the evidence. By the time the r esulting fir e was discover ed, it was
far too late! You left me ? and my beloved Emily ? bleeding in the dust of the
r oadway. Like tw o w hipped cur s? ?
Whitlock?s w or ds came as little mor e than a hoar se cr oak: ?My dr iver had been
taken ill, that?s w hy I was? You w er e dead? Both of you?
Dead? ?
And ther e it was. The equivalence of a confession.
Ther e was only one thing r emaining to do.
I slow ly but fir mly pulled open my shir t at the fr ont, to r eveal the r agged hole
w her e the bullet had passed thr ough to my hear t. Whitlock?s eyes gaped madly
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now , as the huge bough of the oak smashed thr ough the w indow , simultaneous
w ith the emer gence of the br anchlet fr om my r iven chest. Glass flew acr oss the
r oom, ?gentlemen?r an for the door , but Whitlock sat mesmer ized. Tendr ils of w ood
slither ed fr om my ear s and mouth and began to for ce my eyes fr om their sockets.
And still, the bough continued fr om my shatter ed br east:
oaken, alive!
Whitlock slumped for war d, eyes star ing blindly. His mew ling ceased, as the other
inhabitants of the r oom fled the glor ious r enaissance, like stampeding cattle.
The invading oak still thr ashed w ildly outside the devastated w indow , but now it
mutely ur ged me on, in a gestur e of beckoning.
My ow n tendr ils ? my branches? r eached out, out?
The r esulting communion was sur r eal, yet glor iously natur al. I sensed her , felt her.
Mor eover , ther e was something else; something embr yonic ? and beautiful.
And w e mer ged again. A tr inity in the hear tw ood.
The jar r ing bell of an ambulance could be hear d in the distance.
It w ould, of cour se, be too late.
Outside the Elmsall Club, an age-old, colossal oak stood fir m, in the subsiding w inds
of a dying stor m.
About the author
Whilst mainly writing chillers for children and young adults, including the People?s
Book Prize finalist, ?Firestorm Rising?and ?Demons in the Dark?, John Clewarth has
had over 50 short adult horror stories published in the independent press, under
the pseudonym, John Saxton; including a horror collection: ?Bloodshot?.His work
has featured/will feature in the podcasts, The Wicked Library, Creepypasta, Tales
to Terrify, and Planet Raconteur.He is also Fiction Editor for Horrified Magazine.
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T he D ead Millennium
by JL Flannery
The Dead Millennium is a traditional ghost story with literal and
metaphorical ghosts from the past. NYE 1999 was fraught with anxiety
as the threat of the Y2K Millennium Bug loomed large over the nation's
celebrations of hope and optimism for the future, making it a perfect
setting for a Christmas ghost story.
Sam l ay on t he sof a, paper cr ow n at a dr unk en angl e, t he gl ow of t he
tel evi si on f l ashi ng acr oss hi s f ace i n t he dar k ness. Outside, the gr ound was dead
and har d, chur ch bells echoed thr ough bar e str eets, cold air r attled the letter box.
Next door , his w ife clear ed away plates fr om the table w hilst in this r oom his
daughter sat on the floor near the Chr istmas tr ee, gr avy stains on her dr ess,
clutching a pack of cr ayons in her hand.
Typical, Sam thought, all that money spent on expensive plastic and all she wants to
play with is paper and pens.
Sam star ed at the r ainbow scr ibbles on the page tr ying to decipher them. Sensing
she was being watched, Chloe tur ned to look at her daddy and gave a r osy-cheeked
smile. Sam felt a pain in his chest the way he always did w henever she looked at
him. He got up fr om the sofa and leaned in over her.
"Chloe, w hat?s that you?r e dr aw ing?"
She pointed at the gr een tr iangle on the page. "That?s the Chr istmas tr ee w ith all
the lights on."
"And w hat about that shape ther e?" He pointed at the r ed squar e next to it.
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"This is the house w her e the par ty happens."
Sam smiled to himself. He couldn?t r emember having a Chr istmas par ty since
Chloe had been bor n. She must have over hear d other kids talking.
Chloe scr aw led other shapes and pointed w ith her cr ayon.
"And this her e is you."
He took the paper fr om her hand and star ed at it. For a moment, Sam str uggled to
say anything, the br eath fir mly lodged in his thr oat.
"Chloe, w ho did this? Who told you to dr aw this?" He could hear the panic in his
ow n voice.
The little gir l backed away but he gr abbed her r oughly by the w r ist and pulled her
towar ds him, a mixtur e of fur y and fear. Chloe tr ied to squir m out of his gr ip,
fr ightened by the look in her daddy?s eyes.
"Daddy let go! Stop shouting!"
Sam felt the pain in his chest again. He swayed on his feet, head spinning. In the
distance, he hear d the chime of chur ch bells and felt the bur n of w hiskey on his
tongue as the memor y he had bur ied for almost a decade cr ept up on him w ith
star tling clar ity.
"? And as thousands of revellers prepare to celebrate, here at the Millennium
Dome, spare a thought for the thousands of businesses who are busy preparing for
the computer meltdown the press are calling ?the millennium bug? "
Sam switched off the radio.
"Sam! I was listening to that."
But Sam was the one driving and that meant he had the final say on what they
listened to. "Don?t tell me you believe that shit too. As if the world?s going to collapse
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just because the clocks have reached midnight."
He was a different Sam then: eighteen; optimistic; convinced his were the generation
to change the world for the better. He saw now what he really was then: arrogant,
selfish, naive.
"I think that was it." Dan pointed to the driveway as they drove past.
"Great, you could have warned me."
"Sorry, I was expecting a village. Other houses, at least. I didn?t realise it was in the
middle of nowhere."
Sam pulled up on the verge at the side of the road, to turn around. The driver behind
blasted his horn as he sped past them.
As they neared the driveway they?d missed the first time around, they noticed a
poorly made sign with the words ?This way to Party?scrawled in black marker pen.
The driveway was narrow and uneven and Sam moaned about it harming the
suspension on his Metro. The driveway finally opened out to reveal the house up
ahead, draped in garish fairy lights.
Inside, the music was already blasting. Sam had no idea who the host was, or where
Dan had disappeared to whilst he had found a place to park and so took his natural
place in the kitchen where girls in sparkly tops made ill-advised cocktails of vodka
and red bull. People were jovial; it was the dawn of a new century, but Sam couldn?t
help feeling uneasy. He poured himself a whiskey and forced himself to be happy.
By eleven o?clock he felt the atmosphere in the house change. Sam was most of the
way through the bottle of whiskey. He spotted Dan talking to an attractive blond,
priming her ready for midnight?s kiss, the designated dance floor seeming more
appealing as it drew nearer to midnight. The cocktail drinking girls were arguing
with one another, mascara streaked down their faces in black tears. The room grew
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fuzzy at the edges with every drink Sam gulped down.
And then he saw her, completely in focus. Laura.
He gulped the whiskey back, feeling comfort as it burned in his guts. Dan said she
wouldn?t be here. Dan had lied.
She entered hand in hand with a lad he recognised from Sunday league football. He
couldn?t look up for fear of vomiting. Before he knew it, he was surrounded by the
scent of her perfume. And he was too terrified to look up.
"Hi Sam, how are you?"
When he finally did look up, he was relieved to find she was on her own.
"Great," he sneered. He noticed she was pouring two drinks.
"I assume that one?s not for me."
"Don?t be like that Sam. It?s New Year?s Eve. I didn?t want to come to a party by
myself."
"You wouldn?t have been by yourself. There were loads of people here the last time I
looked." It was meant to sound charming but he could tell by her response that, under
the influence of too much whiskey it hadn?t come out that way at all.
"Sam, please. It?s been three months. I?m the one who should be upset. It was you
who cheated on me, remember?"
He watched her walk away, two drinks in her hands. She was right. He had cheated
on her. With some girl he?d met in a nightclub and never saw again. Their
relationship thrown away on a one-night stand.
The girls in the kitchen had stopped arguing with each other and instead were
looking in his direction. No chance of a midnight kiss from anyone now. Well, screw
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them. Unable to stand the party any longer, he grabbed what was left of the bottle of
whiskey and left the room.
He couldn?t recall how he ended up sitting in the seat of his car, keys dangling from
the ignition. He heard cheering coming from inside the house, the bells chiming
midnight like a death knell. There were dark shapes kissing in the doorway. He tried
not to think about how one of them may have been Laura and the other shape,
someone else who wasn?t him.
As he turned the key and the car coughed into life, he convinced himself he was
sober, ignoring the amount of times the engine stalled as he drove along the rocky
path and out of the driveway. The car crawled up to the junction that led onto the
main road. Glancing left and right, it was as if the bug had already taken hold and the
Armageddon arrived. There was not another car in sight.
No one cares. The thought whirled around Sam?s brain. People are too busy pulling
party poppers to notice a single drunk driver, he told himself. Besides, there is no one
here to see it happen. And so, he turned right into the road and pressed hard on the
accelerator.
The road glistened with frost. The trees overhanging either side, he felt like he was
speeding through a dark tunnel. Soon the music and the cheers and memories of
Laura were just a murmur in the distance. Certain there were no sirens following
behind him, he sped up until soon he was surrounded only by long, black tarmac and
silence.
He didn?t see the little girl until it was too late. Her wide-eyed expression flashing in
front of the headlights moments before he felt the car smash into her, sending her
flying over the bonnet and onto the tarmac behind.
Sam skidded to a halt, some metres down the road.
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"Oh my god," he heard himself say over and over, "Oh my god."
His neck ached from braking so sharply. In the rearview mirror, he saw her
mangled body, lying across the road like an injured animal. Maybe, he was mistaken.
"Please God, let me be mistaken."
But it was when he got out of the car and started walking back towards her and
could see her neck hanging oddly at an angle, that he knew she was definitely dead.
The whisky rose in his windpipe. A pain in his chest.
Think. Think. Gloves. Mustn?t leave any prints.
He looked around. The road was still silent. Nobody would know. What was a little
girl doing out on her own in the middle of the night anyway? What the hell were her
parents thinking letting her roam the streets? They were probably drunk themselves,
singing in the New Year, completely unaware that she had snuck out without them
noticing.
Without looking at her face, he grabbed onto her wrists and dragged her off the
road and into the holly bushes. She was wearing a green velvet coat. With any luck,
she would be camouflaged by the leaves and not found for a couple of days. By which
time he'd be back in the halls of residence, miles away from here.
When it was done, he walked back to the car. He took a quick look at the bonnet and
was amazed to see there were no dents. No trace of evidence. No proof it had ever
even happened. He got into his car and drove away.
Psychotherapists gave several diagnoses for his heightened state of anxiety over the
months that followed. Some attributed blame to his mother abandoning the family
when he was small. Some blamed it on depression and the heartbreak of Laura
dumping him. Some said it was stress. Only he knew the truth and he never revealed
it to another living soul for fear that it would destroy him. Better to keep quiet and
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simply wait for the situation to just disappear.
For months he scanned newspapers for stories of the dead girl; looked for press
conferences from distraught parents on the television. There was nothing to
incriminate him. It was as though she had never existed.
In the years that followed, the memory of the girl?s contorted body surprised him at
times. Sometimes he thought he saw her, just a glimpse of her. Her accusing eyes in
the rear-view mirror as he drove to work; her face hiding among supermarket aisles;
sometimes she was just an ordinary girl in a green velvet coat, playing on swings in
the park. Eventually, the memory of her face faded. Just another ghost of his youth.
Sometimes, he wondered if she had ever existed at all. He wondered if the therapists
were right. If, like Y2K, she too had been a myth, threatening to bring his life crashing
around him when, in actual fact, it had had no significance on his life whatsoever.
A decade later , her e he was. Sam. Thir ty-tw o year s old. Mar r ied. A teacher. A
gr ow n-up. Responsible.
He looked dow n at the pictur e he held in his hand in disbelief. A dr aw ing, so
detailed it had to be him r unning fr om the car. The gir l lying in the r oad in her
gr een coat, her bent neck and hideous gr in star ing out of the page at him.
"I w on?t ask you again Chloe. Who told you about this?"
His daughter was cr ying now.
"She did." She pointed to the dr aw ing of the gir l in the gr een coat, her face r ed
w ith tear s. "The gir l told me."
"What ar e you talking about? What gir l?"
"The gir l in the gr een coat. The gir l standing r ight behind you."
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About the author
Based in the heart of Warwickshire, JL Flannery loves anything with a hint of the
macabre. She has had stories previously featured on Horror podcast Pseudopod
and her apocalyptic story 'Heads or Tails?' was shortlisted for Storgy's
Annihilation Radiation competition. She is currently writing her first novel. .
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Cervidae
by Amy Easton
My favourite place is the Olympic National Forest. I was hiking among
the dripping pines when I found the rotting corpse of an elk and I was
fascinated that such a beautiful creature could be so terrifying in death.
That image and the horror it represents have stayed with me and in the
spirit of giving, I am sharing this horror with you.
18th November
I cl i ck ed of f t he r adi o and t ur ned m y head to t he bl ur r ed dar k ness as we joi ned t he
Nor t h Ci r cul ar . Red on w hite on r ed on w hite in the black. Steve made a low r umbling in
his thr oat, a familiar half-gr ow l that told me something was on his mind.
?What??
He lifted his finger s fr om the w heel, an instant sur r ender. I softened my voice, away fr om
confr ontation.
?What? I didn?t know you w er e a Boney M fan.?
?It?s not the song.?
He smiled w ith a flash of his teeth. I love his teeth.
?It?s star ted ear ly this year ,? he obser ved.
?Right? Ever y year , soon w e w on?t even get to Hallow een befor e they?r e playing this
shit? ?
?I meant you.?
We slow ed at the lights and sat in damp silence. Wet dog days, w e called these, w her e the
w eather comes inside and follow s you home. Sticks to your skin. His hand left the gear
stick to squeeze my knee.
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?Do you think you should talk to someone??
I w ent back to the safety of smear ed glass, avoiding the dar k sway of tr ees beyond. It was
cr eeping in w ith mor e confidence now , as soon as the leaves change. Making itself know n.
Maybe it was the changing per spective that comes w ith age but I?m sur e it is getting closer ,
cir cling my waggons. I huddled deeper into my coat as if polyester and duck dow n could
stall the chill.
?Alex??
?It w on?t help. They w on?t under stand it.?
?I know but? ?
?You don?t under stand.?
Another gr ow l, softer this time.
?I know.?
Red on w hite on r ed on w hite, in the black.
He didn?t br ing it up for the r est of the night. We ate, w e smoked, w e loved and then he
slept. I sur r ender ed to bed w ith the sw eet smell of candle high in my nose. Steve had
bought it as a gift to r emind me of home and I focused on the deep, alpine scent, the cold
w et secr ets of scatter ed for ests. I pictur ed the gather of pines, succulent gr een until you
look r ight at them and then they stand, black as midnight, sentr ies to the gates beyond.
Winter sun filter ing thr ough needles as the knife-edged season?s thr eat r ustles their
boughs. It tugged at my hear t. He must have sear ched to find a wax w ith such natur al
scent.
My eyes star ted to dr ift and then a loop of panic hooked my thr oat. The for ests w er e safe
fr om a distance but even in memor y they br ought something w ith them. For a few days
now it had been a feeling, an itch in my hear t but now it show ed itself, a dar k shape
moving thr ough leaf and bar k, gliding silently as if above the cr ackling needlebeds. The
shadow stealthed into the r oom, bar r ing light fr om the hallway door w ith four solid str uts
of leg. A low intake of br eath and sudden belch of musky steam fr om its damp flanks as it
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shook itself off, and tw o keen dots of eyes r ose up, pale as str eam-bleached stones,
unblinking, to find me.
I sat up to confr ont it, my hear t r abbit-fast in my thr oat. Steve?s hand was at my hip.
?You ok?? His mouth was muffled w ith sleep.
It had slipped back into the shadow br ackens. I let him comfor t me onto my side and I
waited, as his br eathing slow ed again. The r oom was empty but I knew it w ould be back,
on the cold br eeze, at the glass of the w indow. The soft tap of its unhur r ied but inevitable
pace.
Red on w hite on r ed on w hite in the black.
21st November
Mandy was pissing me off but I was good at keeping my cool in the office, mostly because
nothing her e r eally matter ed. I pushed the sheet of paper back acr oss the desk and
sw ivelled away fr om her.
?Come on, Alex. It?s just a meal, you?r e not selling your soul.?
?I?ve got plans.?
?You didn?t even look at the date! They?r e paying, you know ? Meal and tw o dr inks and
that includes cocktails. It was r eally fun last year , the guys fr om IT came along and Sally at
fr ont desk.?
I inhaled thr ough my nose and gave her a sad smile.
?It?s not r eally my thing. Chr istmas. It?s a har d time of year for me.?
?Oh.?
The bounce flushed out of her cheeks. I could see her cr umple under the aw kwar dness of
being per ched on my desk, pencil skir t gr ipped tight acr oss her thighs.
?I?m sor r y love, I didn?t mean to? ?
I could have let her w r iggle off the hook but I didn?t have the ener gy for unnecessar y
kindness.
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I was alr eady tir ed of gr appling for excuses ar ound the constant thr ob of dr ead. It had
follow ed me that mor ning fr om the tube stop to the office, slinking thr ough r ailings and
br ambles and half-lit lamp posts, always str aying at the ner vous edges of my eye line. On
the back of r estless empty nights, I had little left for Mandy or anyone else w ithout such
tr oubles.
?I?m sur e you?ll have a good night.?
?Alr ight, love.?
She str utted back to the safety of her desk, yanking her skir t. I delved back into the for est
of little black pixels dotting my spr eadsheets and w or d docs.
29th November
?After noon. You know w e?r e going to mum?s later ??
The war mth of pancakes and coffee had dr agged me up. Sw ir ls of fr ost laced the kitchen
w indow s w ith a fanciful flour ish, her alding the fir st r eally cold day of the season. He
kissed my bar e shoulder and plated up.
?Will the C-w or d be mentioned?? I asked.
?Don?t talk about Jess like that.?
He always makes me smile no matter how thick-headed I wake. I dr ank tea, too hot, and
cur sed.
?Chr istmas,? I pr ompted.
He didn?t use the w or d ar ound me, par tly because his family made holidays mor e of a
chor e than a joy to him. He had also stopped asking about seeing my mum.
?I?m sur e it w ill. Mum wants to see the boys but Jess w ill say they have their tr aditions so
they?ll go at it for a bit. Then they?ll lay into Jodie instead, that?s their favour ite bonding
exper ience. We just have to eat lasagne and dr ink w ine, put the boys to bed - Noah and Josh
love their pumpkin nightlights, by the way - and then w e?ll be out of ther e. Minimum
C-w or d talk, I pr omise.?
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I watched his back as he pour ed coffee. The str aight edge of his shoulder s suggested
something else.
?Mum wants to know if w e?ll be ther e for lunch on the 25th. She?ll pr obably ask about it.
Do you feel up to that??
The thought came w ith a sick sw ell of dr ead but it w ould be less ter r ifying than spending
the day alone. I had ducked out of family lunch last year w ith a stomach bug and spent the
hour s str etched out on the sofa, blinded by gin, tr ash TV and the viscer al ter r or of the dar k
pr essing at the w indow s and tw isting itself into the cur tains. By the time Steve had got
back, I didn?t have to fake sickness; I spent the r est of the year in bed. He under stands
mor e than I could ask of him but those bleak days had fr ightened him and I doubt he
w ould leave me alone this time.
?Cour se. Time w ith the boys w ould be nice.?
The noose tightened a little mor e. I dipped back into my tea.
?Or w e could just stay in. Join them for Boxing Day,? he offer ed.
I avoided his eyes. Under standing is one thing but I can?t stand the musky stink of pity,
even fr om him.
?Lunch sounds good. It?s just another day, isn?t it??
?That?s the spir it.?
I watched him flick thr ough the post and open a handw r itten envelope. It was a car d.
?Ah, it?s fr om Geor ge. He says him and Nicky ar e getting mar r ied next year.?
The car d show ed a black ink sketch of a snow y scene. A cottage stood in the backgr ound,
a cur l of chimney smoke fr aming the simple piece.
?Do you think w e?ll get an invite??
The opaque shape of a doe stood in the for egr ound, her gr aceful neck mir r or ing the
cur ve of the moon above. She star ed out of the flat w hite w ith black dot eyes. I saw her
ear s tw itch, her muzzle lifting ever so slightly to sense the air.
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?Alex??
I told him I was fine and that he should shave, to look spr uce for his mum.
5th December
It was past midnight w hen w e left the bar. Steve stumbled over his feet, gr inning at his
ow n foolishness. It had been a civilised evening until Pete and Andy had ar r ived and lur ed
him into r ounds of w hiskey sour s. My thr oat was hoar se fr om sw eet dr inks and loud
laughter.
?Good night?? I asked him.
?Good night.?
He w r apped me in a one-ar med bear hug and w e slipped off the cur b. A taxi beeped at
our stumble but w e just waved away the near -miss.
?It?s nice to see you smile. You know I love you, r ight??
His giddy sincer ity made me blush. Just like w hen w e w er e foolish kids hooking up at
college, now w e w er e foolish adults w ith jobs and a flat, getting dr unk in bar s instead of
par ks. Time felt stilted.
?Let?s get mar r ied,? he said, suddenly.
?Don?t be daft.?
He fell to one knee in the str eet and took my hands in his.
?Get up, you mug.?
A hen par ty of scr eechy blondes and feather boas r ocked past and a pizza deliver y guy
had to edge his bike ar ound our embar r assing tableaux, his headlight full in our eyes.
?You pr ick, get up! I w on?t bloody mar r y you.?
Say yes! One of the blondes scr eamed back at us.
?I can?t get up. Help me up.?
He used my stubbor nness to dr ag himself up.
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?Next time I?ll have a r ing,? he thr eatened blear ily. ?And then you?ll be sor r y.?
We stagger ed up thr ough Angel, his good mood untouched by my r ebuttal like it always
was and w ould be again.
?You know I mean it, r ight? I?d do it in a hear tbeat.?
That tr uth was a war m coal in my thr oat, a war mth that didn?t feel deser ved.
?Yeah. I know ,? I told him.
The answ er seemed to please him. His easy mood, the tw inkling lights of Upper Str eet
and the infectious city nightlife made me almost want to take that r isk. Or an even bigger
leap of faith.
?Do you believe in ghosts??
?Sur e.? He didn?t even hesitate. ?They?r e ever yw her e.?
We passed a bus stop of lit-up faces, couples huddled into each other , guys laughing on
their phones. Light hear ts and joyful souls, shaking off the bur den of the year in hopes of a
better futur e.
?Why do you ask??
Steve pulled me to a stop in the midst of a par ty spilling out of a kar aoke bar. The gr oup
shar ed sloppy goodbyes and kisses ar ound us.
?Is it something to do w ith your dad??
His sudden sobr iety caught me off-guar d. The question opened an easy door but w hat if
speaking about it made it mor e r eal, for him as w ell as for me? I couldn?t poison the w ell of
his optimism, that w ouldn?t be fair.
A w oman pulled him into an embr ace, mistaking him for one of her par ty. He w ished her
goodnight and br ushed her off w ith kind but clumsy insistence.
?Alex? ??
Boots in the snow , side by side. Silence. Blood on the gr ound, r ed smear ed w ith w hite
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smear ed w ith r ed. A cold w eight in my hand. The image hit me like a migr aine.
?It?s nothing? ?
The str eet r oar ed ar ound me like tinnitus, like the sudden sw ell of w ind in the tr ees. My
eyes w er e w et.
?Oh honey, w hat is it??
The w et became a flood. He pulled me into a tight hug, into the safe cave of his chest,
swallow ing the city until it was just us.
?We?ll find a pr iest. Or something. We?ll figur e it out. Someone w ill know w hat to do.?
As always, w ithout question, he w ould follow me into the dar k. Calm, r ational Steve, w ith
his physics and computing and hear teningly simple way of seeing the w or ld, w illing to
accept w hatever bonker s tr uth I thr ow at him. I love him so much it hur ts.
?Let?s go home.?
He waved dow n a black cab, deposited me inside and instr ucted the dr iver to take us
home, double-time.
12th December
I left the office later than planned. The r ain was ashy and r elentless. The str eets w er e
gr imy water colour s and over flow ing dr ains, gushes of litter and new spaper clogging the
thr oats of the city. I navigated umbr ellas and r ough shoulder s to slip into the tunnels of the
tube. It r eeked of sw eat and stale chips. The busy platfor m r olled onto the tr ain like a tide
but thinned out quickly once w e got going, tw o or thr ee at each stop and I was alone in the
car r iage w hen w e r eached Caledonian Road. I could br eathe in this lonely pocket of tow n,
away fr om the insistent pr essing of voices and hands and cologne. The tr ain sw ept the
r emnants out towar ds Cockfoster s and I was left w ith the hollow click of my boots. I
stopped to untangle headphones and the clicking continued fr om somew her e behind.
Ther e was no one on the platfor m. I hur r ied to the exit.
The station foyer was an empty caver n of sickly yellow tiling, slick fr om w et and
fluor escents. I dug for my ticket and saw a tr ail of mar ks on the floor ; small br ow n mud-
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spots. They tr aced a cir cle as if something had danced about me unseen but it was their
unifor m almond shape that caught my eye. They dotted the floor ahead, w eaving thr ough
the ticket bar r ier s to disappear into the night beyond. Hoof pr ints.
?Shit.?
?You ok, miss??
He buzzed me thr ough the bar r ier even though I couldn?t find my ticket; he must have
seen the r aw ter r or in my eyes. I walked home at speed, avoiding the hedging and tr ees
and cluster ing shadow s.
15th December
?You?r e w elcome. Yeah, Mer r y Chr istmas. Goodnight.?
The night air w r apped ar ound my ankles as he closed the door and handed me a small
candy-cane.
?Char ity collector s for a hospice.?
I looked at the pepper mint stick in my hand. Red on w hite on r ed on w hite.
?And a ver y cr eepy Santa. Those poor kids.?
I w ent back to the kitchen w her e I had been pour ing w ine. I watched him move thr ough
the flat, sw itching on lights and dr aw ing cur tains. Inviting the war mth to stay.
?What do you want to eat??
I handed him a glass and collapsed into the softness of sofa cushions and blankets. It had
been a long w eek. He joined me, tugging off his shoes.
?Pizza. Lots of cheese, stuffed cr ust.?
?One of those nights, is it??
I dr ank deep of Mer lot, letting the r edness br uise my mouth clean of any memor ies of
nutmeg and cinnamon and pepper mint.
?If I or der pizza, w ill you tell me about your ghost? And befor e you say no? ?
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He nudged my knee w ith his foot, a gentle way of keeping me pr esent befor e I tucked
myself completely away in my head.
?Even though you so cr uelly r ebuked my pr oposal the other night ? as far as I r emember
it ? I fully intend to spend the r est of my life w ith you. And if that means spending a life
w ith your ghosts as w ell then I might as w ell get to meet them.?
I w ish it was something as homely as he imagined: the cuddly shade of gr andma or the
family dog. A memor y that w ould embr ace him as its ow n. Something w e w ould laugh
about thr ough the year s.
?Lots of people hate Chr istmas, it?s nothing mor e than that.?
?Is that w hen he left??
The flat was a soft hive of ticking r adiator s and gentle clocks; it had been our s for less
than a year but w e had made it a cosy bur r ow for waiting out the w inter. To tear open that
dank coffin w ould leave us r ipe for the cr ow s and car r ion-eater s.
?Sor t of. He wasn?t a gr eat dad.?
Guilt w or med in my gut to speak ill of the dead.
?Mum said she didn?t want mor e kids but he wanted a boy. He talked about toughening
me up. ?Got to tough her up?, he used to say. Make me the son he never had, I suppose.
Stupid bastar d.?
?Jesus.?
Steve sat up str aight, to show he was listening. It tumbled out in a r ush.
?One w inter he took me hunting. I r efused to shoot anything. He called me a pussy, a
little bitch. Said that the big bad w or ld w ould come looking for me and I needed to be able
to fight back. Needed to know w hat death felt like.?
Heavy black boots in the snow. Footpr ints, stalled in their pr ime. A shatter of bir ds
fleeing the fr osted pines as one r eflex.?He killed a deer. Dr agged it back to the house by its
hooves. I cr ied the w hole time. Got sent to bed w ithout dinner and listened to him and
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mum scr eam at each other thr ough the floor. I didn?t sleep. I couldn?t get r id of the image
of the bloody dr ag mar ks thr ough the snow , like hellish tr ain tr acks leading str aight to
home. Telling the w or ld w hat he had done - this beautiful cr eatur e tor n dow n by my
fucking dad because he wanted to feel like a man in fr ont of a ten-year -old.?
Steve was good at being quiet and he sat w ith my hesitation and anger w ith equal
patience. He pr obably thought my stumbling nar r ative was due to some emotional
upheaval r ather than a str ategic w eighing up of tr uth against pr ecaution.
?After my par ents w ent to bed, I slipped dow nstair s to find something to eat. Dad must
have gone out to the bar n and gutted it, pr obably to take his r age out on something pliable
and w eak. The deer ?s head was on the sink dr ainer , r ight w her e I w ould see it.?
?Jesus Christ.?
I bar ely hear d his shock now I was in the memor y. Eyes like mar bles, r aw and w et and
painfully huge once str ipped of their lids. So unlike the delicate lashes of a gentle deer ;
even in the dar k, I could see specks of dir t on the vitr eous. They w er e r olled up towar ds me
in pained accusation. Her lips w er e tor n back fr om w hite stacks of fr ont teeth and a cur ved
hill of molar s, clenched into a gr imace. The face was str ipped to the taut bone of jaw w hile
a patchw or k of r ed meat on w hite fat r olled over her cheek. Ther e w er e str ay patches of
dar k hair at her r agged nape and thr oat. The gr inning was endless, hideous. He had left the
tongue intact and pulled it out over the teeth, a gr otesque engor ged leech. Ther e was blood
in the sink, pooled in the dishwater , smear ed on our dinner table. The smell was r ipe and
thr eatening and unfor gettable, a flash of the heady, ir on-br and ar oma of my young body?s
fir st cycle, pr oof that my dad?s best effor ts could not dull that ear thy tr uth.
?It was a mer cy w hen he left, r eally. Just bad memor ies. Mum lost it in the months after
but he had pushed her most of the way ther e.?
?I?m so sor r y. That?s hor r ible. Do you know w her e he is now ??
?No.? I thought of a dar k patch of gr ound w her e the w eeds gr ow tw isted and loose, r otten
at stem and r oot. Cr osshair s of bone tangled thr ough br amble and vine, bloated clumps of
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mushr oom nesting in r ibcage. Insects mar ching their slow tr ails thr ough empty eye sockets
star ing into nothing. And the memor y of a gun bar r el, still heavy in my hands.
?That?s not the w or st of it.?
I dr ained my glass and waited for him to r efill it.
?After he left, it star ted coming. She. She comes ever y year. Ear lier each time, she takes
up mor e of my months now. Haunting me. And I?m fr ightened that if I tell you about her ?
she?ll come for you.?
?Who??
?It?s cr azy but? it?s the deer. The doe w e killed.?
?But honey, you had nothing to do w ith that. Why w ould she haunt you??
His hand was a comfor ting, r ational w eight on my shoulder.
?You w er e a kid. Putting a kid thr ough that? that?s abuse. You know that, r ight? Of
cour se it still affects you, that shit doesn?t just go away.?
I swallow ed mor e w ine. My insides felt r aw , gutted and str ipped by the tr uth and yet a
clump still r emained, nestled in my belly like r ot.
?She gets closer ever y year and one year she w ill get inside and then? I don?t know.?
?Alex.?
He held me close and told me that none of it was r eal, it was just bad memor ies. Just.
?All the shit you?ve been thr ough? But you?r e not alone w ith it now , you?ve got me. We?ll
figur e this out together. Get you anything you need.?
He kissed the side of my head. Over his shoulder , I saw tw o lumpy shapes behind the
sofa. Dar k boots on the w hite car pet.
22nd December
The day was cold and br isk but br ight w ith w inter sun. It filter ed thr ough bar e br anches
onto our faces as w e walked the par k.
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?You ok??
?I?m ok.?
And I was. My hear t felt lighter , lifted. A small cr ack had opened up in my chest to let in
just enough daylight to cast an unfamiliar shade on the season: hope. We walked w ith
gloved hands held, the cr isp leaves softening our steps.
?Sur e you feel up to going to mum?s??
?It w ill be nice. I?m going to pick up some gifts in tow n, for the boys. A bottle for your
mum and Jess, maybe a cake. Do you take a cake r ound at Chr istmas??
The w ind w hipped Steve?s laughter into the w hite sky.
?You can do. Mum?s not a gr eat cook so measur e your expectations.?
?Then w e?ll eat cake on the dr ive back if w e?r e hungr y.?
I always liked The Fields but today it was pictur e-per fect: walker s w ith obedient dogs and
cute kids in padded playsuits, couples in matching coats w ith matching coffees, a gr oup of
teens w ear ing felt r eindeer ear s. A man bundled in layer s was r oasting chestnuts at a car t
w hile the Salvation Ar my played car ols fr om the bandstand. A r usset-colour ed dog bar ked
at a flock of pigeons, chasing their speckled w hite souls up into the tr ees. The only thing
missing fr om the scene was a dr ifting of snow. It was magical.
?This feels like a new tr adition,? Steve said. ?The par k, car ols. We could make mince pies
w hen w e get home.?
Something about the dignified r endition of Silent Night kindled a deeper war mth in me,
cr acking open a little mor e daylight. Str ings of candy-colour ed lights cur led ar ound the
café w indow s, their glow r eflected in the glass. A family w ent inside and w er e swallow ed
by an exhale of ginger and dar k chocolate as they opened the door. The easy enjoyment of
those ar ound us was less alien to me now , like a language I was finally star ting to gr asp.
?I think I?d like that.?
?Alr ight. This w ill be fun. Ther e is a lot to lear n, young Alex.?
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We r eached the end of The Fields and cut back towar ds the small Sainsbur ys. I waited
outside w hile he picked up supplies ? at his insistence, he obviously had a sur pr ise br ew ing
- and saw a small cr ow d by the station entr ance. Kids and par ents w er e gather ed ar ound a
Santa and his aw kwar d teenage elf a gr ow th spur t ahead of his costume. In his hand was a
leather leash attached to the belled collar of a r eindeer. My hear t stopped but the sight of
its velveteen antler s, the imper fect nobble of its knees and unkempt shaggy coat made me
feel deep sadness r ather than fear. I eased my way thr ough the excited kids.
?She?s fr iendly,? the teenage elf assur ed me. He gr inned in a way that suggested he
enjoyed inter acting w ith anxious adults mor e than r ambunctious kids or pushy par ents.
?Give her your hand.?
I r emoved my glove and held out my palm. My hand tr embled as the r eindeer tur ned her
beautiful head at my appr oach and w ithout hesitation, she ducked her muzzle into my
palm, her black tongue lolling over my uptur ned finger s. The w eight of her snout was the
softest thing I had touched, softer than Noah?s new bor n head swaddled in Steve?s
enr aptur ed ar ms. Her br eath was hot and gentle. She smelled of hay and sw eetness and I
wanted to hug her , cr adle her neck and feel her gentle r eindeer kisses on my face. I star ted
cr ying. A small kid in a yellow bobble hat looked up at me, his little lip w obbling, and then
he star ted to cr y, too. The teen elf ?s eyes w idened in panic.
?She w on?t bite. Her name is Cinnamon.?
I sobbed out her name and then laughed at the absolute w r eck I had become. The
r eindeer didn?t car e, she just nuzzled my hand in an act of pur e, uncomplicated
acceptance. Her blue-black tongue took a full lick of my palm and the tr ail of saliva felt like
absolution.
A few par ents clutched their kids closer as I wailed. One of the dads, a kindly man w ith a
thick bear d and tar tan scar f, asked if I was ok and then Steve was at my side. He stopped,
dumbstr uck.
?Look at you. Alex? look at you.?
He told the bear ded dad and the r est of the onlooker s that I was fine, it was just my fir st
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Chr istmas. I cr ied har der. Cinnamon shook her flank a few times then w ent back to my
hand, tr usting me w ith the gr aceful w eight of her noble head. Steve told me to smile as he
took a few snaps on his phone.
?A keeper. You look beautiful.?
Eventually, to ever yone?s r elief, w e left the cr ow d. I kept tur ning back as w e w ent,
unw illing to lose sight of her tr usting br ow n eyes.
24th December
The str eets w er e a str ange mix of safety and str ess. People w er e hustling, fr antic in their
final few hour s befor e mer r y lockdow n emptied the str eets. Despite the cr ow ds and gaudy
over dose of colour s and lights, I found the exper ience was exhilar ating.
I enter ed the jew eller s thr ough an uncomfor table blast fr om the heater above the door.
The man at the counter asked if I needed help in a way that suggested doubt, this late in the
day. The clock behind him said it was ten to four.
?I called ear lier about an item on your site, it was put aside for me??
He took my name and disappear ed into the backr oom, r etur ning w ith a small black box.
He opened it to show me the silver stag?s head br oach. The detail was beautiful, fr om the
waves of hair dow n the thr oat to the knots of bone at its br ow. Steve didn?t w ear jew eller y
but this was something he w ould keep on his desk, to enjoy the sentiment.
?That?s per fect.?
As I settled up, the man asked if I wanted it w r apped.
?I can add a note if it?s for someone special??
I thought for a moment, then asked for a single w or d and he took the time to w r ite it in
beautiful cur sive on an ivor y car d. Wor dlessly, he w r apped the black box in silver paper
and scour ed r ibbons befor e placing it in a smar t, black bag.
?Mer r y Chr istmas,? he said, as he handed it to me. ?And congr atulations.?
The flat was dar k w hen I got in. I stepped out of my coat and boots and moved
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thr ough the r ooms, putting on lights. Inviting the war mth.
We hadn?t got a tr ee ? the thought of br inging pine into our home felt like a step too far ?
so I left the gift bag by the sofa for tomor r ow mor ning. I thought about r inging Steve to see
w hen he w ould be finished w ith w or k but I decided not to r ush the next few days. I could
hold onto the anticipation for a w hile longer.
I w ent into the kitchen and stopped. Something was out of place. A shape glinted fr om the
dr aining boar d by the sink and I couldn?t w or k out w hat it was. A deep, familiar dr ead
knotted itself in my gut. It told me not to put on the light.
?Steve??
I put on the light. It gr inned fr om dr ainer.
?What? ?
A bolt of r age punched out my chest at the cr uel joke. Of all the sur pr ises to plan, did he
r eally think this was ok?
?What the fuck.?
Except it wasn?t his sur pr ise. Raw eyes gr inned up fr om a neat r ow of per fect w hite teeth.
A r ictus w ithout lips, a mass of bloody flesh w ithout skin to shape it, contain it. The
impr ession of a nose r educed to small stud mar ks in bone. His face floated in the dir ty
dishwater , thr eads of r ed spr eading out acr oss cold suds. His empty face. The w or ld fell out
fr om under me. Mor e r ed spilled dow n the cupboar d door s, splashed the floor. Ther e was a
bloody palm-pr int on the chequer ed tiles.
?No, no no no? Steve!?
I shr ieked his name as my knees buckled to the floor. Wet, slipper y floor. Now I saw his
body cr umpled behind the kitchen table, shor ter than it should be.
?Steve!?
I scr eamed into the endless void that opened up befor e me, filling the flat w ith an ear thy
musk, w ith the r eek of damp, distur bed soil, r otting leaves, for gotten places litter ed w ith
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filthy secr ets and w icked, unnatur al lies. It was ever yw her e, inside and outside, in my
hear t and my mouth and the synapses of my stutter ing head. Smother ing me, dr agging me
into a fr osted sepulchr e of needlebeds, bur ying me under the fr ozen pines.
And fr om the hallway, I hear d the soft, slow echo of hooves.
About the author
Amy Easton is a writer, therapist, researcher and fan of all things horrific. She is
particularly interested in the ways that the horror genre can reflect, subvert and
challenge misogyny and violence against women. She currently lives in the
Midlands, UK with an astronomer and two misanthropic rats, Queenie and
Cordelia.
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157

T he D ancing Children
by Sam Cossey
The inspiration for The Dancing Children came from growing up in the
East Anglian countryside. Underneath the big Norfolk skies, and
wrapped up in the deep, black meres, and the flat expanses of fields
there was the haunting inevitability of a rural, barely concealed horror
watching and waiting.
The stor y whi ch I am about to r el ate i s one of t he m ost si ngul ar and f ant ast i c of m y
l i fe. The follow ing events occur r ed w hen I was a young man not too long out of univer sity
and w or king for an ar chiving company in the Midlands. The company in question
specialised in litur gical documents and my w or k w ould involve tr avelling the length and
br eadth of the countr y to leaf thr ough r ecor ds w hich had been br ought to the company's
attention, in the hopes of finding something of inter est. The w or k was invar iably quite dull
but, for tunately, I spent only tw o year s at this employment befor e an oppor tunity ar ose
elsew her e w hich saw an incr ease in pay and decr ease in hour s. I can honestly say that in
those tw o year s, ther e was only one occasion in w hich I was pr ivileged to r ecor d anything
of inter est.
I had been called to a tiny village in Nor folk, called Car br ooke, to examine a new ly found
manuscr ipt in the chur ch of St Paul and St Peter. I ar r ived in the village and was astounded
at the size of the chur ch. The population of the village was only a couple of thousand but
the chur ch loomed above the settlement and looked big enough for a tow n thr ee or four
times the size. I was met by the chur chwar den and he let me into the chur ch w her e I was
to begin my cataloguing. The war den explained that ther e was no r egular pr iest of the
chur ch, it being par t of a small amalgamated family and that the vicar was housed tw o
villages over to the nor th. As such, he explained, I w ould have the chur ch essentially to
myself dur ing w hich time I w ould be able to per use the manuscr ipt at my leisur e.
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The war den show ed me to a pile of paper s on a desk in the office. The office was cold and
gr ey w ith a w ooden desk pushed against one wall, the chair an or ange fabr ic cover ed thing
w ith its back to the door. Ther e was a filing cabinet on one wall and a shelf w ith a kettle
and tea making comestibles. I told the war den that I should like to make an immediate
star t and he dutifully left me in peace.
The documents w er e, at fir st glance, r ather uninspir ing. Wor th making a r ecor d of as
they w er e an ar chive of pr ovincial East Anglian life in the 1500s, but gener ally about the
mor e mundane matter s and full of facts w hich ar e alr eady a par t of our know ledge. The
manuscr ipt took the for m of a diar y, of sor ts, of a r ector at the chur ch sometime in the
middle of the sixteenth centur y.
I endeavour ed in my w or k for some hour s, making meticulous notes on meals cooked,
financial tr ansactions and the like, all to illuminate the w ell of know ledge on this time in
histor y but as I said, all mer ely r einfor cing w hat w e alr eady knew. I w ent to the tea making
shelf and pr epar ed the kettle. The only milk available was of the pow der ed var iety so I
decided to take it black. As the kettle was boiling I took a walk dow n the chancel to inspect
the chur ch. Much like the manuscr ipt, ther e was little of inter est. An unsympathetic
nineteenth-centur y r estor ation had destr oyed much of the char acter of the place, I
supposed, but ther e was one inter esting r elic left. A pair of slabs in the chancel w ith the
cr oss of the Knights Templar engr aved upon them. I made an educated guess at a
tw elfth-centur y time fr ame and spent some moments consider ing how differ ent life must
have been dur ing the High Middle Ages.
Back in the office to attend to the boiled kettle, I peer ed out of the w indow and was
somew hat saddened to see that it had alr eady become dar k. It was the end of November
and the sun dr ops so suddenly in this par t of the w or ld that I was taken by sur pr ise by it. I
had hoped to finish my w or k mor e hur r iedly than I appear ed to be and did not fancy
staying in Nor folk for too long if possible. I r esigned myself to having to stop for the night
and was about to fish the teabag fr om my tea w hen I noticed a faint glow coming fr om a
near by field. The lights flicker ed and seemed to me to be as though from a fire.
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I opened the w indow a fr action, not wanting to let too much of the cold in but hoping to
catch a scent on the air of bur ning w ood, a favour ite ar oma of mine. Ther e was no smell
but ther e was a sound. The sound of music coming faintly fr om the lighted field. I closed
the w indow and thought no mor e of it that night.
Helped by the chur chwar den, I was able to find boar d for the night w hich was adequate. I
w oke the next mor ning for br eakfast and found that my host had pr epar ed a bow l of hot
por r idge w ith honey and bananas for me and a mug of fr eshly gr ound coffee. I sat at the
table w ith my notes ar ound me; not to go over anything for ther e was little of inter est, but
mor e to give the impr ession of industr y on my behalf, to encour age my host to keep his
distance. I have always pr efer r ed to eat alone and never w ish to talk dur ing meals.
I ar r ived back in the little office w ith a low feeling, as I was sur e this day w ould be as
unedifying as the pr evious one. For the fir st hour or so I was entir ely cor r ect. Gr eat lists
that w ent on for days of the lunches and dinner s enjoyed by the vicar. Snippets of r eceipts
for clothing and such. Then, just as I was beginning to despair , the vicar suddenly r evealed
an inter esting hobby. He kept mentioning books he had pr ocur ed or was attempting to.
Titles such as Mortuous Suscitare Opera, Dirae Mortis Mittentes,and A rs Incantandi jumped
fr om the page at me. It soon became clear that the pr ovincial vicar had sadly succumbed to
the evils of necr omancy, an unfor tunately common occur r ence in the cler gy of the time, as
they per ceived the unknow n and unseen w or ld of the spir its as being inextr icably linked
w ith their faith.
The thought that these lost tomes had been pr esent and r ead thr ough w ithin this building
excited me no end. That they may still be her e was unlikely but w or th pur suing. I decided
to keep r eading thr ough the paper s to see if any clues as to the pr esent w her eabouts of the
books could be gleaned. Alas, ther e was nothing else. Scant details of some late-night
meetings held betw een the vicar and inhabitants of the village. Ear ly mor ning r etur ns
fr om elsew her e in the East Anglian countr yside. Some r isible attempts at bucolia. But
nothing about the w her eabouts of the incr edibly r ar e w or ks he had mentioned ear lier. The
paper s ended abr uptly w ith a final diar y entr y that r ead: I grow stronger. And so do they.
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I called for the war den to r etur n to the chur ch, so I could ask him w her e the paper s had
been found and if ther e was any chance of ther e being any mor e that I could see. He
explained that, as far as he knew , all the paper s that had been found w er e now in my
possession and that they had been discover ed hidden behind a gr avestone outside. The
gr ave stone had long been fixed to one of the outer walls of the chur ch and then all of a
sudden, one mor ning it appear ed to have fallen over in the night. It pulled out some
sections of masonr y and r evealed a small hole in the wall, w her ein the paper s w er e found.
The war den took me outside to see the hole. The light was beginning to fade, so I quickly
made my way to w her e it was and got dow n on my knees to see in.
The hole w ent some way into the wall but was ver y low dow n, so view ing was not easy.
The war den lent me his cigar ette lighter to illuminate things. I popped my head inside, my
ar m str etched out befor e me, lighting the way. Ther e, at the ver y end of the hole, I thought I
saw a piece of paper folded up quite small and tucked almost entir ely behind a br ick. I
picked at one of the cor ner s and managed to manoeuvr e the paper out, just enough for me
to gr ab the w hole thing and r etr ieve.
"Well I never ," said the war den. "I was sur e w e had gotten ever ything out that was
ther e."
"It was quite w ell hidden at the ver y back," I said. "Thank you for your help. I shan't
need anything fur ther."
"Right you ar e," he said and tur ned to walk away. As he did, I looked past him into the
adjoining field w her e I again saw the flicker ing light and the faint sound of music.
"What is going on over ther e?? I asked.
"Over w her e, sir ?" he said.
"In that field," and I pointed towar ds the lights.
"Over ther e? Why, ther e's nothing in ther e excepting the big dip."
He explained that in the next field ther e was a peculiar dip in the gr ound, quite the
opposite of a hill he said. It dipped some seven or eight feet and was, he had been told, the
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r esult of r etr eating glacier s fr om the end of the last ice age. I did not mention the lights or
the music for even then, I had a hor r ible feeling that he could neither see nor hear them.
I hur r ied back to the small office. It was dar k enough now to r equir e the light to be
tur ned on w hich gave out a faintly yellow glow. I sat at the desk and unfolded this last leaf.
Instead of disclosing the location of any of the mentioned volumes, ther e was a
disconcer ting account of an alter cation betw een the vicar and some of the village
inhabitants. The vicar , it seems, was in the chur ch w or king his way thr ough some of the
for bidden texts he had acquir ed, w hen he kept getting distur bed by the noise of childr en
playing. Evidently, the w or k he was attempting was of the utmost impor tance, for his r age
was clear ly expr essed over the page. His usually neat and consider ed w r iting became
looser and the pen mar ks fir mer and har der. Finally, he gave an account of how he had
stor med into the neighbour ing field w her e he found a dozen or so childr en dancing and
laughing and shouting. He blasphemed at them and cur sed them w ith, as he put it, 'a
never -ending dance to the death and beyond'.
And that was it, the final paper ended. No r esolution, no indication of his completing the
w or k he had set himself. Just an unsatisfactor y full stop. I looked up and star ed into the
blackness of the w indow. Then I saw again saw the faint, flicker ing glow fr om the field
outside. The fear of w hat I w ould find in that field compelled me to see it. I had to w itness
the hor r or fir st hand. I stole out into the night and flew to the field. Ther e I saw the glow
coming fr om that inver ted hill the war den had told me about. I walked over to it. Ever y
step br ought the sound of music closer and closer to me. I r eached the r im of the pit and
looked in. A dozen blue-faced childr en stagger ed and danced r ound and r ound the cir cular
dip. Their eyes w er e empty hollow s, flesh hung fr om their cheeks and their clothes w er e in
tatter s. They moved aw kwar dly as they danced and I was hor r ified to see that instead of
feet their legs ended in bloody stumps. Yet they smiled and seemed to be awar e of my
pr esence as they tur ned their dead though still animated heads towar ds me. They began to
hobble in my dir ection w ith their ghoulish ar ms outstr etched. I saw then, in the middle of
them an adult, w ear ing the black r obes of a sixteenth-centur y cler gyman and I knew that
he w hose paper s I had been r eading had been taken by them. I tur ned and fled in my car
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and did not stop until I r eached the safety of the motor way.
I do not know w hy I was chosen to see the childr en and the pit they had danced
themselves dow n into. All I know is that I can never r etur n to Nor folk, for fear of hear ing
the childr en's music once again.
About the author
Sam Cossey is a writer from the heartland of British folk horror, East Anglia. As
well as writing fiction, Sam analyses popular culture on his website Very Much
Nerd. Sam has been a lifelong fan of horror movies, especially the Universal
Monster pictures from the 1930s. While not scaring himself silly, Sam can be
found raising his eight-month-old son and wondering when it would be
appropriate to introduce him to Frankenstein, the Wolf Man and the rest of the
gang.
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T he Hunting L odge
by A.J. Black
Years ago, I saw a painting on an antiques programme depicting a scene
of a deer stalking ?accident?. I never forgot it. I live in the Scottish
Highlands, where Scots Baronial hotels are haunted by their former lives
as hunting lodges. Together, they begot this story, where Nature, or
rather, a super-Nature, exacts a terrible revenge upon humanity.
It was m adness? pi tch dar k and a bl i zzar d bl ow i ng l i k e whi te f ur y agai nst a bl ack
cur t ai n, and Si m on?s k nuck l es, whi te and t i ght , gr i ppi ng onto t he steer i ng wheel .
It was madness, being on the r oads on a night like this. Nobody else was. But w hat choice
did they have now ? They could not stop now ? they had dr iven themselves into now her e.
Thr ee o?clock had been far too late in the after noon to set off fr om Edinbur gh at this time
of year. And w hen the fir st fat flakes of snow had intensified to a thick, fast blizzar d, they
should have sought r efuge for the night or tur ned back to the city. But they had car r ied on,
telling themselves they w ould make it.Their plans w er e r uined. Ever ything was w r ecked
and w r ong. Their joint denial of it was the bond and the bait that kept them moving w hen
they r eally should have stopped. And as the snow had dr iven faster and faster , they had
dr iven slow er and slow er until it was now the middle of the night and the w hitewashed
Highlands could have been the moon, so distant, so inhospitable, so uninhabited had they
become.
?Even if w e get ther e now , it?s too late to pick up the keys,? Beth said, quietly.
Simon did not answ er. All his concentr ation was devoted to keeping the tyr es somehow
adher ed to the r oad and the r oad somehow discer ned in the w hiteout.
It was not meant to be like this. It was Chr istmas Eve. By now , they should be dr aped in
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the cosy blanket of the cottage? open peat fir e cr ackling, single malt w hisky glinting in its
glass, fair y lights tw inkling? not stuck on this solitar y tr eacher ous r oad w ith a br utal w ind
and visibility dow n to a w hite, angr y mania that glar ed in the beams of the headlights.
Beth r ested her head against the cold unyielding w indow and gazed out into the dismal
night. She star ed thr ough sheets of w hite flecks that danced like insane electr ic par ticles in
the bleakness of Space. She could just make out the huge hulking beasts of the hills that
skulked beyond. They seemed to be waiting, stock-still and sinister , like hunter s. She looked
over to Simon, but his young face was contor ted w ith tension and ir r itation. She w ished
they had not come. She was star ting to feel scar ed. Could anything be salvaged now ?
?It doesn?t feel ver y Chr istmassy, does it?? she said br iskly, like a r allying nanny.
Simon gr unted.
?Would it distr act you if I put the r adio on? Ther e w ill be Midnight Mass and Car ols on
Radio 4. That?s so Chr istmassy. It might get us in the mood.?
Simon wanted to look at her but was afr aid to take his eyes off the r oad for even a
moment.?Go on then. Remind us of w hat w e ar e missing.?
She smiled and clapped her hands in playful enthusiasm. Car ols at Midnight, they w ould
take her back? back home and Dad dr essing like Santa, and Mum cooking all night, and
her lying w ide-awake in her little bed, cr ackling w ith the tangible excitement of Chr istmas
Eve. How she wanted to go back.
?Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,? r ang out fr om the cr ystallized pur ity of
the voices of the ser aphim. ?In the bleak midwinter, long ago.?
They both hear d the w or ds of the car ol and laughed a little bitter bur st of ir ony.
The cr ash against the car was so loud it felt like the end of the w or ld. Out of now her e, a
thunder ing smash, and for a br ief moment Beth had no idea if they had been hit by
something, or they had hit something themselves or w hat in hell that something might be.
Then she was awar e of the car skidding, w ild and uncontr olled like a bucking hor se, as it
veer ed off the r oad and car eer ed to a br utal, abr upt halt.
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She clung to the door and the r oof the car. ?What was that? Simon, w hat was that??
Simon?s head was in his hands on the w heel. ?A deer. A hulking gr eat stag just cr ashed
into the w indscr een. Didn?t you see it? I couldn?t avoid it. It hit us befor e I even saw it!?
?Oh no!? Beth flung the door open and flew out of the car. The blizzar d slapped her face
and she slipped on the slush under her feet. ?Get out, Simon!? she called. ?We?ve got to see
if it?s OK.?
Simon got out and sur veyed the car. It sat askance to the r oad, nose dow n in the
snow dr ift cover ing the ditch. He gr oaned. ?No!?
?Simon, I can?t see it. I can?t see the deer. Do you think you killed him??
?I don?t know. It can?t have done it much good. Look at the car ! How ar e w e going to get
it out of ther e? This is a nightmar e!?
Beth looked at the car. Its door s gaped open, and its headlights cut like the beams of
beacons thr ough the flur r ying flakes of sleet and snow , tur ning them a sickly yellow.
?Silent night, holy night,? floated fr om the car. ?Round yon Virgin Mother and Child, Holy
Infant so tender and mild, Sleep in heavenly peace, Sleep in heavenly peace? ?
Beth looked at Simon, and she squir med, shr inking back in aw kwar d discomfor t. He
caught her eye and star ed back at her. Neither moved. Neither spoke. The silence betw een
them became a viscer al pain, and Beth spoke simply to br eak it.
?I can?t even see any blood? ? she hear d the fear in her ow n voice as it tr ailed off and
stopped.
The moment had passed. Simon had to shout over the how ling w ind. ?What did you say??
?The deer !? Beth yelled. ?He?s not her e. I can?t even see a tr ail of blood. We have to help
him!?
?Oh, that? It must be ther e. Beth, I don?t think w e can help it. I hit it pr etty har d. We
have to get the car out of this ditch.?
?But w hat if he?s not dead? You have to put him out of his miser y. We can?t just leave
him.?
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?Wher e is it, then?? Simon said, sear ching for signs of a body gather ing snow in the
dar k.
?That?s w hat I?m saying. He?s not ther e, and ther e is no tr ace of him. Not even a dr op of
blood. Ar e you sur e you hit him??
?Of cour se I did! You hear d it hit the w indscr een. I felt the impact, didn?t you? Well, it
must be OK, then. It must have r un off. Help me tr y to push this thing back on the r oad. We
can?t stand her e like this.?
The w or st of the gale?s temper began to subside, but the snow kept falling sulky and thick.
A w hite, w et veil was slow ly enshr ouding them as they stood in the headlights of the car.
?But Simon, ther e ar en?t even any footpr ints.?
Simon had star ted to push against the bonnet-end of the car to for ce the fr ont w heels out
of the ditch. He stopped dead at her w or ds and looked at her.
?What? Ther e must be. We hit it r ight her e.?
?But ther e ar en?t. If he r an off ther e w ould be hoof pr ints, w ouldn?t ther e? Ther e?s no
sign of him, no tr ace, like he was never ther e.?
Simon star ed at her ; then he laughed. ?OK. Well, the snow must have cover ed them up. It
can?t be badly hur t to r un off like that. Now please, let?s tr y to get the car out and get out of
her e.?
They both pushed, slipping and sliding in the snow , for war ds, backwar d, sideways, all
ways, but the car was stuck fast in the ditch. They got back in and tr ied to call the
br eakdow n r ecover y that came w ith the hir e of the car , but their phones had no signal.
Simon noticed that the w indscr een was not cr acked.
?At least w e w on?t have to pay for that,? Simon said.
But Beth could not even smile. Nothing was on the r oads. No one was going to stop and
help them. They w ould have to spend the night in the car. What if they r an out of fuel?
They had under a quar ter of a tank left after dr iving so slow ly in low gear all this way. They
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w ould fr eeze to death if they could not r un the heater in the car. Someone w ould dr ive by
tomor r ow ? a happy family on Chr istmas mor ning on the way to visit gr andpar ents full of
cheer and mer r iment? and find them fr ozen and stiff and dead.
They got back out of the car and pushed again w ith the augmented effor t bor n of panic. It
w ould not budge an inch, even w ith Simon pushing and Beth at the w heel, touching lightly
on the acceler ator in r ever se, then in fir st, then second, and then r ever se again. She tur ned
the engine off to save the petr ol and got back out and stood, dejected, in fr ont of Simon. She
was dr enched and so cold she could no longer feel her hands or her head. She thought of
the happy family and their faces tomor r ow w hen they opened the car door s and found
them? like that. She wanted to cr y. Then she saw Simon pointing to something over her
shoulder.
?I don?t believe it,? he said. ?A light!?
She spun ar ound and ther e it was, the pale amber of tungsten, bur ning like a lodestar in
the distance. They locked the car and star ted to walk towar ds its war m, homely glow , so
conspicuous now against the monochr ome scene that engulfed it.
?It?s all r ight now , Beth,? Simon said, putting an ar m ar ound her to stop her sliding and
falling in the thick car pet of snow beneath their feet. ?No one?s going to tur n us away on a
night like this.?
Beth could feel the war mth of his body. She should have felt a wave of r elief. But she
didn?t.
They tr udged fur ther up along the tr ee-less, moor land r oad and saw that ?the light? was
actually sever al that r adiated fr om half a dozen lancet w indow s. As they got closer , the full
statur e of the place r evealed itself to them thr ough the w hite cur tain that fell heavy and
thick fr om a gr anite sky above. The building?s slate gr ey bulk was ador ned w ith the
char acter istic featur es of the Scots-bar onial: conical cor ner tur r ets, small, over -hanging,
wall-mounted tow er s that pier ced the sky w ith their cylindr ical points, and decor ative,
cr ow -stepped r ooflines and gables. It stood alone in gr ey-stone splendour like a gothic
fair y-tale castle; alone in this ghastly, ungodly night.
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They appr oached the lar ge, pointed-ar ched door and r ead the hand-w r itten notice stuck
inside against the glass:
?Vacancies. Open Chr istmas Eve.?
?It?s a hotel!? Simon said, w ith a laugh of r elief. ?Thank God for that! We can stay her e
tonight and go back for the car tomor r ow. We w ill have that single malt, yet.?
They pushed the door open and it cr eaked, just like it should. They giggled like childr en
w ith the r elief, and w ith excitement at the new and unfor eseen adventur e. They stepped
str aight into the bar ar ea and their smiles began to w eaken and wane. A fir e smoulder ed
low in the gr ate, and wall sconces glow ed dir ty and dim, but not a soul was astir. Dr inks
stood unfinished on the little mahogany r ound tables, and a cigar ette bur ned in an ashtr ay
on the bar. But ther e was no one ther e.
?Wher e is ever yone?? Beth asked, quietly. ?I know it?s late but it looks like they w er e just
her e. Wher e did they all go??
?They?ll be back,? Simon said w ith a smile. ?Let?s wait her e and someone w ill tur n up. At
least it?s warm,? and he walked over to the fir e w ith his hands open as if in sur r ender.
?Tr ue,? Beth said, and she star ted to sur vey the dingy r oom that had offer ed them
sanctuar y. The dar k w ood panels of the scuffed, gouged wainscoting, and the deep gr een
tar tan and blue car pet made it sombr e and dr ab, in spite of the Chr istmas tr ee that
tw inkled a little for lor nly in the cor ner. She w ent over to it and touched the hanging
decor ations lightly w ith her finger tip. She smiled at them: glass baubles w ith
kaleidoscope-patter ned indents scooped out of one side, fading paper -chains, and dismal
little w ooden painted or naments of ancient-looking Santas and r eindeer.
?My Nan used to have decor ations like this,? she said, but Simon was too busy poking the
fir e to tr y to r evive it and w onder ing how long he should leave it befor e he helped himself
to a dr ink. He could pay for it w hen the bar man came back.
?Hello!? he called to the emptiness behind the bar. ?Hello, is anyone ther e??Beth
wander ed ar ound the r oom. Her finger s w er e beginning to bur n w ith chilblain pain as
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they star ted to thaw fr om the inside out. She took off her gloves and pr essed the ice of her
hands against her face. She gr imaced? a stuffed bir d of pr ey stood on a shelf next to some
old ir on tr aps, black-toothed and savage. A fox?s head gr inned fr om its mount among
displays of dull, yellow ed antler s of var ying sizes that w er e gather ing dust on the walls. She
shiver ed.
?That?s hor r ible,? she said. ?All these dead things!?
?Hmmm?? Simon asked. He was still looking intently behind the bar for signs of life. He
wanted to or der a dr ink and book a r oom and go to bed and he wanted them all, now. He
looked at w hat had upset her : the moth-eaten, dead buzzar d, the glassy-eyed fox head, and
the black ir on tr aps, un-spr ung now but still dr ipping w ith intent. ?Well, that was all par t of
the ghillies?job? pest contr ol. They managed the land for the stalking. This must be an old
hunting lodge. I w onder if ther e?s anything still in that gun cabinet.?
Beth star ed at the long, thin, padlocked cabinet that stood near the bar. ?Well, it?s
hor r ible,? she said, ?This place is hor r ible.? She walked over to some old faded photogr aphs
that hung on the wall, their sepia tones w r eathed w ith w hite vignettes. A gr oup of men
stood looking unsmiling into the camer a, dr essed in tw eeds and heavy black boots.
Un-cocked r ifles r ested in the cr ooks of their ar ms and they held long, ominous knives in
their hands. In one photogr aph a man held up a deer ?s head by its antler s for the camer a as
it lay conquer ed and dead on the gr ound. These, she assumed, w er e Simon?s ?ghillies?.
?I?m going to find them,? Simon said suddenly. ?We can?t wait her e all night. I?m going to
find someone. Hello!? He slipped behind the bar and disappear ed thr ough a door that
sw ung on its hinges long after he had gone.
It was the silence that hit Beth, then. The silence, and the smell of old tobacco and the
gr im, yellow ceiling that seemed to get low er ever y time she looked at it. Nothing moved.
Nothing stir r ed? just the occasional cr ackle of the dying fir e and the solemn ticking of an
old gr andfather clock that stood in one of the cor ner s of the bar. She was getting cold, now
that the exer tions of pushing the car and tr udging thr ough snow w er e over. The comfor t of
the bar r oom sanctuar y was star ting to wane. It wasn?t ver y war m in her e at all; w ould
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they mind if she built the fir e up? She w ent to the open fir eplace; spar e logs lay in a
tempting pile on the un-sw ept stone hear th. Sur ely, they w ouldn?t mind. Wher e was
Simon? He had been gone an age. She bent dow n and thr ew tw o logs onto the dying
ember s, coaxing them w ith the poker that had been leant uncer emoniously against the
stone fir e sur r ound. The logs began to ignite w ith little pine-smelling cr ackles, and she
r etur ned the poker to w her e she had found it. She stood up str aight and str etched befor e
the gr ow ing flames, yaw ning openly. Tir ed; hungr y; cold; w et; happy Chr istmas! Wher e the
hell was Simon? Then for the fir st time, she noticed the painting hanging over the fir eplace
and it made her shudder to her mar r ow : a snow y moor land landscape and the body of a
dead hind lying pr one in the heather , her lifeless head thr ow n back in the violent thr oes of
death. A w ound glar ed ver million against the cinnamon of her flank and lar ge dr ops of
blood tainted the w hite of the snow ar ound her body. And by her side, a tiny faw n looked
on, star ing into the cold, vacant face of its mother in confusion and fear. In the backgr ound,
standing on a small hummock of cotton gr ass, stood a huge stag w ith gr eat majestic antler s,
and he watched the scene, helpless and for lor n. Beth looked at the painting?s br ass title
plate set into the bottom edge of the scr atched, gold-painted fr ame: ?The Tr agic Accident?.
She felt the tightness in her thr oat that for ebodes tear s. This place was hor r ible. Why
w ould they hang that up? Who w ould want to see that?
She tur ned away fr om it abr uptly. Wher e was Simon? It sur ely couldn?t take this long to
see if ther e w er e any people about. What had happened to him? The eyes of the stuffed
buzzar d glinted at her in the fir elight. She felt a dull sinking, hot in her belly. Had
something bad happened to him? She was star ting to think something bad could happen to
someone in a place like this. The heavy ticking of the gr andfather clock taunted her. He
had been gone an age.
Then, like bluster , he r eappear ed thr ough the door behind the bar and took dow n tw o
glasses and a bottle of w hisky. He put them on the bar and pour ed himself a glass, dr inking
it dow n in one lar ge gulp.
?Simon, w her e have you been? What?s the matter ??
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?Nothing. I?m just sick of waiting. If they?r e open, they should ser ve you, other w ise, you
will help your self.?
Beth looked at him w ith an anxious, confused smile. ?But w her e have you been? Did you
find anyone??
?No one. Not a soul ar ound.?
?What took you so long? What w er e you doing??
?Looking for someone. I told you.? He pour ed himself another w hisky and offer ed the
bottle towar ds her. ?Want one??
She shook her head.
?Why not? It doesn?t matter now , does it??
She glar ed at him.
?What?? His voice was cold. ?It doesn?t. No point in pr otecting a baby you?r e going to kill,
is ther e??
?Simon, don?t!?
?I?m sor r y. I?m just ?being pr actical?, like you.?
?Please don?t. Nothing?s decided yet, anyway.?
?I know ,? he said. He came back ar ound fr om behind the bar and smiled softly at her.
?You?ve built the fir e up. That?s better.?
?Yes, but have you seen that painting over the fir eplace? It?s so hor r ible; it br eaks your
hear t. Look at it.?
Simon looked at it, his ar ms cr ossed and his glass in his hand.
?Why w ould they hang that up? It?s so sad. Not only have they killed her but her baby?s
going to die too, now isn?t it?? Beth said.
?It?s pr obably been ther e since this was a hunting lodge, that?s all.?
?Why is it called ?A Tr agic Accident?if they ar e hunting them, anyway??
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?It?s not r eally the done thing to kill a hind w ith young faw ns. It was pr obably a mistake,
or an accident like it says. They do happen, don?t they? Accidents??
She ignor ed his cr uel little dig. ?Well no w onder this place feels so gr imy and cr uel, if
that?s w hat it used to be. Hunting for spor t is bar bar ic.?
?No, not bar bar ic, Beth, an economic necessity. You have to just accept it. I r ead about
the Highland?s economic histor y in my degr ee. By the mid-1800s ther e was nothing left
her e? fishing, kelp, cattle, sheep, all these industr ies had collapsed for one r eason or
another. They had to star t managing the land for deer stalking to sur vive. Ther e w er e
plenty of r ich folk dow n south w illing to spend good money for the hunting in the
Highlands. It gave them employment, br ought in an income. They w er e ?being pr actical?.?
Why was he jibing her like this? She w ouldn?t be dr aw n, but she was incensed. ?Well, I
don?t accept it. Economics is no excuse for cr uelty. What kind of per son w ould kill for
pleasur e? How can it ever be enter taining to see a beautiful, innocent, living, feeling
cr eatur e cut dow n and killed? It?s bar bar ic. It leaves a stain; this place is stained!?
Simon?s eyes glinted. ?You?r e being r idiculous, Beth. Deer number s have to be contr olled,
and people do eat them, too. It?s not just for the spor t of it.?
?It?s not ?spor t?at all.?
?Well it is, and they?r e just? ? He hesitated a moment, know ing he should not say it. But
he did anyway. ?They?r e just animals.?
Beth star ed at him, at the hor r id look in his eye.
?You?r e callous,? she said at him. ?Cold and callous.? But she could not do this now. She
just wanted him to stop. She had to lift them out of it somehow. ?It?s all those bloody games
you play on Xbox,? and she for ced her self to smile.
He laughed lightly at her. ?Like the one you ?haven?t?bought me for Chr istmas? You have,
haven?t you??
She smiled back, shaking her head at him. ?Not till Chr istmas!?
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?It is Chr istmas now ,? he said, looking at his watch.
?Yes, appar ently.? It had w or ked and another moment had passed. She bur ied that side
of Simon that w hisper ed to her still, br eathing w or ds of cold, uneasy misgivings into her
ear. But to bur y mer ely makes a thing unseen; it does not mean it is not ther e.
Beth could smell the str ong, bonfir e ar oma of tobacco. How could it still be so pungent if
ever yone had gone home, and w hy had they left the lights on? She w ent over to the ashtr ay
on the bar and picked up the cigar ette that had been bur ning itself out w hen they had
ar r ived. It was unfilter ed; all the butts in the ashtr ay w er e the same.
?Ar e they allow ed to smoke in bar s in Scotland?? she said.
Simon was standing r ight behind her now. ?I don?t think so. Guess they ignor e the r ules
way out her e. Bloody hell! What kind of cigar ettes ar e they? Look like Woodbines or
something. Chr ist!? He took the butt fr om her hand and w ith the Swan matches that lay by
the ashtr ay, he lit the r emains of the cigar ette.
?What ar e you doing? You don?t smoke! Put it out.?
But as the acr id, stench-filled smoke danced ar ound his face, he just sneer ed at her. ?Why
don?t you leave me alone??
Beth looked at him, not know ing w hat to say. Then they hear d it? the sound of footsteps,
clear and loud, coming fr om over head. They gr ew louder and denser ? ther e was mor e
than one of them up ther e. The dull, deep thudding of hob-nailed boots on a bar e w ooden
floor thunder ed above. Beth and Simon star ed at one another.
?I thought you said ther e was no one ther e,? Beth said.
?Ther e wasn?t. I?m going back upstair s. Someone?s ther e.?
?I?m coming w ith you!? Beth almost squealed. But Simon was insistent: he was going
alone and she was to stay ther e. ?Why?? she asked. ?What do you think is up ther e??
As he disappear ed thr ough the door behind the bar once mor e, Beth could still hear the
boots of the men moving br iskly and w ith pur pose upstair s. This was how she thought of
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them, although she could not see them: ?The Men?. Something about their tr ead, their
intent, seemed spiteful and foul. Alone again in this dismal r oom, its ceiling seemed low er
and mor e deeply stained than ever. She stood still, bar ely br eathing, listening for voices,
for the sound of Simon?s voice talking to someone, for it all to be all r ight again. But she
hear d nothing now. The footsteps of The Men had stopped; she could not even hear Simon?s
tr ead above her. The Chr istmas tr ee tw inkled dimly and the painted w ooden Santa?s faces
all seemed to star e at her. The gr andfather clock tick-tocked time?s passage in dull, funer eal
tones once mor e. She stood still, solitar y, alone but for the dead r emains of bir ds and foxes
and deer.
?No one?s ther e.? Simon?s voice came w ith him back thr ough the door behind the bar.
?Ther e?s no one ther e.?
?Ther e must be! We hear d them walking ar ound upstair s. They w er e doing something.
We both hear d them, didn?t w e??
?Yes, w e hear d them; but I?ve checked all the r ooms up ther e. Ther e?s no one ther e.?
?Simon, ar e you messing w ith me? Ther e must be someone ther e. Wer e they hiding??
?No one. Really. Ther e?s no one ther e.?
?Who ar e they, then? Who is stuck her e??
?I don?t know.?
?Well, w hoever they ar e, they know w e?r e her e now ? ?
Befor e she had finished speaking, she hear d muffled voices coming fr om the r estaur ant
bar next door. They w er e not the voices of people in a r estaur ant, or of staff w or king in a
hotel. They w er e men?s voices, secr etive, clandestine, menacing. Although she could not
make out w hat they said, they sent a cold bolt r iving r ight thr ough to the cor e of her. She
looked at Simon.
?This time w e?r e going together ,? she said.
She took his hand as he led the way and they cr ept slow ly and noiselessly thr ough the
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the little cor r idor and opened the door to the dar k, unlit r estaur ant. Simon stopped to flick
on the light sw itch but although Beth hear d it click, the r oom r emained swathed in black.
They moved deeper in; mur ky shadow s loomed in the still, stagnant air of the r oom? utter
silence, and the tangible, inexplicable cer tainty that although you cannot see, you know
that someone is ther e.
Then laughter. Fr om the bar that they had just left, Beth could hear laughter ? sickening,
conspir ator ial, snigger ing laughter. She star ed up at Simon, and even in the dusky dar k of
the r oom, she could see? he was laughing, too. Quietly, fur tively, laughing.
?Simon, w hat? ?
He gr abbed her by the hand and pulled her back towar ds the bar.
?Come on,? he said. ?Let?s go and have a look."
He dr agged her into the bar. She for ced her self to look? but it was empty. Wher e she had
just that moment hear d laughter , not a soul was to be seen. Beth clutched her head w ith
her hands; then the smell of bur ning-bonfir e tobacco again, so str ong and sudden like a
cigar ette had just been lit.
?What is this place,? Beth cr ied. ?It?s like hell.?
Simon shr ugged his shoulder s. ?I think I?m going to have another w hisky.?
But befor e he r eached the bottle, a thunder ing r umble stopped him in his tr acks. The
gr ow ling gr umble of many boots on the stair s came hur tling dow n towar ds the cor r idor
betw een the bar and the r estaur ant; hur tling towar ds them. Beth?s eyes flar ed and she r an
to Simon, holding him tight. They stood befor e the door , fr ozen and stiff, waiting for The
Men to come cr ashing thr ough. Then, nothing. Nothing. No cr ash thr ough the door ,
nothing. Just stillness and hollow ness and deathly, humming silence.
?That?s it!? Simon said. ?I?m getting into that gun cabinet.?
He gr abbed the fir e poker fr om the hear th and br oke the padlock on the cabinet door. He
snatched a r ifle fr om inside and Beth watched in hor r or as she saw him br eak it and load it
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skilfully befor e cocking it r eady for fir ing. She could not believe they kept a fir ear m in the
bar. She could not believe Simon had just loaded it.
?Don?t Simon, please. Put it back. Let?s just go. Let?s just go back to the car. We can wait
ther e all night if w e have to. It?s better than this. Let?s just get out of her e, please.?
But on her ?please?, the lights w ent out. The snow -stor m pow er -cut had hit at last, and
Beth stood in absolute, ink-black dar kness. She could hear only her ow n quickening br eath
in the buzzing, pier cing silence - her ow n br eath and the ticking of the clock. And then
Simon?s voice: ?Why w on?t you have my baby??
She held her br eath. Then the sound of a match str iking over at the bar , and the br ight
flar e of its flame as Simon used it to light the w ick of an old br ass oil lamp.
?I noticed this hanging behind the bar ear lier. They must keep them handy. Pr obably
always getting pow er cuts this time of year.?
?What did you say that for ?? Beth star ed at Simon in disbelief.
?Say w hat??
?About the baby.?
Simon?s head glow ed copper or ange in the small pool of light the lamp gave off in the
dar kness. His featur es cast shadow s of black acr oss his face.
?What baby? It isn?t a baby yet, you said. It?s because of me, isn?t it? Nothing to do w ith
?being pr actical?. It?s me and you w on?t say. Why w ouldn?t you tell me you w er e pr egnant?
Why did I have to find out like that? How w ould you like it? How do you like being kept in
the dar k??
He blew into the funnel of the glass stor m guar d and extinguished the flame, plunging the
r oom back into absolute dar kness.
Beth sobbed quietly as she peer ed ar ound the r oom, tr ying to see thr ough the black
opaque veil, tr ying to see w her e Simon was. She could hear him moving stealthily in the
cor ner s of the bar.
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?Please. Please don?t do this.? She thr ew her head r ound to the r ight. Did she hear him
ther e? Wher e was he? What was he doing? Over ther e! She couldn?t see him. What was he
going to do? She r emember ed the mobile phone in her coat pocket. It did not have a tor ch,
but it did have a camer a? w ith flash. She held it in fr ont of her. FLASH? the image on the
scr een show ed a dar k, empty cor ner. FLASH? the bar and no one behind it. FLASH? the
painting of the dead deer and her faw n in vivid illumination. FLASH? and Simon sitting on
the floor , leaning against the wall w ith the r ifle acr oss his chest w ith his face tur ned away
to the side, almost like he was dead. FLASH? Simon?s face lunging towar ds her , eyes flar ing
in fur y, saliva spitting fr om clenched, gr imacing teeth.
She dr opped the phone and r an in w hat she hoped was the dir ection of the door. She felt
fr antically for the handle in the dar k; she could hear Simon behind her , coming towar ds
her. Her hand fell on the handle; she tur ned it and flung the door open, r unning out into
the snow stor m and unyielding dar kness of the night.
Simon was thr ough the door. He star ed after Beth as he saw her get swallow ed up by the
snow , by the fr enzied w hite flecks that danced in macabr e madness against the black
backdr op of the night. Wher e was she going? Why was she r unning? She w ould fr eeze out
ther e in that.
He r an back into the bar to find the oil lamp. He w ould never find her out ther e w ithout
it. He felt his way to the bar , to the box of matches, and str uck a light to find the lamp. He lit
the w ick and headed back outside. His feet squeaked as they sunk in the fr esh, thick
blanket of snow. He r aised the lamp to his face and saw a tr ail of her footpr ints in the
snow. He star ted to follow them.
?Beth?? he called, into the night.
The lamp offer ed only a shallow pool of light ahead but it was enough to follow the
footpr ints. Then, in the sickly yellow glow of the lamplight, he saw a flash of r ed? dr ops of
cr imson in the snow , seeping into it, staining it a nauseating pink. His hear t thumped
thickly in his chest; he walked fur ther , onto the moor , sear ching in the lamplight, until
ther e, r ight at his feet, he saw Beth laying face up in the snow. Her eyes w er e blank, her
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stomach dr enched in the blood that oozed fr om the gunshot w ound that had killed her.
Simon fr oze and was suddenly, hor r ifyingly, awar e of the r ifle, heavy and har d in his hand.
He stood, unmoving, gaw ping at her. Tear s str eamed fr om his eyes. Snow flakes settled on
his lashes; he could taste them as they began to fill his open, gaping mouth.
He looked ar ound him. In the pitch dar k of the moor he had stagger ed onto, he could not
tell w hich way the hotel was. He could not tell. Stunned, stupefied, he just star ted walking?
anyw her e.
And watching him, as he disappear ed into the uncompr omising mass of moor land, a stag
stood tw itching, stamping his fr ont hoof and snor ting hot air into the cold night air.
Back at the old hunting lodge, car headlights illuminated the Hotel?s fr ont façade as a car
pulled into the car par k and stopped. Tw o w omen left the car and appr oached the fr ont
door s of its gr ey, gothic face.
?It?s all in dar kness,? one w oman said to the other. ?They w on?t be open.?
Sur e enough, w hen they got to the door , a sign told them unequivocally:
?CLOSED FOR WINTER.?
About the author
A.J. Black is an ?emerging?writer with a special interest in the classic ghost story
genre. A prolific poet in her youth, she studied English Literature at York University
and went on to pursue careers in photography, then countryside conservation and,
most latterly, running her own business on the Isle of Skye. She currently lives
near Glencoe in the Scottish Highlands, where she is concentrating full time on
her writing. Her first novel, The Seamsis, the tale of a successful TV medium who
becomes a haunted man himself after the mysterious death of one of his clients.
She has also completed a full-length collection of traditional ghost stories, The
End of the Branch Line and other Winter Ghost Stories. A website to promote her
work is currently in progress.
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180

First Footers
by Jim Mount field
I grew up in Scotland, famed for its New Year?s Eve ? Hogmanay ?
celebrations and where first-footing, (trudging around your neighbours'
houses after midnight and toasting the New Year with glasses of whisky)
was once a strong tradition. It struck me that, in rural areas, going
first-footing on a pitch-black night, in usually terrible mid-winter weather
wasn't just a physically uncomfortable experience, but a creepy, even
scary one too. This inspired me to write my tale, ?First Footers?.
Gr anny Ander son scowled f r om her door way and sai d, ?Wel l , t her e ar e
sur ely t wo vi l l ages t hat ar e m i ssi ng t hei r i di ot s toni ght .?
All Lachie and Jimmy could see w er e the old w oman, the oblong of light fr om the
hall behind her and the glow of one cur tained w indow in the wall to her left. The
dar kness concealed ever ything else. It hid the cottage?s w hitewashed stone walls
and cor r ugated ir on r oof, and the str ip of gar den in fr ont w ith its clumps of
yellow -flow er ed bog myr tle, cluster s of pur ple-flecked heather and bunches of
bluebells. Though Lachie doubted if ther e?d be much colour in her gar den at this
time of year. It was Januar y 1st. December 31st had passed 45 minutes ear lier.
?I thought ye?d appr ove,? he r eplied, sounding hur t. ?I thought ye?d like w hat w e
w er e doing. Reviving the auld tr aditions.?
Gr anny Ander son sw igged fr om the tumbler of w hisky they?d pour ed her. ?If yous
ar e so keen on r eviving Scottish tr aditions, maybe yous should study some Scottish
histor y too. Listen, ther e was a r eason w hy w e used to go mad on New Year ?s Eve,
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tr aipsing ar ound houses and pour ing w hisky dow n our necks and hugging folk
w e?d nor mally cr oss the r oad to avoid. It was because w e w er en?t allow ed any fun
at Chr istmas.?
?Why not?? asked Jimmy.
?The Chur ch of Scotland, of cour se. The Kir k. Them bastar d Pr esbyter ian
minister s r unning this place like Joseph Stalin, only w ithout Stalin?s humour ,
war mth and joie de vivre. Chr istmas was out. They saw it as blasphemy against the
Saviour because ye?d deck your house w ith anti-Chr istian heathenr y like Chr istmas
tr ees and mistletoe and holly. In Scotland, Chr istmas Day was never a public
holiday till the late 1950s. Scots didn?t get Boxing Day off till 1974. So w hile people
in England w er e quaffing sher r y and br andy and munching tur key and pudding,
ever yone up her e was tr udging ar ound doing their daily chor es and feeling
miser able.?
?Wher eas Hogmanay ? ?
?Och, New Year was differ ent, son. It was secular. The Kir k couldn?t stick their
nebs into w hat folk did that night. So it was the one time dur ing the festive season
w hen Scots could go out and get hammer ed.?
She paused. The lull in the conver sation was filled by the sound of the w ind
gibber ing above them. Above, because Gr anny Ander son?s cottage was located in a
hollow that pitted the seawar d side of the hill.
?Aye, show s our desper ation. Str uggling thr ough this shite on a w inter ?s night.
How ling w ind, pishing r ain, sub-zer o temper atur es. Just so w e could w ish our
neighbour s a Happy New Year and have a smidgeon of fun.? Then she demanded,
?Yous ar e really pr oposing to fir st-foot ever yone the w hole way dow n the br ae??
?Ever yone,? Lachie avow ed. ?Well, ever yone w ho?s at home.?
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?Yous?ll be lucky if yous find anyone at home. Them houses mostly belong now to
w hite settler s, w ho?r e pr obably seeing in the Bells in their first homes in southeast
England. Won?t r etur n her e till the spr ingtime. Who else? Donald Far quhar ? He
w on?t be in either.?
?But Donald?s in his eighties. Wher e else w ould he be??
?Donald heads off to the Canar y Islands ever y w inter , w hich is w hat I?d do if I
had his money. Rumour has it he shacks up ther e w ith a myster ious senor ita of the
age of 25. Pr obably w hat keeps the auld boy spr ightly.?
Lachie and Jimmy consider ed this. It was never cer tain w hen Gr anny Ander son
was telling the tr uth and w hen she was pulling their legs. Sometimes she pulled
legs so har d that, metaphor ically, they came out of their sockets.
?Of cour se, ther e?s Wullie MacNeill. He?ll be at home. If sitting supping w hisky
w ith Wullie is your idea of fun.? She added conspir ator ially, ?They don?t call him
Buffalo Bill for nothing.?
?Buffalo Bill??
?Ever see The Silence of the Lambs?? The old w oman didn?t elabor ate but instead
declar ed: ?So, in summar y, I think if yous pair plan to spend the night fir st-footing,
your br ains must be made of mince. Ther e?s har dly anyone to fir st-foot at the
moment and even if ther e w er e, ther e?d be no point because the custom belongs to
a bygone Scotland w hen the Kir k had pow er and influence and isn?t the dying
institution it is today. Still, if yous ar e deter mined to give your selves hypother mia?
Good luck w ith that!?
She stepped back and closed the door. A second later , she r e-opened it, stuck her
head out, bar ked, ?Oh aye, Happy New Year !? and closed it again.
Lachie and Jimmy tr amped up the path leading fr om Gr anny Ander son?s gar den
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gate to the coastal r oad that passed the edge of the hollow. ?Well,? said Jimmy, ?that
one?s a char acter.?
?She cer tainly is.? Lachie felt depr essed after listening to her. He?d been looking
for war d to tonight?s expedition, in celebr ation of the most impor tant date in
Scotland?s cultur al calendar , w hen they?d planned to r evive the old tr adition of
fir st-footing and bond w ith their neighbour s in boozy Scottish camar ader ie. Now
his enthusiasm had been dampened.
Still, he thought, they?d bought tw o bottles of w hisky and started the expedition.
They might as w ell per sever e and make the best of it ?
Just then, they stepped out of the hollow and onto the r oad and the full for ce of
the w ind enveloped them.
*
The w ind was colder and mor e violent than it?d been w hen they?d tr ekked to
Gr anny Ander son?s cottage immediately after midnight. Somehow it was blacker
too. Lachie had a tor ch in one of his fleece?s pockets and he gr oped for the
pocket-zip. He gr ew uneasy w hile he fumbled. What distur bed him wasn?t that he
couldn?t find the zip, but that he couldn?t even find the side of his fleece.
He w onder ed w hat was w r ong. The w ind seemed to sw im thr ough him, jostling
the par ticles of his body. And the dar kness seemed to leach thr ough him like ink
soaking thr ough blotting paper. No longer was he even awar e of his hand,
sear ching for his fleece. The hand, indeed, all par ts of his body, had seemingly
dissolved amid the w ind and dar kness.
?Jimmy?? he cr ied out. ?Jimmy?? Ther e was no r eply. Indeed, he didn?t hear his
ow n voice. The night had absor bed that too.
Then Lachie found himself standing on the r oad and facing the night sky, w her e
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only the bellies of a few r ainclouds w er e visible, faintly smear ed w ith moonlight.
He low er ed his gaze towar ds the sea, w her e similar ly the moonlight glow ed only on
the cr ests of a few waves, and towar ds the r im of the coast, w hich looked even
dar ker than the sea. How ever , the coast?s far end was studded w ith lights belonging
to Kyletoll, the near est village. A Hogmanay fir ew or k fizzed up out of those lights
and disappear ed in a scatter of r ed spar ks.
?Is that you?? waver ed a near by voice, Jimmy?s.
?Aye. Ar e ye okay??
?I suddenly felt? weird. Must?ve been that big dr am w e had w ith Gr anny
Ander son. It w ent to my head just as I walked into this stor m.?
Lachie felt he had substance again. He unzipped the pocket and took out the
tor ch. In his other hand was the bag containing the bottle of Islay Whisky he?d
bought in the off-licence in Kyletoll. The feel of the tor ch and the w eight of the bag
w er e r eassur ing. But his r elief was counter ed by his disquiet at w hat Jimmy had
said. For he?d been about to say the same thing. He?d felt w eir d momentar ily, w hich
was sur ely because the w hisky hit his system at the same time that the cold w ind
hit it.
They star ted follow ing the br ae-r oad dow n towar ds the sea, the tor ch-beam
skitter ing over the asphalt ahead, the w ind blasting ar ound them. Lachie tr ied to
make conver sation. ?Well, I?m no sor r y to see the back of thon last year. It was
shite.?
Jimmy agr eed. ?Aye, all them folk I liked w ho died. Bow ie. Pr ince. The lassie w ho
played Pr incess Leia in Star Wars.?
Lachie was puzzled. ?Bow ie? David Bow ie? Dead? And Pr ince? When did that
happen? They never died last year. What ar e ye talking about, Jimmy??
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Jimmy tr ied to convince Lachie that the people he?d named had indeed died
dur ing the pr evious year , but the discussion was cut shor t, as a house loomed
ahead. This was the fir st of tw o r efur bished cr ofts that w er e ow ned by w hite
settler s on this par t of the br ae. As Gr anny Ander son had pr edicted, both houses
w er e empty, their ow ner s spending Chr istmas some 500 miles to the south.
Despite its emptiness, the secur ity lights w er e still active at the second house. An
infr ar ed motion sensor caused tw o lights at the top of the fr ont wall to snap on as
Lachie and Jimmy appr oached its door. The glar e was so gr eat that Lachie had to
tur n his head sideways. Br iefly, bizar r ely, he saw no tr ace of Jimmy next to him.
But then Jimmy was ther e, gr imacing and scr unching his eyes against the light.
Lachie decided Jimmy?s momentar y disappear ance was an optical illusion caused
by the light?s sudden onslaught. Chr ist, he thought. Lots of w eir d stuff happening
tonight. Way too much w eir d stuff.
They kept walking. ?This next year ?s going to be inter esting,? mused Jimmy, ?now
that the Yanks have a new pr esident. A black pr esident. Who?d have thought it?
Changed times, eh??
Lachie pr ocessed w hat Jimmy had said and thought, what?
But then Jimmy announced, ?Her e w e go. Wullie MacNeill?s place. We?ll do some
fir st-footing now. Gr anny Ander son said he?d be in.?
Wullie?s cr oft had mater ialised ahead, a few of its w indow s aglow in the dar kness.
Lachie felt r eluctant, how ever. He?d just r emember ed w ho Buffalo Bill was in The
Silence of the Lambs.
*
They didn?t actually know Wullie MacNeill. He was a distant, anonymous figur e
you?d occasionally see wander ing the aisles of the Costcutter in Kyletoll, clutching a
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w ir e shopping basket, dr essed in the r egulation cr ofter ?s outfit of boiler suit, w ellies
and cloth cap. Yet w hen Wullie opened his fr ont door , he looked a lot less
anonymous.
Wow , Lachie thought. Wullie?s a cow boy.
He w or e a Stetson hat, a fr inged buckskin jacket, a denim shir t w ith a bolo tie, a
pair of Levi?s and embr oider ed black boots that climbed to his knees and taper ed
for war d to shar p points. Admittedly, Wullie?s face spoiled the effect. It was the
same unexceptional face you?d see in the Costcutter , r ound and coar se, his small
mouth, nose and eyes cluster ing at its centr e.
The small mouth opened and said, ?Aye??
Jimmy piped up. ?We w er e dander ing past. Thought w e?d stop and w ish ye the
best for the year ahead. Happy New Year !?
Wullie?s small eyes w er e suspicious. ?And??
Befor e they could r eply, the w ind that was sur ging dow n the br ae caught the br im
of Wullie?s Stetson, r ipped it fr om his head and flung it into the cr oft?s inter ior.
Wullie spun ar ound and r ushed after the hat, leaving Lachie and Jimmy at the door.
They exchanged looks, Lachie nodded and they follow ed Wullie inside.
They found themselves not in a hallway but in the fir st par t of an L-shaped r oom
that disappear ed fr om view ar ound a cor ner. Wullie cr ouched near the cor ner. He
snatched his Stetson off the floor and jammed it onto his head again, though not
befor e Lachie and Jimmy saw the smooth, bar e dome of his pate.
Jimmy explained, ?What w e meant to do, Wullie, was fir st-foot ye and shar e a
dr am.? And he r aised his w hisky bottle out of its bag.
Wullie?s eyes gleamed at the sight of the bottle. ?Oh? I guess that?s alr ight, then.?
Lachie saw w hat was hanging on the walls. A metal sign shaped like the state of
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Texas, bear ing the w or ds LONE STAR BEER. The top of an old petr ol pump that had
the name MUSGO GASOLINE encir cling the head of an Indian chief. A fr amed
poster dated 1952 and adver tising HANK WILLIAMS WITH THE DRIFTING
COWBOYS. These things r eassur ed him. Wullie was know n by some as Buffalo Bill
not because of The Silence of the Lambs, but because the r eal Buffalo Bill had been a
cow boy. And fr om his house?s décor , and the clothes he donned on special
occasions, Wullie fancied himself as a cow boy too.
Then Lachie?s phone stir r ed in one of his fleece-pockets. He r emoved it and found
a new ly ar r ived message. It said: ?Hiya, son, hope you?r e having a gr eat New Year
w her ever you ar e. Me and Dad about to head to bed. All the best for 2003. Love,
Mum xxx.?
Lachie smiled, amused that his dear old mum had never fully adapted to this
new -fangled texting business. She always signed her name at the end like she did
on an old-fashioned ink-and-paper letter. But then his smile faded as something
occur r ed to him.
Hold on. This can?t be r ight. My mum?s dead?
Lachie star ed at the phone in fur y. Who could be so base, he w onder ed, as to
tor ment him by sending texts pur por ting to be fr om his dead mother ?
A fleck of w hite light flitted acr oss the phone?s scr een. This became tw o flecks,
then thr ee, a dozen, a swar m. And w hile the scr een filled w ith hissing, flicker ing
light, Lachie felt something similar happen to his ow n body. It disintegr ated. It
became a show er of fr agments, par ticles, fizzing r andomly thr ough a black, icy
void ?
The Stetson was back on Wullie MacNeill?s head and he?d r isen to his feet. Lachie
r ealised he was physically w hole again, standing next to Jimmy, inside the cr oft,
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betw een those walls festooned w ith cow boy-style par apher nalia. ?Come on in,? said
Wullie. ?Me and my fr iends ar e having a w ee Hogmanay get-together. Yous can join
us."
Fr iends? That wasn?t a concept nor mally associated w ith Wullie MacNeill.
He led them ar ound the cor ner into the r est of the L-shaped r oom. They enter ed a
longer , w ider space w her e the lighting had been tur ned dow n to a soft, fir elight-like
glow. The fur nitur e included a sofa and an old tur ntable-ster eo, fr om w hich a male
Amer ican voice cr ooned something about r iding a hor se acr oss desolate plains.
Tw o figur es w er e per ched at either end of the sofa and a thir d stood by the ster eo.
Like Wullie, they w er e clad in Stetsons and fr inged jackets, but unlike him they had
long legs, slender waists and thick, shoulder -length hair. They w er en?t cow boys, but
cow -gals.
Wulllie star ted to exhibit basic social skills. ?Lor etta, Patsy and Emmylou,? he
said, ?these ar e James and Lachlan. Local lads w ho?r e living in the city, though
they?ve come back home for the festive season.? This didn?t mean Wullie knew
anything about them other than their names. Almost ever y young per son in the
ar ea, bor ed out of their w its and shor t of cash, gave in to temptation sooner or later
and migr ated to Glasgow , Edinbur gh, Aber deen or Dundee. ?James and Lachlan, let
me intr oduce you to Lor etta, Patsy and Emmylou.?
As Lachie?s eyes adjusted to the low lighting, he saw that the thr ee figur es w er e
plastic dummies that?d begun their lives, or non-lives, modelling gar ments in a
depar tment-stor e w indow.
Wher eas Wullie had suddenly acquir ed them, Lachie and Jimmy?s social skills
seemed to dr ain away. They stood as mute and unmoving as, w ell, dummies.
Oblivious to their discomfor t, Wullie gestur ed to the vacant section of sofa betw een
Lor etta and Patsy. ?Take a seat, lads. I?ll fetch glasses!?
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#
?Did ye feel anything str ange back ther e?? asked Lachie as they descended the
next par t of the br ae. The w ind had slackened but the night r emained full of violent
noise, that of waves pulver ising themselves on the r ocks below them.
Jimmy snor ted, ?Everything was str ange. What a fucking w eir do!?
?When w e fir st enter ed his house, I had this scr ew ed-up notion that? I was
ceasing to exist.?
?Huh!? Jimmy held up his bottle, now tw o-thir ds empty. ?My w hisky near ly
ceased to exist. The cheek of him insisting that I pour big dr ams for his plastic lady
fr iends too. I bet just now he?s scoofing all that w hisky and laughing at me!? Then
he became philosophical. ?Still, it?ll make a gr eat anecdote. Your mates dow n in
Glasgow w ill pish themselves laughing w hen ye r elate the tale of spending New
Year ?s Night, 2011, w ith Wullie MacNeill and his Wild West shop dummies.?
Again, something in Jimmy?s w or ds niggled at Lachie. New Year ?s Night, 2011?
Sur ely that wasn?t r ight?
Another house appear ed, the lar ge one belonging to Donald Far quhar. Its
silhouette looked even blacker than the backdr op of the sea behind it. They
knocked on its door but Gr anny Ander son was pr oved cor r ect again. Donald wasn?t
at home.
?Do ye think,? asked Jimmy, ?he?s r eally in the Canar y Islands, having it away
w ith some young Spanish lassie??
?Well, Donald?s supposed to have made a for tune w hen he sold off his far mland,
so he could w ell be on some fancy holiday. Don?t know about the Spanish lassie
stuff, though. I suspect that?s typical Gr anny Ander son bullshit.
?He?s lucky he?s been able to tr avel lately.?
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?What do ye mean??
?Well, after all the cr ap that?s happened this past year.?
?What cr ap??
Jimmy sounded incr edulous. ?What do ye mean, w hat cr ap? The vir us!?
?What vir us??
?Jesus, Lachie, how much w hisky have ye dow ned tonight? The vir us!?
Lachie didn?t ar gue. This was mer ely one mor e incident of w eir dness dur ing a
night that?d contained nothing but w eir dness. Now he wanted it to end. He wanted
to go home, sleep and wake up tomor r ow in the normal w or ld again.
?Right,? he said, ?w e?ve tr ied this fir st-footing lar k. It didn?t quite w or k, since so
many folk w er e away. But w e did toast the New Year w ith a couple of neighbour s,
even if one of them was a r ude auld har py and the other was a cr azy bampot. So
shall w e call it a night and head back??
Jimmy objected. ?Ther e?s still one mor e house, Lachie.?
?Aye, but it?s another w hite settler one. They w on?t be in. Like the other s
w er en?t.?
?It?d be good to check, though. Just so w e can say w e tr ied to fir st-foot the whole
br ae.? Jimmy pointed dow n the r emaining section of the r oad, w hich was solidly
dar k. He could have been pointing into a hole.
Lachie sighed. They pr essed on.
As they near ed the bottom of the br ae, a smudge of light appear ed. It gr adually
expanded into an aur a that r evealed the r oadside par t of a one-stor ey house, built
amid the mar r am gr ass that was the last vegetation befor e the r ocks and sand of
the beach. The light emanated fr om a lamp mounted above a ver anda. Halfway
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along the ver anda, a fr osted glass door glow ed w ith inter nal light.
Lachie tr ied not to sound disappointed. ?Okay, they are in. Do ye think they?ll be
r eceptive to a nip of w hisky??
?The fellah?s an ar tist, appar ently. Ar tists ar e always mad for the dr ink.?
?Ken anything mor e about them??
?Only that he?s English and his w ife?s a Yank.?
They r ang a door bell and, finally, a shadow appear ed on the glass panes and the
door was pulled back by a w oman. She w or e skinny-legged jeans and a baggy
hand-knitted sw eater and had long aubur n hair , par t of w hich, str angely, was
br ushed for war d over the r ight side of her face. The visible par t of her face looked
str essed, tir ed, almost fear ful.
The noise of waves smashing against near by r ocks made communication difficult.
Loudly, Jimmy explained: ?We?r e your neighbour s fr om the top of the br ae and w e
thought w e?d fir st-foot ye ? ?
They didn?t hear the w oman?s r eply but the movement of her lips suggested:
?What??
?We?d like to fir st-foot ye ? ?
The same lip movement: ?What??
Lachie shouted, ?Can w e come in, please??
The w oman flinched and backed away, into the house. They took this as an
invitation, an odd one, but still an invitation, and follow ed her in.
They enter ed a lar ge r oom that accounted for most of the house?s floor ar ea. Its
near er half was a living space w ith chair s, a table, a TV flatscr een, bookshelves and
a r ectangle of car pet.
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The fur ther -away half ser ved as a studio and was a contr ast in its disor der liness.
Its floor was haphazar dly cover ed w ith paint-splatter ed sheets of black plastic and
along its side r an a w or ktable litter ed w ith br ushes, pencils, knives, tins and tubes.
Mounted on easels w er e sever al canvases bear ing w or ks-in-pr ogr ess that, so far at
least, didn?t seem to r esemble anything.
Though the flatscr een?s volume had been tur ned dow n, it was show ing live
cover age of Edinbur gh?s inter nationally famous New Year str eet par ty. A sea of
r eveller s filled Pr incess Str eet w hile fir ew or ks blossomed in the sky above them.
Then the camer a zoomed in on some stationar y fir ew or ks, ar r anged on the
r ock-face below Edinbur gh Castle and for ming four giant, w hite-bur ning digits:
?2013?.
Lachie felt a momentar y puzzlement. 2013? Was that cor r ect?
Tw o tumbler s, a jug of water , an almost-empty bottle of Glentur r et w hisky and a
cr ammed ashtr ay occupied the living-space table. The ashtr ay, Lachie thought,
explained w hy the air in the r oom was smoky and smelt slightly acr id. One tumbler
lay on its side and a lar ge, painfully wasteful-looking puddle of w hisky extended
fr om its r im.
Keen to get this fir st-footing visit over w ith as soon as possible, Lachie w ent to the
table, lifted the toppled tumbler , pour ed in some of his Islay w hisky and held it
towar ds the w oman. ?Anyway, take this,? he said. ?Happy New Year to ye! Happy
tw o-thousand-and? and? w hatever it is!?
But the w oman kept backing away fr om them, into the studio end of the r oom.
Lachie tr ied to make the best of the situation. ?Och, w ell. If ye think ye?ve had
enough alr eady, I?ll toast the New Year for ye. Slainte Mhath!? And he took a slur p of
his ow n w hisky.
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Meanw hile, deciding it?d be polite to show inter est in the ar tw or k done by the
w oman?s husband, Jimmy walked past her into the studio ar ea and star ted
inspecting the canvases. ?These ar e good,? he said. ?No exactly my cup of tea, but I
can see how folk might compar e them to? that fellah w ith the r ude sur name. That
Jackson fellah. Jackson? ?
Lachie tr ied to help. ?Bollock??
?Aye, that?s him. Jackson Bollock.?
The w oman asked in an Amer ican accent, ?You?r e police??
Lachie was shocked. ?Us? Polis??
?At the door , you said, ?Can w e come in? Police.??
Lachie laughed. ?Naw , I said, ?Can w e come in, please??I mean, do w e look like
polis-men? Dr essed like this? Ther e?s no plainclothes polis-men ar ound Kyletoll.
Ther e?s just PC Dr ew and PC Ar chie and they have to w ear unifor ms.? Then he
r emember ed the second tumbler on the table. ?If ye don?t fancy w hisky, how about
your husband? If he?s home, maybe he?d like to have a dr am??
?A dr am??
?Sor r y, dr am?s a Scottish w or d. What do yous say in Amer ica? Oh aye. A shot.?
?A w hat?? cr oaked the w oman.
?A shot. Would your husband like a shot??
Jimmy was studying the canvas near est the clutter ed w or ktable. ?This one?s
special. It?s the? anger in it. The way ye have r ed paint splashed over it. Ther e?s no
patter n, no or ganisation. Just an angr y mess.? He studied it mor e closely. ?The r ed
paint?s still w et by the way. Your husband must?ve w or ked on this r ecently ? "
A gr oaning sound came fr om close by. On the floor boar ds betw een the canvas
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and the w or ktable lay not one piece of black plastic sheeting, but w hat appear ed to
be a lot of them r olled together in a sausage-shaped bundle. Then one end of the
bundle lur ched up off the floor and Jimmy exclaimed, ?Fuck?s sake!?
The gr oaning continued. Jimmy summoned his cour age, appr oached the bundle,
bent over the end that?d moved and r aised a flap of the outer most layer of plastic.
?Jesus!? he squaw ked. ?Lachie, come and see this!?
As Lachie passed the w oman, she stopped backing away and instead moved
sideways, towar ds a small Chr istmas tr ee that stood glimmer ing next to a wall. He
r eached Jimmy and discover ed that the bundle wasn?t a r olled-up mass of sheeting.
It was just one sheet, w r apped ar ound a non-plastic object. The object was a man,
his head, shoulder s and chest exposed by the r aised flap. His face was polka-dotted
w ith blood, his eyes gaw ked and his mouth was set in an agonised r ictus. In
addition to the gr oan emer ging fr om the mouth, blood bubbled out and r olled
dow n his jow ls.
Then his gr oan changed into w or ds: ?Shot me? bitch shot me? just cos? w e
ar gued and I got a bit? fisty w ith her ? ?
Lachie tur ned ar ound in time to see the w oman lift a double-bar r elled shotgun
that?d been pr opped against the wall behind the Chr istmas tr ee. She br oke the
shotgun open, r aised the stock to her shoulder , slotted tw o shells into the bar r el?s
br eech ends and snapped it together again. Then she put a hand to her face and
sw ept back the veil of hair that?d cover ed her r ight eye. The r evealed eye was black
and sw ollen. But that didn?t stop her fr om nar r ow ing it and squinting along the
bar r el as she took aim ?
Jimmy mar velled at the figur e under the sheeting. ?Fucking shite. She tr ied to do
the bugger in!?
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The shotgun thunder ed, the upper half of Jimmy?s head disintegr ated and the
canvas behind him wasn?t just splatter ed w ith blood but dr enched in it. Then
Jimmy?s body slammed into the canvas, its easel toppled and he cr ashed dow n on
top of them. He still gr ipped a cor ner of the plastic. As he fell, it peeled off the man
and tipped him onto his side. A hole gaped in his belly and some glistening stuff
oozed out ar ound Lachie?s feet.
The r ecoil fr om the shotgun pr opelled the w oman back against the tr ee.
Deter minedly, she kept it at her shoulder and r edir ected the bar r el at Lachie. He
yelped and star ted r unning, in an ar c fr om the w or ktable into the living ar ea and
towar ds the door , tr ying to keep as far fr om the w oman as the r oom?s walls w ould
allow. But the w oman pivoted so that the bar r el stayed tr ained on him. Just befor e
he r eached the door , he hear d another thunder clap and an immense blow to his
side picked him off his feet and smashed him into the wall. He bounced back and
landed r agdoll-like on the floor.
Looking up, he saw the w oman lift tw o mor e shotgun shells off the pot of soil that
the Chr istmas tr ee stood in. She r aged, ?Why did you have to intr ude? Why couldn?t
you leave us alone? I was going to dump him in the sea and nobody w ould?ve
noticed. Nobody w ould?ve car ed. Ever ybody w ould?ve been happy. Me especially.
But you butted in and got in the way and r uined it!?
Then the man gr oaned again and she for got about r eloading the shotgun. ?Oh,
shut the fuck up!? She stomped acr oss to him and star ted r amming the stock of the
shotgun dow n on his head.
Despite the w ound he?d sur ely r eceived, Lachie r ealised he didn?t feel any pain. In
fact, he was able to scr amble onto his feet. Then he bolted out of the house. Behind
him, the r epeated dow nwar d thr usts of the shotgun-stock w er e gr eeted by hideous
cr unching and squelching noises.
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He leapt off the ver anda and char ged back up the br ae. The w ind was blow ing
again, so that he r an against that as w ell as against the gr adient and the night?s
aw ful blackness. The distur bing, disembodied sensations he?d had ear lier r etur ned.
The blade of the w ind seemed to cut his body into pieces, w hich spun off into
differ ent r egions of the dar k. His mind fr agmented too and became a blizzar d of
dispar ate thoughts and images. Gr anny Ander son mocking him fr om her door step.
Jimmy flicker ing out of and back into existence w hen a light tur ned on. David
Bow ie dead. Pr ince dead. Amer ica electing a black pr esident. Wullie MacNeill in his
Stetson. Lachie?s dead mother w ishing him a Happy New Year. Plastic cow -gals. A
vir us. Abstr act paintings. An ar tist dying under some plastic sheeting. A
madw oman w ith a shotgun. Jimmy?s head exploding ?
Even as he br oke apar t, he kept r unning ?
Suddenly he r ealised he was passing the edge of the hollow that contained Gr anny
Ander son?s cottage. Despite the old w oman?s cantanker ousness, the thought of her
cottage evoked feelings of war mth and safety. He halted and found to his sur pr ise
that he was in one piece again, w ith legs, ar ms, a tor so, a head, a functioning br ain.
He tur ned off the r oad and r an dow n the path. ?Oh God,? he sobbed, ?Oh shite. She
killed Jimmy. That w oman killed Jimmy!?
The cottage was in dar kness. He r eached the fr ont door , but befor e he could star t
pounding his fists against it he discover ed it was no longer in its fr ame. One low er
hinge kept it attached to the door post w hile its upper par t tilted back into the
cottage?s inter ior. A r eek of decay seeped thr ough the space cr eated by the leaning
door. Lachie stepped back. The sky wasn?t the cloud-smother ed expanse it?d been
ear lier but was clear and star r y, a cr escent moon embedded in the middle of it like
a shining buckle. This let him see the outlines of the thick leafy gr ow ths that
enveloped the cottage?s fr ont walls and gr oped in ar ound the fr ames of its br oken
w indow s.
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Wonder ing if the moonlight was playing tr icks on his eyes, Lachie tr ied to locate
his tor ch in the side-pocket of his fleece. How ever , instead of finding the pocket, his
hand encounter ed a r agged-edged hole in his side. His finger s inadver tently delved
inside, passed the w r eckage of his r uptur ed low er r ibs and enter ed a w et, pulpy
cavity ?
The moonlight faded and the dar kness thickened. Although he could see almost
nothing, he became awar e of a figur e standing a yar d away.
He hear d Jimmy ask tr emulously, ?Lachie? Is that you? What?s happening??
?I don?t know ? It just feels like? Like? We?ve been fir st-footing that br ae for a
long, long time.?
?Aye. So long that ever ything?s muddled up. Time, I mean.?
?Time?s out of joint? Who said that??
?It was in Hamlet. Mind? We studied it at school ? ?
A shaft of light emer ged fr om the cottage?s door way. They tur ned their heads and
saw Gr anny Ander son standing on the thr eshold, br andishing the tumbler of
w hisky they?d pour ed her.
Scow ling at them, she declar ed, ?Well, ther e ar e sur ely tw o villages that ar e
missing their idiots tonight.?
About the author
Jim Mountfield was born in Northern Ireland, grew up there and in Scotland, and
has since lived and worked in Europe, Africa and Asia. He currently lives in Sri
Lanka. His fiction has appeared in Aphelion, Blood Moon Rising, Death Head's
Grin, Flashes in the Dark, Hellfire Crossroads, the Horror Zine, Hungur, Midnight
Street and Schlock! Webzine and he blogs regularly at Blood and Porridge
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T he W ind on the Water
by D avid Pattie
The germ of this story came from the memory of driving into Uig on Skye,
on a clear evening with the Outer Hebrides visible on the horizon.
1.
Hey: d?you want to hear a stor y?
You see how the beach cur ves her e, how the bay seems to ar ch away to the
headland? You see the waves r olling gently along the beach? Looks calm, this
evening; the sun thr ough the low haze, the line of light on the water. So clear , isn?t
it? That?s the line of the Hebr ides, along the hor izon - the low r idge of the Uists, the
Har r is hills to the nor th, and then the empty water , all the way to the ice at the pole.
I love these evenings too. Feels like ther e?s nothing betw een you and the isles,
feels like you?r e str etching away your self, all the way to the hor izon.
Come her e; sit beside me. I?ve got a stor y to tell you. And w hile I?m talking, w ill
you do something for me? Will you look out acr oss the water , and watch the waves
and the islands? Because the stor y?s ther e, if it?s anyw her e; it?s out ther e, in the
endless, changeless sea.
2.
So, ther e was once a man.
Which is the way w e star t these stor ies, isn?t it? Conjur e a man out of the air like
that. I say the w or ds and you can pictur e him; you might not see the same man I
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see, but he?s ther e for both of us. Right ther e.
I?ll make it easy, shall I? I?ll tell you w ho I see.
I see a man called James Mackie. Or JM, his mates called him, and he had a load of
them. Does that help make him clear ? What if I say he was just over six foot, and
his hair was gr eying. and he had one of those faces you can?t shave because it?s all
cr eases and r idges, but he tr ied, and his mates got used to pointing out the patches
of stubble, now on his chin, tomor r ow on his neck, the next day on his cheek.
Ach, I?m a lazy bugger , he said. Should just go at it w ith acid. Or a flamethr ow er.
That?d sor t the bastar ds out.
And his mates laughed. Does that help you see him? Do you see the same man?
The man w ho always had his money on the pool table, and a seat by the TV at the
bar. That man. You know. That man.
3.
And JM had a house, out towar d the edge of the tow n. Big, r ambling place; it?d
been his par ents, and he stayed ther e after they?d gone. His da had liked the
upstair s r ooms because you could look out over the sea. But JM stayed dow nstair s.
Ther e w er e always mates enough after a dr ink w hen the bar closed, and in the
mor ning, he?d find them splayed like dead bir ds acr oss the couches. JM?d step over
their legs and star t the fr y in the kitchen. You can smell it, can?t you? You know
w hat that smells like. Then he?d go in and kick them awake.
Br eakfast. Will y?do me a favour and just eat the bloody stuff?
So James?d make the tea and the coffee, and they?d eat and dr ink in the fuzzed
way you do after a night on the tear. And ever y mor ning, at half eight to the second,
he?d tur f them out.
Got w or k to do. Away out, you fucker s.
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And he?d aim a punch at their heads. And you can see him now , can?t you? You
can see him dr iving them befor e him like this was the Bible and he was mucking
them out the temple. You can see them alr eady half into their coats, gr abbing up
the last of the toast. And then the door sw inging, and the w ind coming off the
water , blow ing past his depar ting guests, r ight into the hear t of the house.
4.
His da had died in that house. JM came back fr om his w or k in Por tr ee and found
his da str etched out in the hall w ith the fr ont door gaping open, and a look on the
old guy?s face like nothing you can imagine. JM got his ar ms under his da?s
shoulder s and clasped his hands together acr oss the chest, and dr agged the dead
w eight thr ough to the fr ont r oom. He dr ew the cur tains befor e he called the
hospital. Thinking back, he always w onder ed w hy he did that.
You know w hat they said? Can you imagine? What they said was they didn?t know
w hat?d happened. Baffled. Which was the fir st time he?d hear d anybody actually
use that w or d.
We?r e baffled, Mr Mackie, they told him. We?ve examined your father thor oughly
and w e?r e baffled.
The w or d r attled ar ound his head, he told me. It?s all he could think of. You never
hear people saying baffled, he said, and then ever y fucker in the place was sayin?it.
That baffled me, he said, and he laughed. I was baffled by that.
5.
And now you?ll be expecting the tale to tw ist. You?ve met the man, you know himeven
though I haven?t told you w hat he w or ks at, you?ll have guessed it?s a gar age,
and you?ll have guessed he doesn?t ow n the place. And you?ve hear d about his dad,
and that ther e?s a myster y ther e.
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So, you?r e waiting for the tur n of the stor y. OK. But keep watching, yeah? Out
ther e acr oss the water. You can see the wake line of the fer r y coming over fr om
Tar ber t. And ther e?s the ship itself, dar k blue and gr ey on the evening sea. It never
gets fully night, this time of year. Ther e?s always enough light to see by. So, watch,
and keep watching.
5.
JM star ted to dr ink mor e after his father died. His ma came back for the funer al;
she?d left year s back, and he couldn?t blame her. His da was a dr inker , using it to
put a scr een betw een his family and himself. JM?s ma?d found someone else on the
mainland ten, tw elve year s ago. After the funer al they w ent out to the edge of the
Minch, to clear their heads.
Sandy not w ith you, then? JM?d asked
No, she said. No r eason for him to come. They never met, and it?d just be putting
salt on the w ounds of the family her e. So best not.
Aye, he said. They stood for a moment in silence.
Don?t stay her e. He tur ned r ound: she was looking str aight at him. Don?t stay. He
did. And look w hat happened.
He was thr ow n, for a moment. What?
Your da?d get smashed, & come to bed mutter ing about the w ind, and about the
things he saw out on the water. Couldn?t get much sense out of him, but he?d say
ther e w er e faces ther e.
Faces?
She shr ugged. I know. Just faces. Couldn?t get any mor e out of him than that. I
thought it was the dr ink, and him being on his ow n so much. But he?d say faces
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w er e ther e, and he could see them, and they could see him. And he could feel their
br eath on his face. He could feel them br eathing. That?s w hat the w ind was. He
said.
He?d shaken it off. His da?d dr unk enough to see things, and anyway it might have
been a mishear ing or a dr eam badly explained. But that night he dr ove his ma back
acr oss the br idge to Kintail, and on the way home, he pulled over by the side of the
r oad and got out of the car. The w ind was steady fr om the w est. It had come over
uncounted miles to r each him, maybe fr om as far away as Canada. And on the
w ind, ther e w er e voices, low , and steady, and each one w ith his name, w hisper ed
and clear , car r ied to him over the long sw ell of the sea.
5.
And after that he found himself on the shor e, feeling the w ind blow steady on the
side of his face.
He?d always seen shapes in the water , but he thought ever yone did. The tubes and
cur ls of waves, the sudden smash of a br eaker. He?d seen hor ses and r ider s out
ther e w hen he was young and imagining the mad r ace of the sea to the shor e.
But now he walked and felt the steady pr essur e of the w ind. And voices,
w hisper ing James, and his da?s given name, and other names he couldn?t catch.
He shook himself. Walking on the beach like a useless bastar d, he said. Fear t to
look at the water. So, he tur ned.
And he saw. His da?d been w r ong. They w er en?t faces. Or at least not people?s
faces. What he saw on the water w ith the sun declining over the Minch w er e
masks, floating above the sea, buoyed somehow by the air. They w er e backlit and
far fr om him, but the quick guess he made was that they w er e paper , like the cr ude
ovals a child?d cut out of a dr aw ing pad. He didn?t see any featur es on them, not at
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that distance, but the low sun shone thr ough the empty tear -shapes of their eyes.
6.
And he dr ank mor e, and he didn?t stay the evening in that house, and in the
mor ning his hand shook so that he couldn?t shave himself and he joked w ith the
lads about the cr eases in his face, and the next night he?d be in the bar again w ith
his money on the pool table.
When the last of his mates had passed out he?d walk the length of the house,
putting coats at the foot of the door to keep the w ind and the voices out.
Can you imagine that? What if the w ind in our ear s now was w hisper ing names to
us, one by one? Names w e knew. People w e?d lost. What if the w hite str eaks out
ther e over the water w er en?t gulls? What if they w er e scr aps of paper , caught in the
w ind, each one w ith its tor n-out eyes tur ned to the shor e?
7.
It was five year s after his father ?s death: five year s of dr ink and ear ly br eakfasts,
of stopping the dr aughts and closing the cur tains, of his hand shaking and the fear
that came over him w hen he pulled the door shut in the mor ning. He thought of
moving, but that scar ed him mor e. If he left the house, w ould they pur sue him? If
they w er e on the w ind acr oss the ocean, w hat?s to say they w ouldn?t sw eep
themselves over the land to find him, w her ever he w ent?
No. Better to stay her e. To sur r ound himself w ith people, and to hold the house
fr om the w ind and the masks.
But the w ind r ose. As it always does along this coast. Did I tell you, one time a guy
came out after a stor m to find the cor r ugated r oof of his shed r ipped off by the
gales? Did I tell you they found it miles inland, w r apped tight ar ound a lamppost
like it was silver paper ?
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Against that, w hat could he do? What w ould you do?
So, the w ind r ose. And the scr aps of paper , w hite in the late autumn sun, blew
closer to the house.
8.
It was December of that fifth year , and the w ind dr opped.
He w ent out for the evening same as usual. Dow n the r oad to the pub, and the
night was clear and ver y still. All evening, w hen he dr ank and played and laughed
he listened out for the shaking of the w indow fr ames; but ther e was nothing. His
mates took the piss on the way back to the house.
What?s up, big guy? Off the planet tonight?
He laughed. Aye. And no far away enough fr om your shite. But the calm bother ed
him. No pr essur e on the side of his face, no voices, no names.
He got them in thr ough the door , and it was just like it always was. Come tw o in
the mor ning they w er e filleted and dr aped acr oss the fur nitur e. He looked at them
and tur ned off the light. Feeling uneasy, and feeling sober.
But the mor ning was the same. As he cooked the br eakfasts, and made the dr inks,
and got them moving it was just the same as it had always been. He watched the
last man go and as his mate disappear ed dow n the r oad back to Uig he felt, for the
fir st time in a day, the w ind r ising ar ound him. And a low voice, car r ying his name.
He cr ept ar ound the side of the house, so he could look out at the sea. And as he
tur ned the cor ner , he felt something settle, slow and infinitely soft, on the skin of
his face. For a moment, he couldn?t move. Then he lifted his hands, to feel the paper
w her e his skin should be.
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9.
He was missed at w or k, and in the pub. But it wasn?t until the next mor ning that a
mate dr ove ar ound and found his body lying on the gr avel at the side of the house.
They never found the cause of his death. The only thing his mates kept coming
back to, in the w eek of the funer al, was the smoothness of his face, as though the
skin in death had been str etched out like canvas, or like notepaper. They said they
w ouldn?t have know n him if it wasn?t for his eyes.
10.
So that?s your stor y. All done.
The sun?s gone, but you can still see the sky glow ing. And if you know stor ies,
you?ll be expecting another tur n. Another moment w her e the tale?s r ew r itten, and
you unlear n ever ything you thought you knew.
But no. Ther e isn?t one. This tale w ill stay the way it?s told. Just look out ther e, and
watch the glow ing water. And don?t pay any mind to the r ustling of my voice; if you
tur n- w hen you tur n- to look at me, don?t you mind the smoothness of my face.
And don?t you mind the w ind r ising, or the faces that it car r ies to the shor e.
About the author
David Pattie is a Scot, currently living in North Wales. ?The Wind on the Water?is
his first piece of publicly available fiction.
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He does love prophesying a misfortune, does the average British ghost.
Send him out to prognosticate trouble to somebody, and he is happy.
L et him force his way into a peaceful home, and turn the whole house
upside down by foretelling a funeral, or predicting a bankruptcy, or
hinting at a coming disgrace, or some other terrible disaster, about
which nobody in their senses would want to know sooner than they
could possible help, and the prior knowledge of which can serve no
useful purpose whatsoever, and he feels that he is combining duty with
pleasure. He would never forgive himsel f if anybody in his family had a
trouble and he had not been there for a couple of months beforehand,
doing silly tricks on the lawn or balancing himsel f on somebody's
bedrail.
- Jerome K. Jerome
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