A synopsis.

Two, middle aged friends find their life-paths crossing - after having had no contact since their student days - when a terrible shared secret comes screaming through the years to haunt them, threatening their sanity, freedom and comfortable lives.

Evidence surfaces, when Joshua (the ten year old son of the family who had just moved in to the former student flats) finds a ring in the back garden. This leads to further discoveries of human bone and a police inquiry quickly links the house to the era and the two main characters.

As the story unfolds, we hear personal accounts of the sequence of events told by Dave (a respectable dentist) and Tom (an IT consultant) and see how their viewpoints differ. However, in the process we see how the secrets they each keep (from themselves and each other) have shaped who they have become. These statements are set against (and woven amongst) present tense revelations as the inquiry unfolds, revealing that the girl was a flatmate of Dave and Tom, who was not lost on a backpacking holiday as the reports had suggested in 1976

We learn from Tom and Dave that their extreme student lifestyle - constantly in search of the ultimate thrill - led (through a combination of drink and mushrooms, on Halloween weekend) to the drowning of Clare (an archeology student), in the bathroom at the house.

We hear from Tom that the secret he kept from Dave was that he had sex with her almost-dead body, causing her to drown. However, we learn from Dave that it was his idea to dispose of the body (to hide their grisly excesses) instead of reporting the incident.

Having tried a variety of methods (including food processors and a bonfire in the garden) they are satisfied that the incident is behind them, but rivalry between Dave and Tom reaches a climax when Tom tells Keith about the party. Dave had stolen Keith’s girlfriend and the tension between them was already there.

Now, in the present day only Dave and Tom know the full truth but the police (as yet) can’t directly link them. That is, until Keith arrives back on the scene. Dave convinces Tom that the only way to retain their anonymity is to make sure that Keith doesn’t reveal all that he knows.

However, following the ill conceived murder of Keith, fresh evidence emerges which irrevocably incriminates both Dave and Tom but for different reasons. From beyond the grave, Clare appears to have had a hand in posthumous retribution.

Thrillers, Killers ‘n’ Chillers is a webzine that aims to do what it says in the title - at least to thrill and chill (they haven’t and wouldn’t advocate anyone killing just yet!) It is faithfully dedicated to writing and reading short stories and flash fiction in the most daring of genres, including crime, noir, action, thriller, horror, weird, spooky, supernatural and slice of life. As long as a story hits one of the criteria or, even better, transcends them all, then this is the place for it. It’s edited by horror and urban fantasy author, Lily Childs; crime writer: Col Bury and best-selling thriller author: Matt Hilton.

As a special and tantalising treat on this spookiest of nights, they have cooked up a week-long festival of writing called: “Hellicious Halloween” and there are some despicably dark delights for you to shiver to over the coming few days. Thirteen tales of horror by twelve excellent writers - a blend of terror, fear, emotion and humour. There you’ll find classic gothic versus contemporary urban life (or death); traditional pumpkinistas versus animist tree-atricals.

They’ve announced the line-up in advance (so you’ll know what there is to look forward to) and the first story of each day will be published at 9am. The second at 6pm - UK (GMT) times. Enjoy, and please support the writers by giving your feedback - especially a certain J. Bramwell Slater who just happens to open and close the selection. He is rather dear to my heart.

Read and log your support > Hellicious Halloween writing festival

THE LINE UP

31 October 2011
AN UNQUIET SLUMBER by J. Bramwell Slater
CONFESSIONS OF A JACK-O-LANTERN by Harris Tobias
 
01 November 2011
BLOODY TRUCE by Erin Cole
TOBY’S LAST HALLOWEEN PARTY by Keith Gingell
 
02 November 2011
THE MONKEY TREE by Sean Patrick Reardon
PICK YOUR OWN PUMPKIN by Chris Allinotte
 
03 November 2011
MNF by Absolutely*Kate
HALLOWEEN LOVERS by Phil Ambler
 
04 November 2011
WHAT FATE IMPOSES by Patricia Abbott
SMASHING PUMPKINS by Gill Hoffs
 
05 November 2011
BACK WHERE I BELONG by Dorothy Davies
THE FACE OF EVIL by Kevin G. Bufton
 
06 November 2011
DINNER FOR ONE (OR, THE MAD MORTICIAN OF BRINDLE STREET) by J. Bramwell Slater

—-

DON’T FORGET you can delve into the fascinating mythology of my own work in progress at a number of sites:

Uncle Reggie’s Magic Radio

Reginald Merryweather on Twitter

Reginald Merryweather’s personal blog

By Philip Jennings. From ALGOL - The Official Magazine of The York Astronomical Society. Issue 79 – June 2011

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary. Edgar Allan Poe is best associated with dark, gothic tales of black cats and swinging pendulums; a disturbed fellow who ended his days in a very mysterious manner – repeatedly shouting ‘Reynolds’ before dying of unknown causes.

Aside from his literary exploits, Poe took a great interest in the sciences, particularly cosmology. It is clear from his correspondence that he was fascinated in the subject. He was not an idle cosmologist by any means: fascinated in new ideas, he took an interest in the great developments of his day, such as those of Lord Rosse and his ‘Leviathan’ telescope in Ireland.

He was widely read, keeping up-to-date with papers from around the world and in many languages. He incorporated some of these new ideas – such as the Hollow Earth Theory – into his works. His curiosity in the subject culminated with his cosmological pièce de résistance, Eureka; which was published in 1848. This was a long, detailed and characteristically poetical book, analysing cosmology on a scientific and spiritual basis – from discussion of the creation of the Universe to the existence of a higher being.

However, it is most notable for his proposed explanation for Olber’s Paradox, which asked: in an infinite Universe scenario, why isn’t the night sky bright, as every line of sight ends at the surface of a star? Poe put his thinking-cap on and answered that the light of these distant stars have not reached us yet - when we observe the dark gaps between stars, we are surveying a distance that is, in his words, ‘so immense that not ray from it has yet been able to reach us at all.’

He was the first person to realise this. Unfortunately, Poe’s ideas – which he gave a lecture on in February 1848 - were apparently largely greeted with the sound of scientists’ heads shaking and Poe died only a year later. Yet, interest in the toe that Poe dipped in cosmology has since grown and, in a very quiet way, traces of its ripples may be found in modern cosmology today.

It is a most terrible night. The wind is roaring outside and I have been woken from sleep and some terrible dreams. The last thing in my mind as I gained consciousness, was a ghost story which I had to write down, immediately, before it slipped back into the night. It’s written here, in first draft, exactly as the dream dictated it to me.


An unquiet slumber

The Coach & Horses was a large and pleasant Inn on the edge of the Presili Hills, in Pembrokeshire. With beautiful tracts of land that stretched out for miles in all directions, it was in the perfect location for those in search of solitude and respite whilst on the kind of holiday which required some physical effort to enjoy it to the full -  The type of recreational travel which rewarded one with some of the most majestic scenery and bracing weather whilst calming the soul of its day-to-day frustrations and clutter.
     It was on a night where the wind had taken the valley by force, that there came a large knocking that attracted Samuel, the Inn-Keeper. He had locked up early as it had been clear — since his last customer had left at eight — that there would be no more custom that night. In any case, he reasoned, his sick wife would appreciate the attention he might afford her with a few extra hours to spare.
     Samuel, with lantern in hand, pulled back the bolts to the front door and greeted a tall figure clutching at the collar of his coat. With a methodist compassion, he instantly saw that the man was cold, wet and most probably lost on a night such as this. As the wind battered their faces, he bid him to come inside. Once before the fire, Samuel spoke with the man and asked him his business but although he appeared shaken and somewhat reticent, eventually enquired if there was a spare room for the night that he might stay.
     Samuel was a good host and was well respected amongst the local farmers and his other regulars. However, he was also known for his vivid imagination and fondness for telling strangers about the many ghosts he claimed were resident in his establishment. The locals knew it was nothing more than a rouse to attract custom from the curious and the thrill seekers. But it seemed harmless enough, and they forgave his outlandish claims, indulging him on the many occasions that he would tell stories on dark nights around the crackling fireplace.    
    Eager to entertain his new guest as he tucked in to a hot meal of soup, he told yarns of headless horsemen and grey-clad women who were often known to roam the corridors and yards of the old building. But, undaunted by these recollections, the mysterious guest explained that he was tired from travel and wanted nothing more than to rest for the night. Samuel obliged graciously and showed him to the master bedroom, above the bar at the front of the Inn.
     The room was of suitable appointment, having wood paneling; a large double bed; a dresser and fine views out onto the Hills. Samuel wished him a good night and left the traveler about his privacy. Once alone, the stranger wasted no time in making himself comfortable. He washed, undressed and laid down to sleep. The wind ripped violently outside but it made no difference to him as he settled back into the starched white, Welsh linen sheets and duck-down pillows.
     Shortly after half past twelve, the man was disturbed by a sound. Not made by the gales that lashed the window, nor by the creaking of boards that follows the cooling after a fire has gone out. These were deliberate sounds and ones which caught his attention from deep within his slumber, raising him up like a shipwreck from the deep. He opened his eyes in the darkness and called out.
     “Who is this that disturbs my sleep? Tell me. Who dares come creeping at such an hour? Landlord? is it you?”
     There was no answer, so the man rose from his bed, lit one of the candles that were at his bedside and went in search of the source of the disturbance. The wind hissed down the chimney to be let in and at the window: the devil sucked his teeth in defiance at the warmth within. In the corridor beyond, the man stepped lightly over the threshold and was confronted by a crouching figure dressed as a grotesque who rose up before him.
     “What is the meaning of this,” he said and the figure quickly removed its mask and holding it nervously - as he realised the error of his actions - he spoke:
     “Are you not Philip Loxley?” enquired the figure.
     “No, I am most certainly not. How dare you break my sleep with this childish foolishness?”
     “Then, you must be: the true owner of this Inn. May God help me,” he cried, and fled away into the dark and down the stairs as though he had encountered a ghost.
     The following morning, the man was perturbed and somewhat angry about the precedings and challenged the landlord: asking him why he had tried to fool him and break his night’s sleep.
     As Samuel served up a hearty breakfast of cooked bacon and hen’s eggs, he was puzzled by the traveler’s accusations, explaining that it could not have been himself, as he was attending to his sick wife in their cottage at the other side of the stable yard. But, he went on to explain, that: one of the stories of the building recounted the tale of Eli Barnes, a former landlord who had tricked the original owner into selling him the Inn and his mischievous ways had followed him through life, getting him into a number of difficult situations.
     “Eli Barnes used to play the most outrageous pranks on his guests until one fateful night when his good friend Philip Loxely was staying here. They were well known for their rivalry of practical jokes between them,” said Samuel.
     “The rest of the Inn was empty that night, save for this one room (the one you stayed in) and Eli had crept up the stairs looking to frighten his friend. What he didn’t know was that Philip had risen to take a night walk due to the most terrible gut ache. The story goes, that Eli crept in, hoping to scare Philip but instead met a terrible spectre in the room. So terrible was the encounter and so afraid was Eli that he ran back down the stairs, tripped and broke his neck. He was found by Philip, poor man, who sobbed as he ran for help.”
     The stranger was neither unmoved nor impressed by the tale, pushed back his chair; paid what money he owed; thanked Samuel for his hospitality and left. His cold manner had not troubled Samuel up to this point but his sudden departure unsettled him. A gentleman such as he would surely have exchanged more pleasant conversation or lighthearted chatter. He felt, for a moment: vexed, that perhaps he had failed to cater sufficiently and that, most possibly, the traveler would go on to tell of the Inn with less than favourable impressions but his worry was soon to be steered a very different course.
     Later, as he went to clear the bedroom and collect the towels, Samuel was astonished to find that the bed had not been slept in. In fact, not a single thing in the room had been touched. The towels were exactly as he had left them the day before and the bed was in immaculate order - its sheets untouched by so much as a finger let alone a man who might have slept there.

(1,235 words)

Dinner for one
(Or, The Mad Mortician of Brindle Street)

~

Joshua looked on in horror as Hickson skilfully removed huge slabs of meat from the body lying on the table before him.
“This,” he said, “is the best bit,” holding up a darkened orb that resembled a heart.
It was the first time that Joshua had seen his employer behave this way but then, it was also his first experience of being an apprentice and being the only funeral directors for many miles meant that Brachs & Barton encountered a steady turnover of customers in that borough. Thomas Barton had died a few years earlier and Brachs had sought an apprentice to train up; to assist him with the work needed to prepare the deceased for internment. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant job and he had struggled to tempt anyone in spite of the handsome salary he had been offering but Joshua was young, built like an ox and quite poor.

London was buoyant following the coronation of George V earlier that year, but work was still scarce. He was fortunate, in that: the job included a small room at the top of the house where he could live. In the beginning, he had been assigned to lesser duties such as tending the horses and dressing the departed’s faces for those who wished to offer their last respects but after some time, Hickson believed that he was ready to learn the process of presenting the cadavers in the gruesome and professional task that, until now, only he was proficient.

The rich aroma of bacon greeted Joshua as he arrived downstairs for work and he found Hickson merrily frying breakfast in the small kitchen at the back of the parlour where he lived.
“Breakfast lad? We have a busy day ahead of us and you’ll need sustenance inside you for the tasks that I have in mind.”
Joshua thanked him and sat at the small table in the centre of the room. Being of humble origins had meant that he was used to spending most of his time in a state of hunger so when his employer was offering the bonus of a free meal, how could he resist?
As Joshua devoured the plate before him, he wiped his chin and commented: “I needed that. I was starving.”
“What do you know of hunger?” snarled Hickson as he poked at the embers in the fireplace. “Have you ever wished you could sleep just to escape the wringing ache in your gut, day after day?”
Joshua was taken aback by his outburst but thought no more of it and thanked him for the meal and all the while, Ratchet, Hickson’s dog, barked around the legs of the table.
“Quiet, you hound! Be silent!” growled Hickson and taking a leash, fixed it to the animal’s collar and lifted it a clear six inches from the floor until its barks became a husky yelp.
Joshua felt that he should say something, but his master’s manner prevented him.
“I’ll bloody teach you to behave like a gentleman’s dog, you…” and without finishing, he dragged the animal across the floor and out into the yard beyond, where it returned to barking as he slammed the door behind him. Later that morning, a thin light shone across the tiled walls of the preparation room as Hickson prepared to treat the corpses and Joshua looked on, as his master began to slice away at the grey mass before him.

“First we must drain all the fluids, like this,” he said and with a few skilful moves he had begun the lengthy process.
An odour, the likes of which Joshua had never encountered, filled his senses and he covered his nose with his sleeve as he coughed. Hickson laughed and looked back at his work.
“Take great heed lad, for these are the secrets of the craft and I am putting great store in you by imparting them.”
However, Joshua was sure that what followed could not be part of the trade as Hickson produced a leather apron filled with butchery tools and began to dissect the various limbs of their muscle, placing the cuts neatly onto a marble slab to one side of the table. Disgust and revulsion bowled through his every vein as he watched this slaughterhouse madness and his mind retched at the anvil memory of his morning meal.

“Aye, It looks like what you are thinking but I am not suggesting you copy this part of the operation. This is for my own purposes,” he said as he delved into the gut of the thing and removed first its liver and then the heart. After a while, there was a banquet of fresh meat arrayed on the block and Hickson reached into a store room for a bag of hay that he had taken from the stables. Stuffing it inside the skin, he stitched up the incisions and washed his hands.
“Now it is ready for the embalming fluid,” he said, stepping closer to the trembling apprentice and punctuating his words with a blade, “but if you should ever tell of my passion for the ‘corpus humanis’, I shall find you; kill you and eat you as well. Mark my words well: An eye for an eye.”

At the funeral the following day, Joshua single-handedly hauled the coffin from the back of the hearse and heaved it into the waiting arms of the pallbearers; the strongest of the deceased family, who took the casket through the stone arch and along the path. Only Hickson knew that the cabinet was heavy with the bricks that he had secreted in its lining.
“Will you not join me in the chapel Mr Brachs?” said Joshua.
Hickson took a hip flask from his waistcoat pocket and shrugged as he leaned against the coach. Joshua looked back at him downing the cheap gin and spitting at Ratchet who was barking at his feet and went inside the chapel. Sitting at the back of the congregation, he began to reason that the cause of Brachs & Barton’s success was that his master, he suspected, was becoming greedy and had begun to murder his clientele - choosing only the ripest victims for his own, as he learned how the deceased had been ‘struck down’ by a vicious assailant ‘at such a young age.’

~ 

That night, Joshua was awoken by bitterly arguing voices downstairs.
“I’ll have my money from you one way or another, if it’s the last thing I do,” said a woman’s voice.
“After what you did to me Gwendolyn? I can scarcely believe your impudence in the matter.”
“You owe me alimony stretching back for months now. That child of yours needs shoes and clothes. Just how do you expect me to provide those?”
Ratchet was barking furiously as the two jousted their positions ever closer to conclusion.
“If you hadn’t ruined my business, none of this would have happened.”
“We all know what happened to Thomas and I’m sure that there are others who would be very keen to learn about your ‘business’ if I had the inclination to tell them. See that you have that money for me by Friday week,” she said and Joshua heard the sound of the front door as she disappeared into the night.

For a long while afterwards, Hickson could be heard clattering about in the kitchen along with Ratchet’s incessant barking which eventually came to a husky halt. The incident had troubled Joshua greatly and in the days that followed, the seeds of curiosity took hold and his resentment grew like vine, encircling every corner of his thoughts. 
As the two of them rode back from a funeral a week later, he felt compelled to confront a question that had been foremost in his mind. “What happened to Barton?” 
Hickson thrashed the reins, snarling: “Don’t ever let me hear you utter the name of that scoundrel in my presence!”. Joshua steadied himself as the horses recoiled from the chastisement. 
“Why?” bellowed Hickson into the wind, “Because he stole my wife whilst she was still heavy with my child and I will not speak of it again.” 

The following afternoon, Joshua was surprised to receive a visit from Gwendolyn who arrived without announcement when Hickson was out, having gone up to London on business. 
“I’m afraid the master is not in, Ma’am.” 
“I know,” she said, “it is you that I wish to speak with.” Joshua showed her into the sitting room and sat, facing her. 
“I suspect that you know of Hickson’s practices, but before you deny it, let me say that: I am well aware of the extent of what happens between these walls.” Joshua was stunned but she continued- “I have been extracting money from him for my silence but now I want more and I am prepared to pay you handsomely if you can assist me in …disposing of him, so that I may inherit his fortune.”

Gwendolyn’s empowering words echoed through the haunted corridors of Joshua’s mind from that moment forward and as he went about his daily work the next day, he became resolute in the allegiance that her conspiracy had offered him. He didn’t join Hickson for breakfast that morning, or any other that followed, as he had already begun to cook his own wicked recipe. Having access to the bodies now provided him with the perfect opportunity to inject them with the embalming fluid before Hickson’s intervention and this he did with furious intent. Each day he watched him devour the poisoned steak and he recalled Gwendolyn’s carefully detailed instructions - His death would never be detected as it would be seen as a hazard of the job following his demise, she had told him - it seemed the perfect murder.

In the weeks that followed, Joshua saw the master descend from being an imposing and incumbent force within the household to being a frail and pathetic shadow and how he relished every passing signifier until the day that he finally died, without struggle, as he slept. Joshua was elated to discover him lying in his pit and was particularly energised after he had informed the authorities and began the process of preparation for the funeral but he had a final act of defiance to complete, for his own sanity.

As the body was lain on the table, he used the skills which had been imparted to him in removing the most select tissue which he later prepared as a feast for Ratchet. The dog gobbled the the fresh meat with adoring enthusiasm as Joshua stood proudly in the kitchen feeling freed at last from the horrors he had learned to endure. Little did he know: the true implication of this pedantry gesture.

~ 

The minister spoke quietly in the autumnally muted cemetery the next day and his voice hung heavily on the pitiful few who were gathered there. Reciting the words of Job from his crow-black leather book, he gazed emptily at the darkened sky.
“Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery…”
“I need to speak with you Joshua,” whispered Gwendolyn so slightly that her words were almost unspoken beneath her veil as she leaned toward him.
“Oh?” he mouthed. His hands clasped before him, tightened their grip.
“In the midst of life we are in death…”
“You have served me well, master Hepton, but I have a final task for you. My underwriters have attended to matters in my favour, as it is the building that is quite clearly the true extent of Hickson’s wealth.
“…earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…”
“Therefore, I need you to be absent for a few days. Consider it a compassionate sabbatical. Further, I would suggest that you find suitable lodgings as there might well be a significant ‘accident’ to the building.”
Joshua’s mind reeled like a sailor, freshly landed in port - such was the intoxication of her implications.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “I shall provide for you, for you have more than provided for me” and Joshua was sure that the vaguest smile played about her lips.
“…and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with us all evermore. Amen.”

That evening, in the still darkness of a cheap lodging house not far from the parlour, Joshua looked out across the rooftops and saw the crimson glow of flames engulfing the building. As the smell of the blaze was thick in the air, he felt the weight lifting from his heart into the night sky and the torment of such terrible deeds (and his own part in it all) peeled from his soul and drifted out to join the rank stench of evil. As he watched in the stillness of his contempt, Ratchet - the innocent animal he had saved from the catastrophe, with the taste for human flesh still on its tongue, snarled with him in its sight.

‘My wife was murdered you see? If only I could change the way things turned out, I wouldn’t feel so empty now.’
George looked at him, sitting there in the poor light of his humble lodging house. He’d had a few strange guests over the years but this one was stranger than most.
I’ve got a question for you Izaak. How did you know that I had a room to rent before I had even placed the advert?
‘I know a great deal about you George.’
He drew back his chin and looked straight into his cold blue eyes.
‘How is that so?’ said George.
Izaak leaned forward and whispered: ’ I know about your son as well and it is HE that will cause my sadness.’
‘My son? I don’t have a son,’ protested George, grasping the arms of the faded armchair in astonishment.
‘Oh but you will have and not too long from now but I’ve come here to stop you.’
George struggled with the idea but then Izaak continued: ‘In the future, it is your unborn son that will kill my wife and I cannot let that happen,’ and with that, he revealed an instrument which George didn’t recognise and a blinding instant later, Izaak was alone. He watched the room slowly fade from view as he returned to his life, many years from now and was once more reunited with his love. Now that George had been eliminated, their paths never crossed and Izaak was fulfilled at last.

(251 words)

It was horrible, the day when I found Conrad lying dead on the kitchen floor. Fifteen years we’d been together and he’d been my closest friend. I was usually woken very early each day when he wanted his breakfast but I suppose that on that morning he’d decided to try to get his own. I’d no idea what to do as I’d never had to deal with anything like that before and, as I was alone, I had to make some important decisions.

I live in a small flat in South London and not having any family or friends to turn to all I could do that morning was ring for help.
‘You’ll have to bring him in,’ said the woman on the phone but I didn’t have any transport.
I thought for a while afterwards about wrapping him in blankets and leaving him with the refuse for the council to collect but the idea disgusted me - I just couldn’t bring myself to treat a loved one like that.

I didn’t know how to get rid of a dead body -it’s not the sort of thing that any of us have to consider as a rule but eventually I found the perfect answer; a large suitcase (the one which we’d bought to go to Southend, all those years ago). I dragged it down from the top of the wardrobe and it was a perfect fit. After I’d squeezed his legs into the corners and satisfied myself that the case wouldn’t burst open, I checked the bus timetables.

It was only a short ride to the tube station, and thankfully the case had small wheels on one corner which made it easier for me. The surgery was quite a way across town and I needed to make a rail journey to get there before they closed for the day, so I hurried in spite of the great weight I was carrying.

My train was about to leave but before I could reach the platform I had to climb the vast expanse of escalators that lay before me. Luckily, a nice young man took pity on me and helped me with the case as I struggled.
‘What’s in your case? it weighs a ton,’ he asked but I couldn’t possibly tell him the truth and so I quickly thought of a believable story.
‘It’s a collection of old DVDs and Cds that I’m taking to a friend,’ I said, ‘I’ve finished with them all and we often share things like that.’

At the stop of the stairs, I was stunned to see the man wrench the case from me and set off running, away down the platform. I couldn’t help be saddened as I saw Conrad disappearing inside but at the same time I was amused to think how disappointed the young man would be when he opened the case to find a slightly decaying dead dog. I went for a coffee in Starbucks and thought about it for a while then went home to my lonely flat.

(506 words)

Amongst the lithe and transient breezes, my words float but I am resolute in my resilience to tell my tale - such were the terrible deeds that sculpted the essence of my being. This room is my only knowledge and resting place now as I have long since lost the capability of rational account.

For it was here that the lord of the manor, in his infinite wisdom, decided to vent his wicked power over me - a simple serving girl of modest means - and in doing so, changed the course of things forever. I was born an orphan and raised by nuns until they let me go into service for this gentleman, but I use the term in its loosest sense. He decided that he would have his way with me, and abuse the dowry the nuns had given to pay back his gambling debts which were considerable.

Life was hard and I worked all the daylight hours to please my master but it was not enough and in time he pursued me to the ends of the house and demanded his personal satisfaction with me. The baby was born on Christmas day and I named her Mary but she was dragged from me and burned in that fireplace in the corner by the surgeon, as the master said that no child of his should be known to one such as I.

Further, his wrath at my beauty and the impropriety of his deeds caused him great embarrassment and for many years he incarcerated me in this room for no other crime than being young and attractive. I was his slave and prisoner and for that I hated him but I had no one to turn to and so accepted my fate in life, but it was painful. I had never known the kindness of a mother nor a father and I was torn from my own child in a way that I didn’t understand. when all I wanted was to love and to be loved.

‘Bill! what was that noise?’
Bill turned over in his sleep and drifted back from a blurred vision of nothing.
‘What?’ he said.
”Bill, there’s someone in the room,’ she whispered.
‘Karin, go to sleep. It’s nothing,’ but she wasn’t convinced.

Perhaps if I showed them the candlesticks which he used to beat me with, they might understand. I swung at them with my hand and they fell to the floor.

‘Bill! Wake up!’ but she had no need to say it - he was already half out of bed.
‘Who’s there?’ he said as he checked in the bathroom but the room was empty.
‘Probably the wind from this window,’ he said, ‘here - let me close this. Now, go back to sleep Karin. I know these creepy old English hotels make you freak out but it’s all part of the charm. Come on honey, we’re on vacation,’ he said and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Now, go back to sleep,’ and she smiled as he turned out the light.

(504 words)

It’s such a relief to be finally boarding a train. At last, I can escape from the terror that my life had become and as I settle myself into the empty carriage I can look forward to a new beginning; released from all that haunted me.

I don’t know how it all started, I suppose it was gradual at first. Like most people, I don’t pay much attention to spam emails. Every day I’d scan the subject headings and look for things I recognise, then marry them up with the sender’s name. I could usually spot people I knew and the daily ritual was almost an automatic act of “click and delete.”

There was one name however, that kept appearing and after a while I became curious, so I opened it. “Why don’t you answer my emails?” it said and I quickly searched in the trash for the others to see what they had said.

To: Tom Southern
Subject: What you did
From: Joseph Devlin
Tom. How can you live with yourself?

That was the first of many. The rest were just as brief and as I frantically clicked them all open I began to read about a whole tirade of hatred. Each one more intense than the last and I was terrified as the situation revealed itself to me in black and white. Someone I had never heard of was accusing me of something I hadn’t done and was threatening me, in the most ferocious of ways, that he was determined to wreak revenge. What could I do?

I closed down the email account as I couldn’t bear to see the name anymore and that’s when the text messages started. “Number unknown” they always said, but the comments were just the same: “I know you did it and when I tell them, so will they. There is no escape. You will have to face your fate.”

I had to keep my phone switched off most of the time but then I started to get calls on the landline. The first time this happened, I answered as I was expecting a call from my boss.

‘Hello? is that Tom?’ said the voice.
‘Yes. Who is this?’
‘Tom, it’s Joe. Joe Devlin. Don’t pretend you don’t know me. We’re old friends, remember?’
‘Look. I don’t know what you’re playing at here, but this has gone too far. I’m going to contact the police.’
‘Oh, you don’t want to do that Tom. Then you’ll have to explain why you killed me.’
I was stunned. To actually hear him say those words with such conviction was chilling. He’d emailed me the same damning statement but to hear his voice telling me made no sense. At first I thought it was a prank but now it was clear that he must be insane and if that was case, he knew far too much about me - where I lived, what I was doing and even what I was thinking.

In the days and weeks that followed, the calls became more frequent and I would often lie in bed in the darkness listening to the distant sound of the phone - reminding me of a murder which became more real with every ring. I couldn’t sleep and it was starting to destroy my life.

I left my job and moved out of the apartment into a cheap hotel for a few days just to let my head clear and give myself time to think what to do next. I pulled in some favours from an old friend who offered me work at the other side of the country for a while, just till I got settled. I didn’t explain why, I just said that I needed a change and he was happy to help out. And so, here I am. On a train with a new life ahead of me.

I stretched my legs and gazed out of the window as we pulled out of the station and the bleak stonework of the city gave way to the sprawling countryside in the darkness of my night passage. Then, someone else came into my deserted compartment. I picked up the book I had been reading and tried to make it look obvious that I didn’t want to be disturbed.

‘That’s a good story,’ he said after a while as he leaned over from the opposite table. ‘Not as good as the first one though. Did you read his first?’
I looked up and shook my head. It was clear that he wanted to talk, and we were both already bored by the prospect of a long journey on a deserted train.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I’ll let you get back to it.’
‘No, it’s ok. I can’t concentrate,’ I said, ‘I’m Tom.’
‘Hi Tom. My names Joe. Joe Devlin,’ he smiled.

His softly spoken words crushed me and I froze in the grip of overwhelming panic as questions roared though my mind.
‘What the hell are you doing here? Why are you doing this to me?’ I shouted at him, slamming down the book but his look of surprise was not what I had expected.
‘What do you mean Tom? I’m just talking to you.’
‘All these months, you’ve been on my case. Hounding me. Why won’t you leave me alone?’
He laughed and said: ‘But Tom, I’ve never seen you before. I don’t know you, we just met. Remember?’
‘You’re lying! All this time you’ve been lying. I didn’t do anything.’
‘Tom, now look here. You need to calm down a bit. As I said, I don’t know who you are. I just came in here for a bit of company on a long trip. I’ve been working away and I’m going home to see my wife that’s all.’

He was too clever. That confident tone and his self assured grin was starting to ignite fires of such resentment in me. I despised him and all he had done to me and I got up from my seat.
‘Hey Tom, now seriously. This has gone too far. I was just…’
But I didn’t let him finish. Why the hell should I let him? He’d ruined my life, night after night with his infernal emails and his text messages. Accusing me, ME of being something I wasn’t and promising me revenge, well I wasn’t about to let him have the satisfaction. I rushed forward and gripped his throat. His startled eyes, red and glaring held a silent stare of defiance but I just laughed as he choked and struggled in the grasp of my strong hands and then he was dead.

I dragged his body to the end of the compartment, opened the door and heaved it out into the night and fell back into my seat, aching and exhausted. Perhaps I could find tranquility at last, now that I was rid of the burden that my life had become and the train rolled on, into the darkness of a new day.

(1164 words)

“I can hear the gale, roaring down my chimney to be let in. Outside, the sound of frail objects are heard as they cascade between structures and at my window, the devil sucks his teeth in defiance at my warmth. Wearily, I look up for a moment as the sound of my grandmother’s whisper echoes in the hall only to be replaced with the rush of elemental violence. When such, was a night like this and why. For what reason, the gods rally up and regale me with their fury? Am I not merely man? Alone and innocent in the grand scheme of things. Why such venom for one as lowly as I, that you beat my door with hands like spades. Desist, I cry. Let me sleep and in that slumber contemplate all my wrongs, that I may comprehend your anger.”

…So wrote Oliver Marcroft in his diary, many years later, as he recounted the terrible events that led to his eventual demise but he was far from being an innocent man. In the days, long ago, when these streets were first walked by such guides as he, there was fierce competition for trade and their territories were guarded jealously.

A long time ago, eager crowds flocked to hear the accounts of Oliver and his rival Peter Whinsome and they both vied for the favours of the wealthy visitors by performing increasingly gruesome accounts of the city’s ancient past. Oliver was a thespian by trade and was versed in the ways of commanding an audience, whereas Peter was a flamboyant writer with many years of personal experience of the dark nature of things. Together, they painted very different pictures.

On one particular evening, however, Oliver - tired of sharing his success with Peter - decided to intensify the delight of his customers by providing them with a ghastly conclusion to his night’s performance. He knew the route that his counterpart would take and he made a detour to confront his adversary face to face.

The assembled crowd drew a breath as the two men squared up to each other and defiantly stood their ground.
‘Go no further!’ called Oliver in the darkness. ‘I will not let you pass.’
Peter was stunned and began to announce to his guests that this was a rehearsed part of the evening but Oliver was unabashed.
‘I challenge you, Sir, to a duel. A fight to the death for this corner of the city, and mark my words - you shall not come out of it the victor.’
In so saying, Oliver threw himself upon Peter with his hands about his throat and they struggled violently for some time as the audience looked upon the scene with excited wonder. Peter was strong and resisted valiantly but Oliver was driven and nothing could make him relinquish his grip. Finally, Peter fell in that doorway there and with his dying breath uttered the chilling words:
‘You will be seeing me again. I will have satisfaction Oliver Marcroft.’

It is said, that on a night just like this, when the moon hangs high and the north winds howl, that the ghost of Peter Whinsome roams this narrow street, lurking in the doorways looking for Oliver to execute his bitter revenge. And they say, that if you listen carefully you can hear him enticing the unwary with his promises of a tour of the city that they will never forget.

And now ladies and gentlemen, if you’d like to follow me, we’re about to visit one of the most haunted streets of the city and for those of you at the back who have just joined us, the price is five pounds and the tour lasts one hour. Please try and keep together, I’d hate to loose any of you.

(625 words)