The work on this page is comprised of all the stories and poems that I have written for Christmas and for Halloween over recent years. I hope you enjoy them.

Night Duty

“What do you reckon then? About those ghost walks Kenny was on about?”

Emma, despite her warm-looking coat, is hugging her arms tightly around herself. Every now and then she missteps, trying to walk in a straight line like a sober person.

Walking alongside her, she bumps into me as she weaves her way down the street. I have had a few pints myself, though I think I am surer of foot than her. I let her use me as a buffer as she walks. Better than letting her wander into the road.

Not that there is much traffic. It is late, dark, very cold and this is the quieter part of town. We have had a fun evening with friends, one of whom, Kenny, spent most of the night raving about a ghost walk he went on last weekend. He took a fair bit of ribbing over it, which strangely enough developed into a more serious conversation about the afterlife.

Emma thought it was interesting. After a few minutes I got up, talked to a few mates at the bar, then played a couple of games of pool. The drinks had gone down a little too easy. Before we knew it, we were being asked, politely, to leave.

“What about them?” I respond to Emma, just a little too slowly. I grimace and check my watch. 12.50. I need my bed.

“We should go on one, that’s what I mean! You up for it?”

I shove my hands into my pockets, drop my head to hide my smile, “Not really Em, you know I don’t believe in all that stuff.”

“You should have stayed, listened to what Kenny was saying. I mean, he’s sceptical too, but some of the weird stuff that happened…” Her voice trails off, her words slurred. She is more drunk than I realised.

“If he believes any of the stuff that happened on a ghost walk then he’s not as sceptical as he claims. They use actors, you know! You don’t really buy into all that, do you?”

She looks at me, unwraps an arm to loop around my elbow. At least I can keep her a bit steadier now.

“Well I don’t know do I, Josh? I like to keep an open mind. I mean, nobody really knows anything for sure, do they? Anyway, it might be fun, actors or not. Halloween’s coming up. I reckon we should book a ghost walk.”

“Really? Can’t you get one of your friends to go with you?”

“Party pooper!” She calls me, retracting her hand to stuff into her own pocket, “Scaredy-cat!” She jibes. I refuse to rise to her only semi-playful taunting.

We walk on in silence, the scrape of her boot heels the only sound apart from the distant hum of light traffic.

I hold out an arm to stop her, “Hang on! Something’s not right here.”

“What do you mean, not right? Get out of the way Josh!” She pushes my arm aside but comes to a begrudging stop a little behind me.

“Where the hell are we?” I turn on the spot, looking around. There is absolutely no sound of cars on the road anymore. Now Emma has stopped walking there is not even her footfall to be heard. The night is eerily silent. We are in a part of town I have never seen before.

“What the hell?” I whisper, wondering why my own voice has become so hushed.

“What?” Emma demands, blinking to take in her surroundings, “Very funny Josh! No need to take the piss out of me, just because I said I fancied going on a ghost walk!”

“I’m not taking the piss Emma! Look! Look around you! Do you have any idea where we are?”

I suddenly feel a lot more sober. Emma seems to appreciate how serious I am. She turns on the spot, just as I did, looking around for a landmark she recognises. There is not one.

“What the hell?” She echoes me.

“Exactly!” I exclaim.

We both stand there like idiots for a minute.

“We just go back the way we came,” I say eventually, “come on, about turn.”

I put an arm round her shoulder. Unresisting, she begins walking with me. We take only a few steps before a mist begins to fall around us. Light at first, it soon becomes a thick fog. We halt our steps again.

“This isn’t right!” Emma declares, “There’s no fog in the forecast!”

I keep the thought that this is probably nothing to do with meteorology to myself. Why am I, self-professed sceptic, even thinking that?

“I have never seen fog as thick as this before.”

“I think it’s what ye olde-time Londoners would have called a pea-souper.” Emma informs me.

“Well, we are not ye olde-timers and we’re not in London either!” I do not know why I am starting to feel panicky, I only know that I am. I take a deep breath, not wanting Emma to see it.

Even drunk she can read me well, though she is sobering up a lot, too.

“It’s okay Josh, we keep walking regardless, right? I mean, what’s the worst that can happen? One of us falls off a kerb?”

“Or into the path of an oncoming car!”

“Any driver out in this would have fog lights on and be driving really slowly. I can’t see that happening Josh. Come on.”

She loops her arm round mine again, tugging me forward. Reluctantly, I follow.

“It’s gone a lot colder,” I shiver inside my jacket, pulling Emma in tighter.

“That’s what Kenny said happened on that ghost walk,” she tells me unhelpfully, “It went a lot colder and everyone started getting the chills out of nowhere.”

“Not the best time to be sharing that!” I snap.

She looks up at me and giggles, “You’re not really scared are you, Mister Sceptical Man?”

“Of course I’m not scared!” I feel my good mood evaporating, “I’m just confused, that’s all. I have never taken this wrong turning before. Don’t you think it’s weird? I mean there, look!”

Ahead of us the fog lifts a little, allowing a patch of yellow light to shine through enough to show us black railings, a cobbled road.

“Is that a gas lamp?” Emma stops dead, staring.

I follow her gaze. For the briefest moment I get a glimpse of a tall, black pole, with what could only be described as a Victorian gas lamp atop it. It burned a mellow orange-yellow; straight out of a Dickens novel.

“That’s impossible!” I hiss, “No way! There are no naked flame street lamps in town anymore, they’re long gone!”

“What’s happening?” Emma asks plaintively. I have no answer to give her so I just shrug.

“How should I know? You’re the paranormal expert, you tell me.”

“No need to get snarky with me, Josh! I’m not an expert. It’s probably not even paranormal! I mean, how could it be? It’s just some freak weather event. Global warming or something.”

“How does global warming conjure up a Victorian street scene?”

“I don’t know, do I? Don’t raise your voice to me!”

“Now then sir, madam. What seems to be the problem?”

Emma and I jump in unison. I mean, we literally jump, stepping abruptly backwards, thumping awkwardly into one another. The figure before us has a long, neat moustache, blending into sideburns. A heavy-looking helmet sits on his head, the strap under his chin. He has a dark cape thrown over his shoulders.

I do not know if it is the lingering effects of the alcohol or the continuously swirling mist, but I cannot see any firm edge to his being. It is as if his body is as nebulous as the fog around us.

For a second it envelopes him completely, covering us in such a chill that we cling together. When it parts once more, the lamp is out. With no light behind him the strange figure seems more sinister.

“Causing a public disturbance,” he says in a dry, aged voice, “I could run you in for that.” Menacingly he taps his wooden truncheon into the palm of his free hand.

My tongue feels as solid as stone, useless in my mouth. I am unable to utter a word. Absurdly, I want to tell this officer that we were not causing a disturbance. That it was just a tiff.

I cannot speak. Judging by Emma’s silence, neither can she.

A noise begins. The sound of hard wheels rattling upon an equally hard surface. It is accompanied by the clack of horse hooves. With a chill, I realise it is an approaching carriage.

“What the fu..?” I manage to blurt. The officer cuts me off with a curt warning.

“No such language in front of the young lady!” He admonishes.

I risk tearing my eyes away from this weird apparition to face Emma, “This has to be a wind up, right? Kenny, maybe?”

Her eyes are wide as she looks up at me, her head shaking ‘no’ before I have even finished the sentence.

“This is no joke, Joshua. I think you know that. This is no prank. This is real.”

She sounds sad, all her earlier enthusiasm at possibly encountering a ghost gone.

“This can’t be real!” I whisper urgently, even though the apparition is right there in front of us, listening to every word, “This is a trick of the mind, or the light; or both. This is not real, Emma!”

“Not real?” The officer says, stepping a fraction closer, “How much have you had to drink tonight, sir?”

I do not know what to do. How to respond. What to say to make this go away; to make it not be happening. So I resort to an old tactic. I get angry.

“Back off, pal!” I say, stepping forward, even though I dread the thought of actually touching this thing, “You don’t exist anymore! You’re not even real police!”

Immediately it becomes obvious that I have offended him. Part of me wants to laugh. How do you offend a ghost? Then I see that he is not going to take such an affront lightly. Expecting a blow from the truncheon, I raise a protective arm but all he does is go for the whistle attached by chain to his chest. He puts it to his lips and blows.

A piercing, flat sound like a tiny steam train whistle rents the air. It lingers overlong, the fog parting where the sound travels. When it stops, the silence feels like a weight on my chest. My flesh crawls when I hear the unmistakable heavy tread of boots on the ground.

“Did he just call for back up?”

“What the hell is happening?” Emma demands, fear evident, “Josh, what’s going on?”

She is clinging to my arm, pulling me back from the apparition. I let her. Suddenly, I feel we need to be far away from here.

I find Emma’s hand, grasp it in my own, begin running blindly. She runs with me, both of us stumbling and panting. I hear footsteps behind us, more whistles, the rattle of coach wheels behind them. They are on our tail. Urging Emma on, I pull her behind me when I feel her begin to slow. We cannot stop.

At last, the noise behind us lessens, falls further and further away. It takes a while for me to understand that the fog has lifted and we are back in the clear air again. The night is cold but I can see lights, electric lights, brightening the gloom.

Relief turns my legs to jelly. Emma’s hand feels heavy in mine. I turn to look at her, breathless but smiling, ready to talk with her about what we have just gone through together. This will be a story we will tell for a long time to come.

I feel my grin evaporate when I see that she is not running along behind me. I am holding her hand, yes. I have no idea when her feet betrayed her and she fell. She is lying on the pavement, her clothes bloodied and torn, her skin scraped and ruched. There is a wide graze down the right side of her face. Her eyes stare up at me, unseeing. She is dead.

I cannot let go of her hand. This cannot be real. She cannot be dead. She cannot be.

Sirens approach like banshees. I don’t care. Blue lights cycle in the air. I am still staring stupidly down at Emma when someone takes a firm grip on my shoulder.

“Hands behind your back!” A commanding voice demands of me. I hear it but I don’t understand it. A second hand grabs my other shoulder.

“Hands behind your back!” Another voice takes up the command, “Do not resist! Hands behind your back, now!”

They force Emma’s grip out of my hand, wrenching my arms backwards. I feel the cold metal cuffs snap into place. A paramedic has come, is bending over Emma, checking her vital signs.

I am being dragged away. I keep turning to look at Emma, watching the paramedics do their thing.

“It’s no good,” I say to no one, “it’s no good. She’s dead. She’s dead!”

“I must caution you that you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court.” One of the arresting officers says, almost mechanically, “Do you understand?”

“No,” I shake my head violently, “No, I do not understand! I don’t understand any of this!”

“How much have you had to drink tonight, sir?”

A chill runs through my bones. How much have you had to drink tonight sir?

“What’s happening? Why are you lot here? I don’t get it!”

“We got several calls about a man dragging a young woman violently and pretty relentlessly along the street, that’s why we’re here mate! Now get in the car!”

“What? That’s not true!” I am aware my denial sounds weak. I remember Emma’s cold hand in mine.

“Well clearly it is true, isn’t it? Going by the evidence. Now get in the damned car!”

The evidence? My stomach drops at the thought of that. I sink into the vehicle, all the fight gone out of me.

“Where’s Emma?” I ask suddenly. The officer in the driver’s seat swivels, looks at me oddly, “Emma? Was that her name?”

“Yes, yes!” I am growing impatient, “Where is she?”

“Well she’s dead I’m afraid sir. I mean, you ought to know that…”

“No, no! Where is she? Have they got her in the ambulance yet? She’s not still lying on that pavement, is she? On that street?”

“I am afraid she is, yes. There’s a protocol to be followed in case of deaths like this…”

I cut him off, “Can’t they do it in the ambulance?” I know I am wailing now, “Get her off that street, for God’s sake. Get her off it! That should be part of some bloody ghost walk, never mind Kenny’s bloody graveyard!” I am babbling now.

Tears are streaming down my face so I cannot see the officers face, but I hear the confusion in his tired voice.

“Ghost walk? Station Road? What are you talking about?”

“Station Road? It’s a real street then? Station Road? As in train station?” I ask, sniffing constantly, my throat hoarse. My heart already knows the answer to that question.

“No, not train station. Police Station. One of the first in this area back in the day. But we haven’t picked you up for a history lesson. Unless you feel like telling us what happened here, I suggest you stop talking, mate.”

I sag back onto the seat, suddenly exhausted. Who in their right mind would ever believe what happened? They would blame the drink or something.

I look out of the window. Just beyond the busy paramedics still bent over Emma’s lifeless form, I make out the outline of an archaic policeman. His helmet and uniform are out of time, his moustache and sideburns eccentric. A veil of white mist swirls around him.

Even from this distance, through the window, he catches my eye. He taps the peak of his helmet as if in salute, turns on his heel, his cape swirling dramatically around his shoulders. He saunters away; for all the world pleased with a good job done well.

The soft yellow flame of an antique street lamp blossoms into life for the briefest of moments, welcoming the ghost into its circle of light.

Then they are gone, taking all the light with them.

S P Oldham

I hope you enjoy my free short story for Halloween 2022. If you do (or if you don’t) please leave a comment on my blog, let me know.

Here’s hoping you do!

Happy Halloween!

The Convict

Michael shook his head, an appreciative smile on his lips. He could not quite believe he had been able to complete this particular purchase. Yet there she was, right in front of him; HMS Commandment, rocking gently in the water.

The smile became a grin. He had actually made this purchase more than three years ago. It had taken all this time to complete the red tape, quiet the protesters, bring the hulk up to an acceptable standard. Security features, electric lighting, modern bathrooms, comfortable bedrooms, eating areas; everything had been added to make the hulk liveable. The renovators were instructed to keep all original fixtures and fittings wherever they could. It was imperative to retain echoes of her former life as a Victorian offshore prison. That was the unique selling point of The Commandment.

He had gone to considerable expense to ensure she was seaworthy, employing experts to make her so. When she was at last ready, he had her towed from the spot she had been moored to for over a century. Countless wrangles with the local council, various river authorities and other agencies later and here she was, safely moored at the bottom of his garden.

His garden was huge; a broad swathe of greenery ending in a surprisingly steep slope to the river below. Years ago, Michael had sturdy fencing and steps put in to allow for safe access to the water, never imagining how useful they would turn out to be.

 Standing on the top step, greying hair blowing in the breeze, Michael watched as HMS Commandment was anchored into her final resting place, alongside the little dock he had built for this express purpose.

Here there were no neighbours to complain about the ship being an eyesore, or in the way of their little boats, or blocking the river, or some other triviality. This stretch of river was one side of a bifurcation, where the river split in two. Michael could see over to the bank of the island opposite. There were properties there either. He was home and dry, to coin a phrase.

The hulk secured, he watched two figures disembark; one of them to climb aboard a tug that lagged behind, two other tugs already making their way home.

The other figure began to climb the steps up to him. Sheppard stopped two steps away, Michael looking down on him as he spoke.

“All done,” Sheppard said, “You’ll have to keep a sharp eye on her. I know she’s had a lot of work done, the renovation and all that, but she’s an old girl still. She’ll need maintaining.”

“I’m aware of that, Sheppard,” Michael said irritably, “you’ve already won the contract for her maintenance. No need to labour the point.”

Sheppard sighed, “If you think that’s what I am doing, then I’m sorry. I can’t seem to make you understand just how much care she’ll need to stay operational, if that’s the right word for what she will be doing.” There was a touch of disapproval in his voice, “Anyway, as I said, we’re all done.”

“All done, Captain,” Michael stressed. After all, he was the owner of a ship now; the man in charge. He would insist on what was due to him, “Best be off then,” he added brusquely, believing thanks were not to be wasted on paid labourers.

Sheppard gave him an odd look. He lingered, a strange light in his eyes.

“Planning on sleeping aboard tonight?”

Michael’s arms folded across his chest, ‘What is it to you?”

Sheppard shrugged, “Nothing at all,” he said, “Except, well, the crew and I, we…”

“Stop stammering and spit it out!”

Sheppard’s demeanour changed at once; his shoulders squaring, his back straightening, “You know what, never mind,” he said, “Forget I spoke. Sleep tight, Captain.” The word loaded with scorn.

He ran down the steps easily, not looking back once as he boarded the waiting tug. Michael watched it pull away; a squat, powerful little craft.

Sheppard and the crew dissolved from his thoughts before the tug was even out of sight. Resisting the urge to run down the steps and board HMS Commandment like an excited child, he turned on his heel, went back into his house.

“She’s there, ready and waiting. Get the food and drinks aboard.” Michael barked orders as he strode the through the open French windows, past his butler, “Plenty of champagne on ice I hope?”

“Of course, sir,” Spencer replied, used to his employer’s brashness.

“Captain!” Michael roared, not breaking stride as he headed through the hallway to mount the stairs to his room, “From today on, I am Captain! Do not forget it!”

His words rang through the expensively furnished, empty corridors. Out of sight, Spencer rolled his eyes heavenwards.

Dusk had fallen. Braziers burned, showing the way across the garden to the steps, where the handrails were laced with strings of glowing lights. The dock was well lit, a lamppost at each end. Basking in the glow, Michael relished the rocking sensation as he crossed the gangway to board the hulk. A smartly dressed waitress stood there, welcoming him with a nervous smile. A heavy-looking badge pinned to her lapel read, ‘Olivia.’ She bore a tray of full champagne flutes. Barely seeing her, Michael took one.

Another of his staff stood ready to help guests through the door down to the next deck. His badge read ‘Stephen.’ Michael stepped through, impatiently waving away the offer of assistance. Not condescending to speak to either of his staff, Michael descended the ladder confidently, the champagne glass steady in his hand.

The door slammed shut hard behind him, making him jump, spilling his drink. Fuming, Michael was about to storm back up the ladder when the door reopened.

“I am sorry sir, er Captain,” Stephen began, “that was unintentional. It was like someone had taken the door out of my hand or something. The breeze up here must be stronger than I thought. I’ll be sure to have a firmer grip on the handle for your guests.”

“Yes, get a grip!” Michael sneered, “I damn near spilled champagne all over me! My guests are to have an evening of planned adventure, not jump scares!”

“Of course Captain, I apologise. Would you like me to fetch you a fresh glass?”

“No, leave it. Shut the door. Gently, this time.”

Michael, making a show of brushing down his pristine captain’s uniform, turned away. The door clicked shut quietly.

Michael had designated this as the reception area of the hulk, though there was little more in it than a row of hooks upon which to hang coats. The furnishings were original otherwise, apart from replaced floorboards and structural repairs. Now that the door at the top of the ladder was closed, it had taken on a gloomy aspect.

Candles had been placed in strategic spots here and there, sitting on metal shelves with metal splashbacks to help prevent fire. They burned low, doing little to cast light on the space. Michael made a mental note to have them changed for better quality candles next time.

He went through the reception area, his passing making the candles flicker, threatening to go out. Inexplicably, the prospect of being surrounded by darkness made him nervous. It was a uniquely strange experience for Michael to be nervous of anything.

There were portholes here. Michael had tinted glass fitted in them. In daylight they were a great touch, seeming to add smoky eyes to the grey body of the hulk. Now, from inside the vessel, they made him feel oddly repressed. As if they were refusing to let him see out.

“Ha!” Michael bellowed, swallowing the remaining champagne in one gulp, setting the empty glass down on one of the benches that lined the walls.

The benches were original; shiny, worn and ingrained with old dirt. In places they were cracked and splintered. A sign on the wall warned people against sitting on them, fragile as they were. The crystal champagne flute rested upon one, its brilliant sparkle reduced to nothing in the sparse light.

Michael pressed on, reaching another door. As he went to open it, a loud bang came from behind him. He spun on his heels, ready to reprimand Stephen properly this time, for allowing the door to slam on his guests.

The door was shut. There was no one descending the ladder. No chattering, awed arrival of his guests. Perplexed, Michael retraced his steps, looked around for the source of the noise. Everything seemed to be in order. He shrugged. It was an old ship, its beams ancient. He had likely heard the wood settling, just as an old house had its own peculiar bumps and creaks.

He returned to the door, stepping through it into a newly renovated area. Here, electric light lit up every corner. Feeling instantly better, Michael placed himself in the corner of the room and looked around.

The designers had obeyed his wishes to the letter. In stark comparison to the stained, discoloured wood of Reception, here the walls were panelled with thermal sheets covered in white oak. Two white sofas crouched, red cushions strewn artfully across them. Low tables were strategically placed to hold drinks. A bar took up one wall, subtle lighting complementing the shiny white material the bar was coated in. A black marble slab made up the counter. Bottles were mounted, optics attached; whisky, vodka, gin. Glasses shone where they dangled from specially made racks, rattling gently in the slight motion of the hulk as she rocked on the water. A fridge with a clear glass door showed rack after rack of wine.

One half of the bar was covered in plated canapes, each dish covered with clear film. Two bottles of champagne sat side by side in a fat bucket of ice.

Michael sighed, satisfied. Crouching to see in the mirrored wall at the rear of the bar, he adjusted his hat, straightened his tie. His guests should be arriving soon.

He peeled back a cover on one of the plates and took out a tiny pastry. Chewing, he went behind the bar, grabbed a glass, filled it with whisky. The liquid bubbled in the bottle. He threw it down his neck, his throat burning with the heat of it.

A loud bang came from beyond the door. Butterflies circled in Michael’s stomach. Absurd to think that he was anxious about greeting his guests. He had known them for years. It must be the excitement of owning the ship. Of welcoming them on board.

He refilled his whisky glass, crossed to one of the sofas, sat down, striving to appear casual when they came in. Any moment now that door would open and they would rush to greet him, full of congratulation and amazement at what he had achieved.

The seconds stretched on and on. Growing impatient, Michael set down his whisky, got to his feet and went to the door.

Reception was empty, not a soul present. The candles guttered lower still at his presence, as if cowering in fear.

Wind howled outside, forcing its way in through minute, unseen cracks which had been impossible to fill. It moaned and whistled, sending chills down Michael’s spine.

“Come on! Where are you?” Michael resorted to his usual gruff manner, refusing to acknowledge the weird feeling. He looked at his watch, looked pointedly up at the door atop the ladder, turned back into the bright safety of the bar.

The moment he closed the door behind him, glass smashed against it. Michael felt it hit, heard it shatter and fall, sprinkling the grimy deck. Bemused, he opened the door a second time.

Glass shards glinted at his feet. Somehow, the candles nearest the door were burning bright now. Perhaps they had burned off enough wax to allow the wick to really take light, he thought.

The smashed glass was less easy to explain. How could it possibly have launched from the bench and hit the door with such force?

Michael grinned, suddenly certain of an explanation.

“Okay Clive, very funny. You can come out now.”

There was no response. Becoming frustrated, Michael stepped further into Reception, only to see that the champagne flute was exactly where he had left it, sitting innocently on the old bench.

“What the hell?”

It had to have been Stephen, then. He must have sneaked down and launched a glass. He obviously had not liked the way Michael had reprimanded him.

Even as a surge of adrenalin raced through Michael, who was ready to sack the man on the spot, he knew it was not true. He would have heard him approach, he was sure. Besides, throwing an empty glass at a closed door seemed a bizarre way to exact revenge. Perhaps it had been the woman holding the tray of champagne…

As much as it made little sense, it was the only possible explanation. Offended employees were getting back at him in a juvenile way. He was used to the over-sensitive nature of some people. It was why they never achieved much in life.

Michael grasped the handrails of the ladder, preparing to dismiss both Oliva and Stephen without further discussion.

The hulk lurched violently. Michael’s hands slid from the rails as he went flying backwards, his hat knocked from his head. He came skidding to a halt upon the broken glass which clung to his jacket spitefully.

“Ouch! What in the name of…?”

Michael rose shakily to his feet, attempting to brush the glass off his shoulder, cutting his hand in the process.

“Damn!”

He stepped back into the bar, went behind the counter to wash his hands, water swirling pink in the basin. As it went down the plug it made an odd gurgling noise, as if the pipe was choking. Unsettled, Michael went to the front of the bar, snatching up a white napkin from a neatly folded pile, spotting it red with his blood.

He shook off his jacket, his jaw clamping as shards of glass lifted from his skin. Bending awkwardly, he strained to look in the mirror. His crisp white shirt was ruined, bloody red tears covering the left shoulder.

“Damn it all!” Michael slammed his wrist on the bar, making the plates slide.

He looked down at them. Those plates should be all over the floor. There was nothing holding them in place. If the force of the hulk’s motion had been powerful enough to send him flying, it should have sent the plates flying, too.

He felt hairs on the back of his neck rise. Even if the staff had been responsible for the smashed glass against the door, they could not be to blame for what just happened. There was no way they could have caused that.

Maybe there was a problem below decks. He shuddered. Perhaps something had exploded or something. It was hard to believe that the wiring was faulty or that any work was substandard. Michael had been extremely cautious of that. None of the alarms were sounding, meaning that there was no fire. The hulk had not sprung a leak. Whatever had caused it to lurch like that, it could not be anything urgent. It would be put right tomorrow, when he had strong words with the company that had carried out the refit.

Pleasure before business. He checked his watch. His guests were late. Increasingly annoyed, he hated tardiness, he picked up his jacket, easing it on over his sore shoulder before leaving the bar area for the restroom.

Lights above the sinks sprang to life the moment he stepped inside. The mirrored wall showed him his reflection. Straightening his tie, he saw his jacket was grubby. An angry red lump showed signs of swelling, just above his left eye. He had not realised he had banged his head. He would struggle to laugh that off to his guests; when they finally turned up.

“My hat!” He exclaimed, hands flying to his head. In all the commotion he had not registered the loss of his captain’s hat. It was the statement piece of his entire uniform. He had to retrieve it.

The lights went out.

“I don’t bloody believe this!” Michael exclaimed, “They haven’t even set the timer for the motion sensors properly!”

He waved his arms in the air, trying to get the sensor to pick up on the movement. Nothing happened. Still waving, he took two backward steps. The light above the sink he was standing in front of came on. The other three remained dark.

“Oh come on!” Michael shouted angrily, “Bloody come on!”

He began to move crab-like along the row of sinks, feeling stupid, hoping no one would walk in on him now. As he moved, the lights followed him, though they refused to all stay on at once.

He reached the wall, began his sidestepping movements back the way he had come. The lights followed him, blinking out as he moved off.

“Unbelievable!” He muttered, coming to a stop at the first sink. The light stayed on for a second, then blinked out, plunging him into darkness.

The light over the far sink came on. Even as Michael turned to look, it went out. The light over the next sink came on, went off. When the light over the sink next to him came on, Michael was overcome with a sudden sense of overwhelming dread. It was all he could do not to fall to the floor, curl up in a ball and wail.

“Screw this!” He said weakly, feeling for the handle; sure he glimpsed something in the mirror. Something vaguely like a human face; an outstretched hand.

“Don’t be stupid!” He told himself firmly, “That blow to your head has made you see things, that’s all.”

He had come out onto the walkway between the bar and the restroom. This was another area he insisted on keeping original. Lamps swung from hooks over his head. The floorboards were rough wooden planking. Various items of interest decorated the walls; a pair of shackles; pages from court documents detailing crimes, most of them petty: lengths of rope hung like garlands; ship’s nails, square-headed and long, bent out of shape. Michael had been adamant about displaying as many finds and relics as possible.

Now, they seemed somehow sinister. The walkway turned a corner leading down a flight of stairs to a large lounge. The violent motion of the ship played on his mind. He would go down, check there was nothing obvious wrong, before going back for his hat. If his guests arrived in the meantime then they would just have to wait, as he had been made to wait for them.

Descending the stairs carefully, Michael stepped into a comfortably furnished room. Sofas and armchairs had been tactfully arranged, each upholstered in different yet complementary shades. Large cushions in varying textures occupied them. The sofas themselves sat upon plush, royal blue carpeting. Michael’s feet sank into it as he entered, the sensation pleasant, calming. Lamps of differing sizes sat atop side tables and sills. A fake fireplace was set into a wall, computer generated flames giving the room a surprisingly warm feeling. Even the ceiling was covered in thick velvet fabric, making the room feel smaller and cosier. Michael looked round with approval.

There was obviously nothing amiss here. Beyond, more walkways much like the one he had just left led variously to a large dining room with kitchen adjacent; two cinema rooms; a second restroom; six bedrooms, each with ensuite bathrooms. All reached via lamplit walkways with artifacts hanging from the walls. The deck below was almost entirely original, aside from necessary conversions to allow for installation of electrics, water systems and so on.

On this deck, there was also the long, wide space that Michael had discovered used to be the hulk’s sick bay. He could not imagine how many prisoners had lain there, afflicted with Typhus, Cholera, Dysentery. It was said that sexually transmitted diseases had taken numerous victims, too. Life on board a prison hulk must have been sheer hell, and not just for the convicts.

He insisted the sick bay be kept exactly as it had been found. As a result, it was full of atmosphere. Dark, musty, oppressive, it was sure to spark many conversations.

It was one of the best talking points on the hulk. Upon researching it online Michael had learned that, although there was very little information to be found about HMS Commandment herself, there were a few tales about those she carried, including several ghost stories which had survived down the years. Playing into this, Michael had arranged for unsettling music to be piped in there at a low level, with occasional creepy sound effects thrown in. The walls were sparsely decorated with sheets torn from ship’s surgeon’s logs. He had a contemporary hospital bed installed, complete with tattered privacy screen and chamber pot beneath, all riveted in place. Upon the bed a sickly prisoner made of plaster lay beneath a rough sacking sheet. Standing alongside, looking down, a plaster model of a doctor regarded his patient suspiciously.

To Michael’s macabre glee, the renovators had discovered a beam upon which several prisoners had carved their names, a century ago or more. The beam was removed, expertly cleaned and treated then hung overhead, suspended on steel rods. A genuinely authentic show piece in the centre of the long room.

If he was to check below decks, Michael had no choice but to go through the sick bay. There was no way around it. At the time, the additional effects seemed liked fun additions designed to give visitors the creeps. Having to go through there now, knowing he was alone on aboard, it did not seem quite so amusing.

Adopting a brisk attitude, Michael strode along, skin prickling as the sound effects joined the eerie music. Clenching his fists he pushed on, refusing to look at the plaster models as he passed them by.

He was the other side of the privacy screen when he swore he heard a cough. A weak, rasping wheeze. Michael stopped dead, pulse racing. It was his imagination; had to be. There was no one else there. Statues did not cough!

A knock came from the way he had entered. A hard, insistent rap. Michael jumped, turned round in spite of himself. There was no one there. The knocking continued. Michael became aware that he was breathing too quickly, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he fought to take shallow breaths.

“You’re hyperventilating, really?” He asked of himself, whispering gruffly, “Get a grip! It’s a very old ship. There’s bound to be some odd noises. Something outside is probably tapping against the hull. Sound travels in strange ways, especially on water. Yes, that’s it. Something outside is causing that knocking sound. As for the coughing, it must have been the wind or something, a draft finding a way in. It’s all good, it adds to the sense of theatre.”

If he had convinced his own mind, no one had told his heart. It began to race in his chest. The knocking continued, built to a crescendo. Stopped.

As if he had been released from a spell, Michael turned and almost fled from the room. He exited onto a more functional walkway. Grateful for the bright electric lighting that hummed there, he went to the stairs, took two or three, then sat down on the uncomfortable steel mesh. He needed a minute. No matter how much he tried to pretend otherwise, something odd was going on here.

In the white glare of the lights, on the cold metal of the stairs, he began to feel better. He was just letting his imagination run away with him. Maybe he should get that bump on the head checked out. All he had to do first was go downstairs, take a quick look across the hollowed out bottom deck of the hulk, see if anything was out of the ordinary down there. Then he would go back to the bar. His guests were bound to be there by now, waiting for him. He had some creepy tales to tell them tonight all right. Perfect really, this being the inaugural night of HMS Commandment as a novelty floating hotel.

Tonight’s guests were his friends, invited to stay for free. They were to be his guinea pigs, really. Tonight was also about finding any teething problems. Looking at it that way, it had been an informative evening so far. He could get these things ironed out before opening up to a very exclusive public. Surprising how many people were willing to pay high prices for a weekend aboard a haunted prison hulk.

Feeling better, he descended the remaining stairs, opened the door marked ‘Maintenance Crew Only,’ ignored the notice advising everyone to put on a safety hat.

He flicked on four large switches. Bright, luminous light flooded cross the four quarters of the lower deck. Michael sniffed the air. No smell of burning or of electrics overheating. No water making the newly fitted boards wet. No noxious odours of gas. Absolutely nothing at all to show any signs of damage or breakdown. All good news, except it offered no explanation for what had made the hulk lurch like that.

A knocking came from the far end of the lower deck; loud, hard and insistent, just like in the sick bay. The light in that quarter went out, the switch on the wall behind him flicking to the ‘off’ position.

Shocked, Michael tried to rationalise. It could be something to do with the electrics, after all. Something making the switches malfunction.

The knocking reached the second quarter. The light there went out, the switch flicked off. Michael recalled the way the lights had done a similar thing in the restroom. He remembered the sensation of something terrible approaching.

It took great strength of will to turn his back on whatever approached. Legs like lead, climbing the stairs felt like an eternity. He reached the top, slammed the door shut. Something crashed against it. Michael looked back just in time to see a safety hat bounce off the toughened glass window to clatter noisily away.

There could be no rational explanation for that. Michael felt weak, sapped of all strength. Panting, he negotiated the functional walkway back into the sick bay. Here the music still played, the creepy sound effects went on. He would have them taken out tomorrow. They were excessive, he decided.

He stumbled, grasping the flimsy privacy screen to stop himself falling. He let go, the screen clattering to the ground. The overhead beam with the names on was swinging. Impossible. The beam was secured by rigid steel rods. Yet there it was, swinging.

Michael could not get a proper lungful of air, his chest suddenly tight, his throat dry. He stumbled onward, cowering beneath the swinging beam, staggering towards the exit. The coughing began again, this time phlegmy, hacking, drawn out. Terrified, Michael stumbled, falling over his own feet as he hit the deck.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked up. The way out was not far off. Somehow, he got to his knees, then to his feet, gasping as if he was dying of thirst. He stumbled blindly for the exit. Tears blinding him, he stopped to wipe them away.

He could not help but check behind him. The beam had stopped swinging. The room was quiet, he realised. The music, the sound effects, the coughing had all stopped. Even the knocking had subsided. All he could hear now was the beating of his own heart in his ears. Too fast.

The plaster statue doctor turned to look at him.

Michael staggered backwards, arms flung wide. He backed up, unable to take his eyes off the pale, angular face.

He found the door open. Sick with relief he fell through it, shutting it firmly to prevent the doctor following. Clumsily, he retraced his steps around the walkways, reaching the one that led to the restroom next to the bar.

Remembering what he encountered there, he tried to run, found he could not. Stumbling every step of the way, he used the walls to guide him. Something sharp hit his head. Another pricked his hand, drawing blood. Horrified, Michael saw it was the ship’s nails; the ones that had been mounted on the wall. They had somehow become missiles, attacking him.

He cried aloud when something heavy and thick smacked against the back of his legs, knowing that it was one of the ropes that should have been hanging like a garland. He fell, crawling the rest of the way like a helpless infant. Moaning in fear, he fell into the bar, shut the door hard, sagged against it.

The room was exactly as he had left it. Clean, neat, garish in red and white. He wished he had not chosen that shade now. It was too close to the colour of fresh blood.

He inspected the back of his hand. It was bleeding but not deeply cut. He would not bother with napkins this time. All he wanted was to get off the hulk.

He struggled to his feet, a wave of dizziness engulfing him. His whisky glass was where he had left it. This room felt peaceful enough. He was glad of it. He needed to compose himself before entering the reception area, where he had been thrown like a ragdoll earlier.

Where all this had started.

Michael reached for his glass, downed the whisky, relishing its heat and familiarity, placed it on the bar, ready to go.

Behind the bar, the whisky bubbled as the optic was pushed up, no hand to be seen doing it. Fat, clear bubbles appeared in the vodka, then the gin as the unseen hand moved along the optics.

“Not again, please!” Michael moaned, rooted to the spot, “Not again! Stay away from me!”

The champagne bottles rattled in their bucket, shards of ice spilling from the sides. The glasses hanging above the bar began to fall, shattering one by one on the gleaming counter. The door to the wine fridge opened, bottles falling out to spill red and white over the spotless floor. Napkins were plucked from their neat pile and thrown wide, fluttering like strange white birds.

A knock on the door.

“Captain? Are you all right?” The voice was muffled, concerned.

“Oh thank God!” Michael breathed, “Thank God!”

He took a few deep breaths before answering, “Yes, yes! Just get me out of here! Get me out!”

“Of course, Captain.”

The door swung wide. There was no one there. Nothing but the dark emptiness of the reception area.

Michael swallowed hard. The candles had burned so low they were barely alight. The exit was tantalisingly close. All he had to do was dash through, climb the ladder and open the door to freedom.

He took a cautious step. When nothing happened, he took another. Encouraged, he half ran, hearing his own gasping sobs. He stopped in his tracks, the handrail only a stretch away. Someone was whispering.

Michael’s hand trembled where it hovered in the air. He felt his bowels loosen, threatening to empty where he stood.

“I was born a free man

Land and soil beneath my feet

Yo ho boys, yo ho!”

The words were quiet, rasping; sung low and soulful like a shanty. Michael felt suddenly faint, weak with terror.

“Now I’m a convict, chained and bound

Dying on a ship that’s run aground

Yo ho boys, yo ho!

Death’s aboard, with lash in hand

Never again will I see dry land

Yo ho boys, yo ho!”

Michael found he could not move. A creak sounded behind him, as if someone had risen from one of the weak wooden benches. Footsteps approached, slow and laboured, the scrape and jingle of what could only be shackles accompanying each tread.

Michael closed his eyes tight, screwing them shut. A ghostly breath swept across him.

“Condemned to hell by the government

Aboard the good ship Commandment!”

The last word came out as a gasping breath, coating Michael’s face with a sheen of frost. His eyes flicked open in shocked surprise.

For a fraction of a second, he glimpsed the image of a man standing in front of him. He was largely toothless, his mouth a dark hollow in his skull-like face, his eyes too big. He was skin and bone, filthy and bruised.

He was wearing Michael’s Captain’s hat.

The apparition disappeared like mist, the hat falling to the ground. The candles suddenly burned bright in their metal sconces.

Leaving his precious hat where it lay, it took every last scrap of Michael’s strength to mount the ladder, shove open the door onto the deck.

It had grown dark outside. Michael stumbled against Stephen, still waiting patiently for guests to arrive. He fell against him, pushing him away resentfully when the man caught him, registering his surprised concern.

He crossed to the waitress like a drunkard, staggering and wavering as if the hulk was caught in a storm. Alarmed, Olivia took a step back. Michael’s flailing arms sent the tray flying, champagne raining down upon them both.

He pushed past her, crossed the gangway onto the welcome solidity of the small dock. He heard them following, calling him; ‘Captain! Captain!’ Ignoring them, he climbed the steps. There was only one thing to be done now.

The braziers lighting the lawn burned high and bright. As Michael reached one, he heard a familiar voice. Looking up, he was astonished to see three of his guests arriving. They were waving and smiling, apologising laughingly for being so late. Exclaiming that he would never believe what had happened to them on the way.

“Go back!” He gasped, suddenly out of breath, “Go back! It’s a mistake! It’s all a mistake! Go home!”

He wrenched one of the large braziers free of its stake. He heard cries of alarm all around him. Several people rushed towards him, Spencer at the fore.

He would not be stopped. Barging past Olivia and Stephen, seeing them step hastily back as flames licked out, he went down to the dock, only dimly aware that the wooden steps and rails behind him had caught alight at his passing. He crossed the lamplit dock, the gangway, the upper deck. Only here did he stop, looking down into the darkness of the reception area where he had seen the hellish figure.

A lick of flame slaked the exposed skin of his neck. Michael cried out in pain. Rather than deter him, it urged him on. He would put an end to this, his way.

He half-fell down the steps, clutching the brazier so close that his clothes began to catch. He pushed on, through the bar, ignoring the plates that lifted of their own volition, hurled at him as he passed. On through the walkway where ships nails rolled on the planking and ropes wound like snakes, retreating from the fire.

Smoke began to fill Michael’s nostrils. He held the brazier away, set it down, coughing. He patted at his clothing, putting out flames. His pristine uniform was blackened and ruined. In parts it had melted to his flesh, impossible to pull away without peeling skin away too. Flames licked at his back, where he could not reach.

He was in the sick bay, where the weird music and odd sound effects once more played, grew louder. So loud he could feel the strange pulse of it in his own heart. The plaster figures had resumed their usual stances, posed in innocence at the end of the room.

Michael crossed to them, tore the ragged cloth from the meagre privacy screen, still lying where it had fallen. The fabric came away in long strips.

He went to the beam, looped the lengths of cloth over it. He raised the brazier, allowing heat to pass from it to the dangling strips. They burned readily, as did the special finish that had been applied to the signed beam. It began to crackle and snap as the fire took hold.

Flames fell to the deck like fiery tears. They settled, then spread, finding plenty of fodder to feed its urgent hunger. The fire became a blaze, billowing heat filling the long room, licking at the ceiling as it sought to reach the decks above.

Only now did Michael understand that his back was on fire. He dropped and rolled, screaming in agony. Gasping, tears in his eyes, he got to his feet and ran.

It was terrifying, how fast the fire made the ship its own. It traversed its length and breadth before Michael had even reached the upper deck. He crawled up the ladder, fire right on his heels, relishing the welcome balm of cold night air though it fanned the flames. He looked aside, saw people staring down at the burning dock, their outlines blurred, expressions impossible to read. Were his guests there, too? He could no longer bring their names or faces to mind.

He looked down, fascinated to see that his shoes were melting. Then he was on his knees upon the smouldering deck. Someone was crouched in front of him. He found he could not raise his head to see. There was the sensation of something being placed on his head. There had been something earlier; something important; something special.

His captain’s hat. It had been returned to him. Through bleary, smoke-filled eyes he looked up. The weird entity was kneeling before him, grinning as it lowered its spectral hands having returned the cap to its rightful owner. Michael reached out to touch the vision, though it seemed now to be made of smoke.

To the onlookers, it appeared as though Michael was overcome by fumes and heat. They watched, helpless, the blazing steps blocking the way down, as he made a gesture like an appeal for help. Then he keeled over, lifeless.

Some of them turned away in horror, running for the safety of the house. Emergency calls were placed, authorities were alerted. Those who remained watched as fire consumed HMS Commandment.

She cracked and spat, the fire from the hulk reaching across to meet the flames on the dock. There were loud splinters and cracks as the vessel began to fall apart, burning wood falling into the river to be extinguished and darkened, embers glowing orange in the murky water. There was a boom as the hulk split in two. The prow dipped and bobbed before giving in to the force of the water, the intensity of the fire. Michael’s body slid as if it was no more than a weighted sack, coming to rest against the open door.

It dangled there precariously, until the prow dipped violently, toppling sideways, floating downstream before coming to a stop, apparently jammed against the riverbed. Or perhaps still attached to the anchor, burning where it rested.

“I had a feeling something was going to happen tonight,” Sheppard murmured, shaking his head in disbelief, “that’s why I came back. To warn him. My God, I had no idea it would be something of this scale! It’s unbelievable!”

Spencer, standing alongside him, shook his head, “He wouldn’t have listened to you anyway. He never listened to anyone. Once Sir Michael had his mind set on something, he rarely changed it. Besides, what exactly could you warn him about? Wait a minute, if there was faulty wiring or something of that nature…”

Sheppard held up a hand, “I’m stopping you right there. If I had any reason to think Commandment wasn’t up to standard, I would never have released her to his ownership, I don’t care how rich or powerful he might have been.”

“Then why did you come back here? What do you feel you should have warned him about?”

Sheppard sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets, “Look, I know you’re going to find this hard to believe, but it’s the truth, okay? Fact is, the way he spoke to me earlier pissed me off, all high and mighty, so I left him with his new toy and went home. I did try to tell him, but he cut me off.”

“Tell him what?”

Sheppard hesitated, “While we were pulling Commandment upriver, two of us went aboard, staying in radio contact with the tugs. Everything was going smoothly, so we took a few minutes to run a last minute check of the inside, making sure it was spick and span for your boss.”

“My employer.”

“Whatever. Anyway, Janet and I were in the sick bay. I don’t think I have ever been in a creepier place. We both felt it; a kind of, I don’t know, a strange feeling, of being watched. Then this knocking began. At first we put it down to the motion of the hulk in the water, the tugs pulling at her. But it came closer, do you see what I mean? It came towards us! We were both a bit rattled, so we decided to go up on deck. We started making our way back, when…” he paused, taking a hand out of his pocket to rub the back of his neck.

“When what?” Spencer prompted, intrigued despite himself.

“When someone spoke. Whispered. Do you get what I am trying to tell you? There was no one aboard but me and Janet, yet we both heard someone whispering.”

Spencer would normally brush such talk aside. Something about the way Sheppard was relating the tale made him take notice.

“What did it say? This whispering voice?” He found his own voice was hushed, he was leaning in.

“It sounded like, I don’t know, a poem maybe, the verse of a song? It was lilting even though it was quiet. If I remember right, the words were something like, ‘So pipe aboard the captain, hey! So he might face his judgement day. You ho boys, yo ho!’”

Sheppard fell silent, sheepish; watching the other man’s reactions closely.

Spencer shuddered. It was true. He knew that instinctively. Sheppard was not lying. Besides, he only had to look at the fire on the water below to know that some kind of justice had been done.

“They say fire is cleansing,” he observed absently, “He was a cruel man, at times. I worked for him for years, you know. Years. Never once did he use my first name. No acknowledgement of special occasions, birthdays and so on. No time for illness or bereavement. You turned up to work, no matter what. He was the centre of the universe, we all existed to meet his needs. Our fault, perhaps, for indulging him. Sad though, that all I can think of to say as an epitaph is that he paid us well, in terms of money.”

“Perhaps there is one other thing you could say,” Sheppard offered tentatively after a while, relieved that Spencer seemed to have believed him.

“Is there? What?”

“Isn’t it obvious? If nothing else, at least the Captain went down with his ship.”

The fire raged all night, despite the best attempts of fire crews and the river combined. Dawn was beginning to blush pink on the horizon when it finally went out.

Down river, a large plank bumped gently against the shore. Waves lapped at it, washing it clean. When at last it came to rest in the lee of a large rock it was possible to read, should anyone be there to see it, the crudely etched names of poor convicts, scratched into its surface a century or more ago.

S P Oldham

Here it is then, my humble little offering for Halloween 2021. I felt like going with an old-fashioned, ghostly theme (I often do.) Hope you enjoy, please leave a comment.

Happy Halloween!

Sue.

The Ragged Rover Inn

The night sky is starless, scudding clouds cross the moon

The wind blows wide and narrow, playing a haunting tune

Trees, tousled and taunted, bend beneath its power

Ravenous, the gale seeks to destroy and devour

Spirits fly within it; they are seeking out the past

Flitting from street to street until they find, at last,

The Ragged Rover Inn, lying low against the mountain

With its roof of maslin thatch and its dry and rusting fountain

The wind drops, the gale subsides, the spirits circle low

Around the Ragged Rover, where the lost and lonely go;

In his bed, the landlord, adrift in dreamless sleep

Turns under the covers, murmurs soft and deep

The cobbles in the courtyard ring loud with the sound

Of ghostly hooves and carriage wheels, hard upon the ground

The landlord stirs, he rises; he tiptoes to the pane

Draws back the heavy curtains, scans the yard in vain

Sounds rise up to reach him, indistinct and old

The landlord’s skin puckers; nothing to do with cold

Frozen to the spot, he looks on, sightlessly

Witness to an ancient grief, an age-old tragedy

Voices raised in trembling anger; threats called out in ire

Scuffling feet, a cry for help, someone shouting ‘fire!’

The flash of a musket, the glint of a wicked blade

The shrill, desperate sound of a desolate young maid

The horses whinny in terror, eyes wide in the night

Horrified, the landlord recoils in dread and fright

For there is nothing out there, in the empty square

But a dry and rusting fountain and a cold, deathly air

                                          *

The wind once more begins to moan, to gather up the ghosts

They drift like chimney smoke; like pale, transparent hosts

Across the clouded moon they go, into the starless sky

Over the crouching mountain, until they fade and die

Until, that is, the time comes for them to once more go

Back to the place where they met their end, so very long ago

Doomed to act out, endlessly, their folly and their sin

Upon the cobbled courtyard of the Ragged Rover Inn

S P Oldham

The End of the Path

The snow lay deep and heavy underfoot. The storm had taken Isaac by surprise. There had been a few flakes and a definite chill as he set out, but the suddenness and ferocity of the subsequent snowfall had been totally unexpected.

He fought back an irrational thrill of fear. His house was a mere two streets away; no need for the rush of panic or the sense of isolation. Funny how the weather affected the senses, he mused, putting his uneasiness down to the sudden stillness of the park, the muted affect the snow had upon the way sound travelled and the apparent emptiness of the place. He was obviously the only one foolhardy enough to venture out.

He tried to recall if it had been in the forecast, but found he couldn’t remember. Obviously other folk had been better prepared or more well-informed, because as he turned onto what he judged to be his usual route, a pathway flanked on either side by trees and bushes of varying height and density, he saw that he was truly alone.

There was none of the usual flurry of birds; none of their busy chatter or shrill cries of warning. No rush of bushy squirrel tails as they flew up the trunks of trees and fled sure-footedly along boughs and branches in a rush to escape his approach. There was not even an assured, expectant little robin bouncing about around him in hopes of food.

Absolute stillness; even the wind had stopped its sighing moans. Isaac shivered, digging his hands deeper into his pockets. Frozen; that was the word that came to mind as he stood and surveyed the path ahead of him. Frozen, in more ways than one.

The snow was doing a great job of obscuring the landscape, eroding borders and kerbs as if deliberately trying to send him wayward. He blinked away some still-falling snowflakes and stopped for a moment, considering. Regardless of how close he was to home, it might not be such a bad idea to turn back.

No sooner had he made the decision to do so than there came a loud crack from behind him. He jumped, startled, turning to find that a large, thick bough had given way under the sudden weight of snow and snapped from its tree. It lay splayed across the path behind him, sharp branches reaching up as if asking him for assistance. The thought of negotiating it to get back onto the path the other side was not one he relished. He pushed aside a second thought that came hard on its heels – that it was only a moment ago he had passed by under that branch, that he could very well be pinned under it now – and released a shaky sigh. That was that then. He had no option but to go on.

As if to confirm he had made the right choice, a second bough, higher up and slightly larger than the first, also came crashing down, on the far side of the already fallen limb. It appeared for a moment that a flurry of snow was falling upwards as flakes bounced on impact, showering Isaac with icy droplets. Shaken, feeling all at once vulnerable beneath the canopy of surrounding trees, he turned and moved on, eager to be away from the place.

The snow began to ease as he trudged onwards, finally coming to a stop when he was still a good few yards from the end of the path. There was a familiar figure there; one he knew well and often discreetly gave a passing nod to, for his own amusement. The metal figure of a boy, one of the many statues that graced the park depicting the history of the place. They were life-size cut outs, in places their frames see through where details and decorations had been sculpted out of the metal.

Now, the child was thigh deep in snow and looking back at him with a shining, glossy stare. The presence of the statue did not offer its usual comfort and familiarity. Isaac stopped in his tracks at its apparent movement. His heart pounding, he knew he must be imagining things, yet for all the world he would have sworn the figure moved a fraction at his approach.

He chided himself. The most likely explanation was probably the real explanation. The fact was, he had probably caught some movement from beyond the statue – perhaps snow falling from a laden branch, or the weak sun that had made an appearance lighting it in an odd way – that had made it look like movement.

“Get a grip, Isaac!” he muttered, spurring himself onward.

Yet he found that as he walked, he could not take his eye off the figure of the boy. He dared not. He tried telling himself that he would laugh at this later, when he was safe at home, with the curtains pulled and the fire blazing. It was false; a hollow promise. He could not deny his instincts entirely, only suppress them.

He had almost reached the statue. He half-expected it to take a step towards him, or reach out a cold metallic hand. Nothing happened, and he laughed in relief and at himself for being so ridiculous.

It was only as he turned from the path, to begin the walk down the breast of the hill it gave onto, that he saw it.

In the deep snow, alongside his large, unmistakable footprints, there was second, much smaller set. A clear trail of footprints, that could only belong to a child…

S P Oldham

Menna - Christmas Short Story 2020 - This one is a little bit different. Let me know your thoughts.

Menna wound her way through the thronging high street, weaving in and out unnoticed by the distracted crowds. Her nostrils hummed with a thousand different scents, at once familiar yet strange. She paid them no heed, her focus on one thing alone: finding her way home.

She was confident that she knew the route from here, although she could not precisely recall how she had reached this point. All she had to do now was leave the painfully bright lights behind her, exchanging them for the softer glow of streetlamps on the roads beyond, and her way would become clearer. 

She stepped down onto the road, flinching as a huge, unnatural monstrosity bore down upon her, twin lights glaring like an admonition. She froze, crouching low and cowering, expecting a blaring wail of sound to come. A sound she knew commanded her to get out of the way.There was nothing. No screech, no ear-splitting blare, no cries of horrified onlookers. 

Puzzled, Menna slunk across to the other side, the pounding of her heart slowly receding as she reached safety.

This side of the street was far less crowded, a good deal darker. Her confidence returning, Menna broke into a trot, glad to be leaving the bustle behind her at last. She thought she caught a whiff of home, the length of her stride increasing until she was all but running towards it. Down past the stone wall where the musty odour of long-dead things drifted over her, along the lane where the hedges bristled with small life darting from her approach, before clearing the stile into what she had always thought of as the Free Place.

Menna loved coming here. Memories raced through her mind; being released, given leave to run as wild as she pleased. The smaller humans trying to race her, failing with good grace, their laughter ringing in her ears, echoing her own bright joy. In the Free Place, Menna found sticks to chew, puddles to splash through, scents beyond measure. Sometimes, there were even others of her own kind to play with. It was more than a place; it was a time and a feeling that her canine brain could not name, but that her heart knew and burst with love for.

She yelped with pure excitement, sensing the nearness of home and of her pack. She flew across the frozen ground, her paws numb to its icy coldness. A tall hedge rose before her. It was no hindrance. She knew where the gate was, her strides becoming compacted, stronger, until she launched herself over its top bar, her fur ruffling silkily, silently in the night.She landed soundlessly on the other side. 

Panting, Menna turned, the scent of home powerful in her nostrils now. Just a few more paces and she would be back in the bosom of her pack, fussed over and petted until she became too exhausted to do anything other than curl up before the fire and fall asleep; succumbing to dreams in which her joyous return would govern all.

All at once, she was home. Beside herself with excitement, Menna sat proudly before the door, looking up at it, hoping that they would simply sense she was there and let her in.

For the longest time, nothing happened. Undeterred, Menna stood on her hind legs, using her forepaws to scratch with. The marks she had made by doing this over and over were etched into the glossy panels. She sat back, waiting patiently.

Puzzled at the lack of response, Menna began to whine softly. Surely, if they heard her crying, they would come then?

Still nothing. Menna, at a loss for what to do next, attempted her last move against this impenetrable defence. Resting her forepaws against the door once more, she nudged her nose under the flap in the centre and flicked upwards; once, twice, three times in quick succession.

This time, there was movement. Thrilled, Menna stood, wagging her tail in anticipation, folding her ears back over her head, a smile forming on her soft, eager face.The door opened, drowning her in a sudden rush of warmth and familiarity. She languished in it, incapable of nothing beyond this ecstasy, just waiting for the touch of a loving human hand to bring her inside.

Then a strange new smell reached her. That of a different pack member, one she did not know. She tried not to let it dampen her joy, but something about it made her anxious. She looked up at the figure in the doorway. It was her pack leader, of that she had no doubt. But there was something small and wriggling in her arms.

A puppy. 

Surprise and confusion warred within Menna. She sat down, trying to understand it. There had been no cry of joy at her return. Not even a word of recognition. What was the meaning of this young usurper? Was she not welcome anymore?

“Who is it?” Another of her old pack appeared in the doorway. Menna’s hopes rose again. She stood once more, wagging her tail in earnest.

“No one there.”

“Really? That’s odd. Well that is odd, right? I mean, we both heard it, didn’t we?”

“Yes, we heard it. It sounded like, well, just like, when…”

“When Menna used to ‘knock’ the door. I know.”

His voice had a mournful tone. Menna’s heart leapt at hearing her name spoken, but there was a sadness to the way it had been said.

“It’s okay hun, I miss her too. We all do.”

She heard sobbing, saw a silver tear fall to the ground, dropping slowly past her eyes like a silver leaf. 

Her confusion absolute, Menna could only sit and look upon her owners as they stood in the doorway, looking through her as if she was not there at all.

“Damned driver! Should have looked where he was going!”

“Hush now love, come on. What’s done is done. We’ll always love Menna, but she’s gone now. Just imagine how excited the kids will be when they wake up tomorrow to find little Dexter with a bow around his neck. They’ll be beyond thrilled!”

“Dexter’s beautiful, and I love him already, but no one will ever replace Menna.”

“Of course not. Dexter’s not a replacement, he’s just a new family member. Here, give him to me, he’s making a mess of your Christmas jumper!”

Menna watched in dismay as the puppy was passed from one set of hands to the other before being taken out of sight, deep into the heart of the home. Her home.

“I know you’ll never really leave us, Menna,” her pack leader was murmuring softly, looking up at the stars. 

Menna whined, lifting an unseen paw in consolation. 

“Merry Christmas girl, wherever you are.”

The door closed, leaving Menna alone once more in the cold night air.

Disconsolate, she curled up on the doormat, not knowing what else to do. She tucked her nose beneath her tail and closed her eyes.

Sometime in the depths of the night, Menna’s form pulsed brightly once, grew dim, then faded away; silver trails falling upwards to mingle with the snow.

Inside, Dexter fell at last into sleep, all fear and doubt finally leaving him. He had been scared and unsettled when they had taken him from his mother, bringing him to this strange and overwhelming place. Now, he felt sure he was where he should be, where he belonged.

They needed him here. He could feel it.

S P. Oldham

This was my little contribution to the 'Make a Christmas Ghost Story a Tradition Again' 2018 campaign by Smithsonian - A Plea to Resurrect the Christmas Tradition Telling Ghost Stories I hope you enjoy it enough to read it to your loved ones on Christmas Eve!

What's your favourite traditional Ghost Story?

Jen rubbed her hands against the cold. The coat she was wearing was altogether too thin for the time of year. She was grateful to have it at all. Davey had no such luxury. He was making do with a fleece jacket, its fabric nobbled and matted, that someone with more money than sense had casually dumped in a bin back in the late summer. When they found it, Jennifer had protested at the throw-away attitude of some people. Davey, who had been on the streets far longer than Jen, just smiled and said, “I’m glad they left it here for me to find.”

Jen had smiled back, impressed as always with Davey’s irrepressible optimism. She’d asked him why on earth he’d bothered to take it at all, the temperature being high enough to melt tar on the roads. He’d grinned broadly, stuffing the fleece into his back-pack, “Because, my little Jenny Wren, it won’t stay this warm. You mark my words; come winter, I’ll be glad I got this.”

Just a couple of weeks later, with their area under threat of drought, he’d found the coat for Jen, insisting she take it. They had happened upon a street where a row of charity bags had been left out on front doorsteps for collection. Jen, embarrassed, had been an unwilling participant as Davey had a good look through each of them in turn, stuffing their contents back inside and retying each bag when he was done. He’d winked at Jenny confidently as she’d held back, expecting at any moment for someone to come raging out of their front door, telling them to move on.

She recalled those not-so long ago days with yearning, marvelling at the extremes of the British weather. Davey had been right, of course. It was hard to believe that just a few short weeks ago, they had been basking in the heat of a proper old-fashioned summer. The summer evenings sleeping in the park or on the side streets had brought their own problems, but struggling to stay warm had not been one of them. Now, it was a daily, and nightly, threat to their lives.

Which was why they were here.

She stamped her feet, trying not to recollect previous Christmas Eves spent in warmth and comfort. Davey was kicking at lengths of boarding nailed in place across an archway. She winced at the noise he was making, glad that nobody was around to hear them.

Anyone could have been forgiven for thinking they were at some remote station far out in the countryside somewhere. They had crossed a muddy embankment beginning to harden with ice, then fought their way through a patch of low shrubbery to get there. Yet the station was merely a mile or two from the busy town centre. It lay forgotten behind a shiny new business park.

Jen looked up at the sign, showing through the ivy. She could make out enough of it to read ‘Tattersham Station.’

Tattersham. She liked the name, saying it softly, rolling it around on her tongue.

There came a splintering crash, louder than the rest. Davey was through, a jagged gap in the boarding revealing a deep darkness beyond. A sudden stench of mould, age and damp sought escape. Heedless, Davey put his shoulder into it, the weakened boarding finally giving way. They were in.

Davy stopped, panting. He turned his dazzling smile upon her, holding out his hand, “If madam is ready?” he said, jokingly.

“Shut up!” Jen said, taking his hand anyway, feeling like a girl again at his attentions.

Davey stepped into the gap he had made, Jen following. Once inside, he rummaged for his lighter, its flame feeble against a near-total darkness.

They made their way very slowly up a set of stone-built stairs. With her free hand, Jen wiped at her face and hair constantly, terrified at the thought of spiders.  They reached a small landing, a semi-circle of grey light to their left showing them their way out. The further they climbed, the easier it became, a high, pale moon helping to show the way.

Jen stepped out onto the platform. It felt good to have the cold, fresh air on her face again. The night sky was a sight to behold. Silver-white stars blinked on an inky backdrop. The moon was a pale disc, far away and perfect. Jennifer’s breath curled into the air, an icy wind taking it, whirling it to nothing. It had become a lot colder, she realised. Then again, it always seemed colder on railway platforms.

She spun on her heel, suddenly realising Davey was gone. She looked down the platform, the line stretching gradually into a darkness so complete, she could not see what lay at the furthest end.

The platform and line had once been covered over by a high, domed roof. Patches of pale light here and there showed that the roof had collapsed in places. There was a second platform running parallel to the tracks, she saw. But no sign of Davey.

She took a breath, intending to call his name. It stuck in her throat, all at once reluctant to shout in this place. Her heart began to beat a little faster. Telling herself it was just the dark making her jittery, she managed a soft, “Davey?”

Something moved on the opposite platform. Jen creased her brow, puzzled. Davey could surely not have crossed over without her noticing. She watched as a shape took form there, low and indistinct.

A pigeon took off into the night, cooing in disgust at the disturbance. Jen’s shoulders sagged as tension seeped from her muscles. She laughed at herself, drawing in breath to shout properly, “Davey!”

“In here,”

Jen jumped. Davey stepped out of the doorway to a building on her right. Most of the windows were missing their glass, Jen could see as she approached. Davey was shaking his head, a grim expression on his face.

“No good in there, everything’s wrecked. Looks like the rats have had a field day too.”

“Rats?” Jen shuddered.

“Bound to be rats Jen, it’s an abandoned railway station. There’s enough rats in a busy one,” he laughed at the look on her face, “Come on Jenny Wren, let’s find somewhere warm to cuddle up.”

He took her hand again. Together, they ventured deeper into the darkness.

As they walked, things began to take shape, looming into vision, large and grey. They passed under a tall sign repeating the station’s name, standing proud as if it was still something to declare. As Jen’s eyes adjusted, she could see the platform down here was littered with debris. Dead leaves, discarded cans and plastic bottles; an ancient carrier bag snagged on something, fluttering now and then as the wind caught it. The buildings to their right continued, offering up possibilities of shelter. They bypassed the old toilets, ‘Men’ and ‘Women’ denoted in white lettering on black plaques set into the wall. Alongside them appeared to be some kind of office, the battered door bearing the legend ‘Staff Only.’  Past that, a longer building, the door still intact.

Davey reached out to turn the large brass handle. Overcome with a sudden wave of foreboding, Jen put her hand on his.

“Davey, let’s go find somewhere else. I don’t like it here.”

Davey turned to look at her in surprise, “Don’t be daft Jen, here’s perfect! We’ve got peace and quiet. No one around to give us a hard time. No boozed up idiots falling out of pubs to make us the objects of their attentions. With a bit of luck there’ll be a bench or two inside. We can get off the floor for once without being moved on. What’s the matter? Is it the rats?”

Jen shook her head, “No, it’s not the rats. I don’t know,” she shrugged, “I just don’t like it here,” she finished lamely.

Davey leant to peck her cold cheek, “We’ll be fine, Jenny Wren, wait and see. Besides, we’re together and that’s all we need, right?”

There was nothing Jen could do in the face of their often repeated mantra. As long as they had each other, they would be fine. She nodded unhappily, standing back as Davey opened the door. She glanced up as she stepped uncertainly over the threshold. The words ‘Waiting Room’ were on a sign over the lintel.

Jen shivered, doubly unhappy. Ahead of her, Davey gave a low whistle.

“Wow! Looks like it hasn’t been touched since the place shut down!”

He was holding the lighter up, but Jen saw there was really no need. A row of long windows set high into the far wall were allowing enough of the moon’s light in to illuminate the space clearly. She saw what he meant. It was a large, rectangular space. Wooden benches lined three walls. The area in the middle was filled with several sets of chairs and tables, all clean and neatly arranged. Even the floor seemed clean, no sign of grime or dirt; not even a leaf or two or a thrown away beer can. To their right was a serving hatch, its shutters now closed to business. Jen looked at the outline of cheery pictures painted around it, showing cups and saucers at jaunty angles, bottles of pop and lettuce-stuffed sandwiches. Her stomach rumbled loudly.

Davey laughed; a genuine guffaw. He reached out to pull her to him, extinguishing the lighter and putting it back in his pocket.

“Hungry madam?”

“Starving!” Jen grinned, beginning to feel better. Davey was right. They could shut the door to the world, curl up together and get some decent sleep. It felt an age since she’d had an unbroken night.

“God I wish that café was still serving!” she laughed.

“Wouldn’t do us any good if it was, Jenny Wren. No money!” Davey held out his empty pockets comically. Jen rolled her eyes.

“You should audition for Oliver Twist next year,” she mocked, “You’d make a great pauper.”

“Look who’s talking!” Davey retorted, nudging her shoulder, “Right, what do you reckon? Benches? Or should we push the tables together and sleep on them?”

Jen looked around the room. The benches were wide and comfortable looking, but she wanted to feel Davey’s warmth next to her.

“Tables,” she said, eyeing the red formica that topped them, “If we push them together, then tuck the chairs in all around, they should stop us from rolling off in our sleep.”

“Good thinking!” Davey said, setting his back-pack down with relief, motioning she do the same. She hung her near-empty bag on the back of a chair and set to moving the furniture.

A few minutes later, their bed for the night was ready. The table-tops looked slippery smooth and uninviting, but they had slept on far worse.

“At least it’s dry,” Davey said, reading her thoughts. He reached into his backpack, pulling out a worn fleece blanket. Jen snatched up her bag. They climbed up onto the tables. Using their bags for pillows, they stretched out together. Davey draped an arm over her beneath the blanket. Jen sighed, curling up into a foetal position, relishing the warmth spreading over her body as Davey hugged her close. There was some fidgeting and fussing as the lumpy pillows were made as restful as possible, then they both settled.

As tired as Jen was, she found she couldn’t shut her eyes for long. They kept flicking open, flitting about the room, every time coming to rest on the smooth handle of the door. Davey was awake too; she knew it from the set of his body. She asked him the question anyway, whispering it into the night.

“Davey? You asleep?”

“No,” he replied softly, his warm breath ruffling her hair, “Give it a minute Jen, we’ll both be snoring. It’s been a long day.”

“Yes,” she agreed, forcing her eyes closed. She thought back upon their day, starting in the early hours when they both woke, stiff and sore, in the doorway of some old building in town. They made a habit of getting up and moving on before the first workers turned up at their jobs. It avoided any unpleasantries, though now and again someone was kind enough to hand them enough for a hot cup of coffee or some other act of kindness.

Not this morning. This morning, everyone had been too preoccupied with the business of Christmas. The streets were soon busy with shoppers, most of them not even seeing Jen and Davey as they flitted hurriedly from shop to shop. They had scored at lunchtime though, the owner of a small bakery hurrying out to hand them two paper bags full of warm pastries. Jen’s stomach growled again at the memory. The tired-looking woman had wished them both a Merry Christmas. Jen couldn’t remember if they had said it back or not, they had been so surprised by her generosity. Davey had, she was sure. It would be just like Davey to sing it back.

They had spent the day wandering ever since, too late for any of the few spaces on offer in the emergency housing. Never mind; as Davey often repeated, at least they had each other.

She lay, gazing at the closed door, at the shiny handle, rueing the fact that she would never get to sleep…

She woke with a start. Two facts struck her at once; Davey wasn’t there, and the door was wide open.

She sat up, feeling the effects of the cold the second the blanket fell from her. She had no idea what time it was, though judging by the change of light at the high windows, it was early morning. She swung her legs round, ignoring the stiffness throughout her body. Her stomach filled with dread at what might have happened. It wasn’t likely that some thug had dragged Davey from his sleep; there was no one around here. Besides, she would have woken in that case.

She padded cautiously across to the open door, looking out on the platform.

The bleak morning light offered only slightly more colour than the night before had done. Now, she could see patches of moss on the concrete, small mounds of fungus at the base of the walls. The carrier bag was still trapped under a loose brick, flapping forlornly. Shivering, Jen stepped fully out onto the platform, looking both ways for any sign of Davey.

“The toilets,” she said quietly to herself, “I’m an idiot! He’s just nipped out for a pee, that’s all.”

She hugged herself, convincing herself that was it, there was no cause for alarm. Feeling the pressure on her own bladder, she went to the toilets herself, trying the door to the ladies.

It was firmly locked. Feeling stupid, she realised there was no need to separate themselves into ‘Men’ and ‘Women.’ She crossed to the door to the men’s toilets, fully expecting it to open easily, to find Davey inside.

It too, was firmly locked.

Flummoxed, Jen spun around. He had gone to find some out of the way spot to do what he had to do, then. Chances were he was back in the waiting room, wondering where she had gone. Growing impatient, she picked her way back, sticking her head in the doorway, expecting his cheery greeting.

No one there.

She debated. The idea of getting back under the blanket and simply waiting was appealing, but something about this struck her as odd. It wasn’t like Davey to just slip out into the night without giving her a nudge to tell her where she was going. Or to leave the door gaping, exposing her to whoever – or whatever- might be passing. It was even more unusual for her to not feel him rising, so attuned was she to his movements.

She stepped back out onto the platform, folding her arms defensively. The reluctance to shout into this space hit her again, yet she was beginning to panic. She needed to know where he was.

She cleared her throat, ready to call his name. Something down on the track caught her eye.

Davey. He was some way down, head bowed as if looking for something he had dropped. Jen watched him a moment, trying to work out what he was doing.

“Davey?”

He looked up, smiling back at her, “Jenny Wren! Sorry babe, didn’t mean to wake you,”

“You left the door wide open!” She could hear the complaint in her voice. It wasn’t how she meant to be. She started again, softening her tone, “I was worried about you,”

“Sorry,” Davey repeated, contrite, “I should have thought.”

“What are you doing?” Jen asked, dropping the subject, “Did you lose something?” Knowing full well that Davey had very little of anything to lose.

“I thought I saw something.”

He sounded all at once like a small, lost child. Not at all the confident, boundlessly optimistic Davey she knew. Something in his expression broke her heart.

“Davey?” Her own voice so soft she could barely hear it herself.

“Go back to bed,” he said, once more his own self, “I’ll come back as soon as I’ve found it.”

“But what is it?” Jen asked, “What’s so special about this thing? Come on Davey, come back up here.”

“I’ll find it in a minute, just wait and see.” Davey had turned away, obviously distracted.

Jen stood watching him for a while. Davey kept turning his head this way and that, now and then stopping to crouch low as if he had found what he looked for, only to stand again, empty-handed and disappointed. At last she threw up her hands, realising he wasn’t about to give in. She sat on the edge of the platform, the concrete hard and cold under her, and lowered herself down onto the tracks.

Unsure what she was looking for, she began scanning as she walked, in case something obvious sprang into view. Something she could snatch up, present to Davey with a triumphant smile and they could both go back to bed for a while.

A thought occurred to her as she drew level with him.

“It’s Christmas Day,” she said, eyes shining.

“What?” Davey looked at her blankly, “Oh right. Christmas Day,” he repeated.

“Merry Christmas,” Jen said, standing on tip-toe to kiss his cheek.

“Merry Christmas Jenny Wren,” he said back, “If I can find it, I might just have a little Christmas gift for you!”

“But what is it?”

Davey stopped, hands on hips, finally looking at her properly, “Well to be honest Jen, I don’t know. I saw it rolling down the track here. Something golden and, and, glowing…”

A shiver ran down Jen’s back. Her brow creased in concern, “Glowing? I don’t understand. We were asleep together. In there,” she gestured towards the waiting room, “What made you come outside in the first place?”

Davey hesitated, his unwillingness to answer plain on his face. Jen’s concern deepened.

“Davey?”

“I thought it was you at first,”

“You thought what was me?”

“Well, I woke up to what I thought were fingers on my face. Just light, gentle fingers, the way you touch me sometimes. Except the fingers were icy cold, so I realised that it was probably just a draught. But then, when I sat up, I saw the door was wide open, and in the doorway, there was,” he sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking down at his feet as if embarrassed, “there was this light, just hanging in the air. A ball of soft, amber light; that’s the only way I can think to describe it. That’s it; a ball of glowing, amber light, just hanging in the air,” his voice, full of wonder, trailed away to nothing.

Jen went cold inside. She believed him unquestioningly. She had known this place wasn’t right the minute they had arrived. She wished now she had insisted they leave, had kicked up more of a fuss.

“Davey,” she began, determined to talk him into giving up his search and leaving with her. Then something flickered into her peripheral vision. Something warm and glowing, in the corner of her eye.

She turned to look at it face on. The moment she did, it shifted position, staying tantalisingly just out of reach. She knew now what Davey meant about the glow. It gave off such a warm, reassuring aura; one that she wanted to wrap her cold hands around and warm them upon. One that she would like to give to Davey, if she could just get hold of it.

The glow suddenly shifted into full view, head on, immediately above the tracks some way beyond. Jen and Davey faced it together, each of them paralysed, enchanted by its light.

As fast as it had appeared, the glow shrunk to a small, tight ball, then it fell to the track, dark and lost.

Wordlessly, Davey and Jen bent to the task, searching amongst the drifts of dead leaves, the piles of blown-together rubbish. They searched until their backs ached, until the winter sun had fully risen into a snow-filled sky. Flakes began to drift down through the holes in the domed ceiling. It was only when Jen stood to shake her long hair free of snow, that she realised the tracks were shaking.

She looked over at Davey, to see if he felt it too. He appeared oblivious to it, head down and searching just as fervently as when he had begun. The trembling increased, the rails beginning to creak and moan in response.

“Davey, can you feel that?” Jen asked. When he looked up at her, she saw he could.

“I don’t get it,” he said, confused, “these tracks have been out of use for years now.”

They both stopped, looking up the track, listening. The rattling of the rails was joined by a new sound, one of an engine approaching. Jen scanned the horizon, searching through the falling snow for any sign of a hulking, mechanical beast. The very notion was ridiculous. It didn’t even sound like a modern train.

She looked at Davey, confusion covering her. He caught her eye but said nothing, holding his breath as he, too, looked expectantly at the empty expanse of white before them.

There was a hiss of steam, the unmistakable chugging of huge and heavy wheels. Jen crossed to Davey, grabbing his arm, nestling into him. She must be imagining things. They must be imagining things. Except it wasn’t possible, was it? For them both to be having exactly the same hallucination?

For she knew he could hear it all too. The look on his face was enough to tell her that. Her grip on his arm tightened as voices began to reach them, the busy chatter of invisible passengers up on the empty platform. The rattle of wheels as if porters still wheeled luggage to and fro. The backdrop to it all the muffled, indistinct announcements of trains due and departing. The unmistakable aroma of hot coffee drifted down to them, accompanied by the sound of crockery rattling on a tray. Somewhere up there, a whistle blew, shrill and stark.

At last, Jen and Davey began to move; but slowly, as if in a dream. As if their legs were made of lead. As if their minds were underwater. They reached the edge of the track, Davey pushing Jen before him. The ledge of the platform was impossibly high up, too far to reach by jumping.

Even as Davey was shouting at Jen to climb up onto his shoulders, even as she told him she wouldn’t, that they would go together, the vibration of the track grew to such an intensity that it was no longer possible to stand on it. They dropped onto the narrow fringe of gravel alongside, but it was too late.

Bearing down on them at an unstoppable speed, no sign of slowing for the passengers waiting, was a steam train; its metal a shiny red and black, its smoke billowing backwards to make the white sky grey.

“Look!” Davey said, releasing his hold of his Jen and bending to retrieve something from the track, ignoring the train. He stood, showing her what he had found, a beaming smile on his face.

Jen looked. Clutched in his hand were two strips of rectangular paper. Each had a border of embossed gold. On them, also embossed, were the words, ‘Tattersham Station, First Class, Single.’

Jen took the proffered ticket. They both looked up. Their train was coming.

*

It was months before the bodies were found. Summer was at its peak, the sun high in the sky. A group of people in hard hats and hi-vis vests has gathered on the platform, referring to plans, deep in discussion. One of them had left the group to try some doors, expressing concern that the place be searched thoroughly before any demolition began. When an unexpected cloud of black flies had issued from the open door, allowing him to see inside, the man had stepped back in shock at what he found in the Waiting Room.

There, on a bank of tables pushed together, chairs all around like a bed-guard, two lifeless bodies lay huddled under a ragged fleece blanket.

“What a lousy place to die,” the man had said while they were waiting for the police and the ambulance to turn up, “What a way to die!”

“Perhaps it wasn’t so bad,” one of them tried to reassure him, “It looks like they died in their sleep after all,”

“We don’t know that yet. It’s not as if they were tucked up in a cosy king-size bed, is it? Besides, isn’t it a bit strange?” Someone else had said, “Both of them dying in their sleep together?”

There had been some nodding in agreement to that, no one having a satisfactory explanation. At last, keen to break the gloomy atmosphere that had settled over what was supposed to be a working party, someone else had said, “In the scheme of things, I don’t think it was such a bad way to go. After all, at least they had each other.”

They all fell silent, something instinctive and primeval kicking in against their detached professionalism. A whistle, high and shrill, sounded from the far end of the platform. As one, they turned toward the sound, finding nothing to explain it.

From the corner of his eye, one of the men could have sworn he saw a small ball of amber light down on the track. He told himself it was nothing; his imagination at work. Perhaps the result of too much work and not enough sleep. He refrained from pointing it out, asking the others if they saw it too.

After all, it was just a harmless ball of light, hanging in the air. Glowing.

S P Oldham

I wanted to write a poem in a more traditional style for my free Christmas offering of 2019.

The Spirits of Christmas

The village lies snug beneath the snow

Streetlights guide folk to and fro

|Anticipation hangs in the frosty air

A Christmas tree sparkles in the town square

Wide-eyed children, excitement in their eyes

Look up to search the cold night skies

Fires burn warmly in log-piled grates

Fine wine in glasses, rich food on plates;

Over it all, a haze of goodwill and cheer

As people mark the time of year

Beyond the reach of light and lamp

Where the trees stand, bare and damp

Where the frozen ground is clean;

Where no footprints can be seen

To mar the perfect white of snow;

Where the living rarely go

Stands an ancient church, left to rot

With an old, old graveyard, half forgot

Children lie, impatient, in their beds

So, too, do the ancient dead

When those children dare to peep,

So do the dead stir in their sleep

When those children close their eyes

Those sorrowful spirits start to rise

Up from the depths of the tomb

Up from the dark earth’s doleful womb

Towards the town they turn their gaze

Hearing echoes of their living days

Some drift slowly to the old lych-gate

Bemoaning their departed state

But others, who refuse to believe

That they are dead, though none still grieve

Take to the air, join the swirling snow

With the flakes, a-drifting go

Until they reach the town, a-slumber;

Set out to mix among their number

In a house a candle flickers; fades

Something moves behind the shades;

Though the fire is lit, there’s a sudden chill

Something rattles upon the sill

There’s a strange creak upon the stairs;

The cat looks up and, silent, stares

Though there’s nothing to be seen;

Except a new shadow, where none had been

At the inn, the glasses on the shelves

Rattle and move all by themselves

The door is suddenly thrown wide;

Though a gentle wind blows outside

The people there laugh, deny their fear

Though they know there’s something near;

As if to mock their willing ignorance

Along their spines, cold fingers dance

In the empty dance hall, footsteps, light,

Dance an unseen waltz in the silent night

Spectral figures whirl and spin in time

To a tune that’s soundless and sublime;

The piano’s played by a ghostly hand

To the accompaniment of an old jazz band

But the stage is bare, the lights are out

The door is locked; no one’s about

The snow falls harder, coats the ground

Mutes the world, reduces sound

Where it begins to hold and stick

The snow soon becomes deep and thick;

The hours wear on, Eve becomes Day

Those questing spirits must be on their way

So with mournful sighs and moans, they lurch

Their dismal way back to the church

Blaming the wind, people turn in their beds

Wandering spirits banished from their heads

The silent cemetery waits, resigned

For the questing spirits again to find;

To seek out, once more, their resting place

Succumb to the hard earth’s chill embrace

Until there’s only a church; left to rot

And an old, old graveyard, half forgot

S P Oldham

 This was my offering for Halloween 2019. It is a bit experimental in that I was fleshing out (pardon the pun) an idea I had for a zombie story. Anyway, please accept it in the spirit in which it is given. Enjoy!

“I still can’t believe we’re doing this!” Rowan enthused, slamming the car door shut and locking it before pocketing the keys in his ragged and ripped jeans. There were a handful of other cars parked randomly at the side of the rough roadway.

“Me neither,” Alex agreed, shivering, “I wish they’d picked a better day though, it’s frigging freezing up here!” He was wearing an ancient flannel shirt his mother had picked up at a second-hand shop, a few artistic shreds and tears strategically ripped from it.

Rowan nodded, tucking his hands into his armpits, waiting for Alex to fall into step alongside him. They began making their way up the hillside.

“You think there’d be some signs or something,” Alex moaned, “How are we meant to know where they are?”

“I suppose the film crew knew where they were going,” Rowan mused, “It’s a bit shoddy though. I thought maybe someone would be waiting to welcome us, you know? A bit of a meet and greet. The competition was meant to promote them after all; upcoming indie film makers and all that. I thought we’d be filmed arriving, shaking hands with someone, a little piece to camera and all that stuff, for them to put on their site later.”

“’Piece to camera,’ get you!” Alex mocked, “You’ll be asking the camera man to be sure to get your best side, next!”

“Ha ha,” Rowan said derisively, “I’m just saying, that’s all. Oh well, maybe there’ll be some kind of welcome when we get to the location properly.”

Alex rolled his eyes at the word location. He was about to tease Rowan for showing off his knowledge of film terminology again, when Rowan saw it in his eyes. He punched his friend good-naturedly on the shoulder.

“Okay, shut up!” he said laughingly.

They trudged on, the road slowly disappearing into mud and grass, explaining why the cars had been abandoned so far down the hill side.

“Do you think we should have done our own make-up after all?” Alex suddenly asked out of nowhere, “I mean, I know the letter said their make-up artist would do it, but surely that’s going to take up a lot of time? It’s a dark enough day as it is, we’ve only got a couple of hours left before we lose daylight altogether.”

Rowan shook his head, “No, they were pretty adamant about that. Dress up as ragged as you like, but leave the make-up to the experts, that was what the letter said. I am sure they know what they’re doing. It’s not as if we are playing starring roles or anything. The prize was for playing the part of extras in, ‘Bite Me, too – The Z-quel,’ plus we get too meet the crew and get our names in the credits, that’s all.”

“Okay, just a thought,” Alex said.

They were almost at the top of the hill. They crested the rise, finding themselves on a long, wide plateau, grasses blowing in the building wind. Some way off stood a wooden barn. Several of its vertical planks had come loose. They swung; sliding and occasionally banging noisily off its walls. From where they stood it was hard to tell if it was really an old barn, or an especially effective piece of scenery.

“If that barn is a prop then I am impressed!” Alex said, voicing Rowan’s thoughts, “I thought they were low-budget. That is really good!”

Rowan nodded, the tiniest of doubts creeping into his mind. He shrugged it off, putting it down to the cold and the disappointment he was trying not to acknowledge, that this prize might not be as good as he had hoped it would be.

They took a few more steps, to where a single floodlight stood, rigged up to a small generator. The light was on, adding a steady thrumming noise to the sound of the wind. It projected a small pool of light onto the grass in front of it.

“Looks like the grass has got blood on it,” Alex said, “Wow! This little outfit might be better than we knew. For someone to take the trouble to spatter the blades of grass like that! Don’t you reckon?” he nudged Rowan, who was still staring at the grass.

Rowan shrugged off-handedly, “Where the hell is everyone anyway?” He checked his watch, “Two o’clock, just like they said. It’s a bit out of order no one is even here to say hello!”

Alex frowned. An idea came to him and he moved in closer, speaking in a soft voice, “What if this is the hello, Ro? What if they are all hiding in that barn, ready to come at us like a mini-horde, in proper zombie style?”

“What, to frighten us you mean?”

Alex laughed, “Yeah, why not? To get us in the zone, so to speak. A bit of a laugh before we get down to business. Like you said, we are prize winners after all, and only extras.”

“Yeah, I bet you’re right!” Rowan grinned, relief blossoming in his chest, “That will be it. We better play along then, pretend we’ve no idea.”

“Right!” Alex laughed, “We should keep acting pissed off, sounding off about no one being here. Let them think we’re really clueless!”

They laughed together conspiratorially, “Let’s go then,” Rowan said, stepping around the pool of light and the bloodied grass even though he knew it couldn’t be real.

They headed slowly towards the barn, noticing things that had not been immediately apparent. A khaki rucksack lay on the ground, its drawstring come loose, allowing a hairbrush and a half-empty bottle of water to protrude from its neck. He looked up at Alex, who shrugged and carried on walking. Rowan followed, keeping his eyes peeled.

“You don’t think they could have really gone, do you?” Rowan gave in to his doubts again. He grabbed Alex by the elbow from behind, stopping him in his tracks.

“What, and leave that behind? “Alex nodded back towards the spotlight, “I doubt it very much. They’re worth a couple of quid mate. They’re not going to just leave that.”

“No, right,”

“Besides, they knew we were coming. They would have messaged you, or phoned or something,” his eyes lit up, “And,” he added, in the tone of a genius about to dispel a mystery, “their cars are all still parked up, alongside yours,”

Rowan sagged, feeling suddenly stupid, “Oh yeah. Come on then, let’s check out the barn, get the big surprise welcome out of the way so we can get on with things.”

They struck out again, both of them noting wordlessly the two overturned camping chairs, partially covered by a woollen blanket. Something sat low in the grass beyond the barn, too far off to identify.

They had reached the barn. This close, the sound of the loose planking scraping across the wood was akin to nails being scraped down a board. They both winced, hunching their shoulders up to their ears. It was plain that this was no prop; the barn had been standing on the hilltop for who knew how long. Its walls were damp-looking, clumps of moss and lichen clinging to them here and there. A corrugated metal roof lifted and banged where it was loose at the edges, making them both jump.

“Shit, that scared me!” Alex confessed, turning a surprised expression upon Rowan, “I am amazed that roof is still on. It must get windy as hell up here in winter,”

Something within the darkness of the barn made a noise. The wind snatched it away before Rowan could fully identify it. Alex heard it too. He lowered his voice to a whisper.

“I bet they’re laughing at me, because I almost shit myself just then,” he said, “We are supposed to be acting clueless, remember? Why don’t you complain about the distinct lack of crew again? Nice and loud.”

He looked at Rowan eagerly, smiling and nodding his head.

Rowan was uneasy and he couldn’t understand why. He watched endless horror films into the wee small hours, then climbed into his bed and slept like a baby. He played games that rivalled the gore in any of those films, and never lost a minute’s sleep over them. The books he read, lying in bed in the near dark had given him an odd dream or two, but none of any of that had ever truly disturbed him. He couldn’t understand why he was so nervous now.

He looked at Alex, who was every bit as enthusiastic as when they had arrived. Rowan knew he could never explain any of his fears to him without looking like a complete fool. He cleared his throat.

“Where is everyone Alex?” he spoke loudly, so obviously acting that even the most amateur indie film producers would never hire him even to make the coffee, “It’s a bit out of order, no one here to meet us!”

Alex, seeming not to notice how corny Jordan’s lines were, nodded and raised a thumb in approval.

“I know, it’s terrible!” Alex responded, his acting ability matching Jordan’s.

There was a shuffling from within the barn, a shoving and something that sounded like a groan.

“Quick, let’s go round the other side, where the door is! They’re about to burst out on us any minute!” Alex shoved Jordan. They rounded the corner of the barn, where a large rectangular door was set into the frame. It began to judder at the pounding from the people inside.

“Whoa! They must be using that in the film,” Alex said, “It looks really good from out here, eh?”

Rowan frowned, staring at the door. The pounding behind it grew in force, the hinges begin to bulge outward.

“Maybe the handle is stuck,” Alex offered, doubt for the first time creeping into his voice.

“Why hasn’t anyone spoken?” Rowan asked, “If the handle is stuck, why hasn’t someone just admitted it and asked us to let them out?”

Alex considered, “Staying in role? To borrow some of your terminology,” he tried to smile, Jordan finding it a lot less convincing than earlier.

“It’s a bit OTT don’t you think?”

“What’s the alternative, Ro? You don’t seriously think there are actual zombies in there?”

“Well of course not!”

“Then what?”

Rowan tried to think. Then what, indeed? He didn’t know. All he knew was that this was all wrong, somehow. This didn’t feel like a prank by the film crew or a fun way to start an afternoon’s filming the zombie apocalypse. This felt too, too… real. He beckoned Alex over.

“What if there is some kind of nutter in there? What if that blood back there is real?”

Alex stared at him wide-eyed, “You’re not serious?”

“Stranger things have happened, Alex. You’re the true crime buff, you should know. What if there’s some lunatic in there, waiting for us to open that door?”

“What, and he killed absolutely everyone? Where are all the bodies, Ro?” Rowan suspected the sarcasm in Alex’s voice was forced, as if he was more willing to accept the possibility of a madman than he was admitting.

“Who knows? In there with him?” He gestured to the barn, noticing suddenly that the banging had stopped, the door back in its frame.

“Yeah, right. Or maybe down there,” Alex scoffed, strolling to the edge of the hillside and looking down.

A low moan came from the barn; a sound that turned Rowan’s blood cold. At the same time, Alex retched, resting his hands on his knees and heaving, wiping his mouth with his ragged sleeve as he turned back to Rowan.

“Jesus Christ, Ro,” was all he could say, “Jesus Christ!”

“You better be fucking kidding me!” Rowan snarled, crossing to Alex, the fear that had begun to grow the moment he had stepped onto the hilltop finally becoming solid in his chest.

He looked down the slope, taking in what his friend had already set eyes on; three discarded bodies, one missing an arm, another missing a head, all of them ravaged and bleeding. He didn’t have time to respond to the scene as Alex had done. The unmistakable sound of wood splintering rent the air behind them. Alex straightened and they both turned, to finally see what the barn had been keeping secret.

Zombies. There was no other word for them. Two zombies, breaking free of the barn by means of the gap the swinging boards had created, unable to open the door. A sharp, jagged shard of snapped wood stuck out from the arm of one, so deep it would have been a serious wound on the living. The zombie did not appear even to notice. They were stupid and slow, a clapper board hanging from the stiff hands of one of them; a young woman, or at least, she had once been. The other was taller, broader; a man. One Jordan recognised, barely, from the online competition he had entered.

“Fuck me, that’s Greg Corman!”

“Not anymore it’s not!” Alex said, grabbing Jordan and pulling him low to the ground, over the lip of the hillside.

The zombies emitted a groan, their heads snapping to the right.

“They heard us! Shit!” Alex said, “Now what?”

“I don’t believe this!” Jordan said, repeating his earlier words but with a very different meaning, “I can’t believe we’re suddenly surrounded by zombies. I mean come on Alex, this is not possible. Not really. Is it?”

“I don’t think now is the time or place to discuss this,” Alex said, “I think we should just get back to the car and go, pronto!”

“No,” Jordan shook his head thoughtfully, “no, this is bullshit. They’ve done a great job scaring us stupid, but enough is enough. I wanted to be in this poxy film, not taken the piss out of on-set. Give me a minute,” he said, rising to his feet.

“Jordan, what the fuck? Get back down here!” Alex hissed. It was too late. Jordan was back on the edge of the hillside, the zombies mere feet away from him.

“Right guys, enough is enough!” he began, the wind snatching his words away. He tried again, hoping they could hear him, “We came here to do some filming, so let’s get on with it. You had your fun, very good, well done,” he clapped his hands a few times, sardonically, “Now let’s get on with it, shall we? I read your terms and conditions, by the way. If you don’t honour the stated prize…”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence. The zombies lurched at him, surprisingly fast. Jordan shrieked, hastily stepping back, losing his footing and tumbling painfully down the hill, coming to a hard stop against a boulder jutting out of the ground. He tried to grab Alex as he fell, seeing with shocked horror that he was already in the grip of another hand; that of the one-armed corpse that had been lying dead just moments ago.

Even then, he could not fully comprehend that there were actual zombies here. It wasn’t until he saw the zombie sink its teeth into Alex’s hand, almost tearing it from the wrist, it wasn’t until he heard his friend’s cry of agony and utter anguish, that he finally understood it was real.

The zombies that had been chasing him were still advancing, stepping heedlessly on the corpses of their erstwhile colleagues, their only goal, him. Jordan stood, shoving aside the need to vomit, forcing himself to breathe evenly. He needed to get away.

He looked down the hill past the boulder. Although the hilltop was high, its sides were more or less gently sloping. Once he started sliding, he probably wouldn’t’ be able to stop, unless he came up against another boulder or a tree stump or something, but that was okay with him. The faster he got off this hillside and down into the town, where he could get help, the better. On shaky legs, he began to run, feeling his knees buckle at the angle of the slope, momentum propelling him forward at speed. He knew he was going to fall, tucking his elbows in and letting his shoulders take the shock of landing, curling up in a foetal position and allowing gravity to have its way.

Now and then, when turning, he caught a glimpse of the zombies still chasing him. They fell, too; landing hard on their backsides and sliding down, no trace of reaction or animation in their posture or expressions. They simply slid as they landed. If it had been part of a film, or a cut-scene in a game, it would have been funny. Now, Jordan found it horribly worrying.

He reached the bottom first, landing hard in the road, thankful there were no cars coming. He would have been hit, for sure. He got to his feet and ran, fast as he could. Just a turn in the bend before the road descended into the town proper. The street played host to a small church, a row of retirement cottages and a community hall, looking out across the main body of the town.

His lungs were bursting, his heart pounding. He had to stop to catch his breath. He turned to see how much distance he had put between himself and the zombies.

They were almost upon him. He nearly fell to his knees in despair. How could that be so? He began to run again, pumping his arms, his legs like lead. He sprinted past the church, screaming “Get back inside!” to a wedding party that had just stepped out into the cold, damp afternoon.

He didn’t have time to register the disapproval of the wedding guests, the heads shaking, the embarrassed laughing. Nor did he hear the vicar laugh, turning it into a joke, or someone else make a judgemental remark about drugs and youngsters these days.

What he did hear, moments later, was screams of confusion and repulsion. He dared to stop again, turning to look behind him. The large zombie, the man, had changed targets, apparently finding the wedding party too tempting to pass up. Jordan stood on tip-toe to peer over the stone built wall. He saw blood explode, bright and unexpected, on the white of the bride’s gown. He saw people run inside, while others stood to fight in any way they could, the groom wading in with his fists. The zombie grabbed one of them, pulling the man irrevocably towards him.

Jordan turned away, unable to watch.  The image of Alex’s hand almost torn from his wrist was still too raw; he could not watch it happening to someone else.

Movement out of the corner of his eye. The female zombie had apparently kept her dead eyes firmly on him.

The clapper board still swung in her hand, caught between thumb and finger, pinched tight in apparent rigor mortis. She peeled back her lips, blackening gums bleeding around loosening teeth, perhaps her attempt at a smile; or a snarl.

Jordan backed away, feeling the wall behind him as his hands slid across it, grazing his skin. He pushed off from it, ready to run.

Ahead lay a small primary school, its gates locked now, the school day over. He could climb that metal fencing and drop into the school yard no problem, if he could just outrun this clapper-board bitch behind him.

He ran for it, not putting as much distance between them as he would have hoped. He got to the fence first and pulled himself up and over it, landing hard on the other side, yelping out loud, getting to his feet fast and backing up, unwilling to relax just yet, keeping eyes on the zombie the other side.

She had reached the fence too. She stopped, gripping the bars, looking through them at him. She was still and calm, no heaving chest, no sign at all that seconds before she had been running like the wind behind him.

Jordan’s breathing slowed a little, his heart rate evening. He was safe here then; the fence was too much for her. He should get inside, break in to the building. To hell with the police; he had a damn good reason for breaking and entering.

He turned his back, one hand supporting a grazed and battered elbow. The newly gained stings, cuts and bruises began to assert themselves now the immediate threat had passed. He had almost reached a classroom, choosing which of the colourfully decorated windows he would try to smash in, the butterflies, bees and childish writing sellotaped to them suddenly garish and wrong to his traumatised eyes, when he heard a sound that made his heart sink.

Feet landing on the concrete playground. He knew, without needing to see, that was exactly what it was. Some part of his brain still deep in denial hoped it was Alex, that he had made it down off the hillside after all; that he had come to seek out shelter with Jordan in the school.

What he saw instead, when he finally turned, was the clapper-board bitch, making for him so single-mindedly, he knew he had no chance of evading her.

He was backed up against the wall, the playground barren of anything that might help him. The gate was padlocked, the walls unclimbable but he tried anyway, standing on a low, cemented-in table and reaching up to a drainpipe. His hand closed around the cold, dirty plastic. That was as far as he got before the girl’s skinny hand closed around his ankle, her grip too strong for her size and frame.

She yanked him backward viciously. He fell flat on his face, the edge of the kid-sized table driving into his chest, winding him, his head scraping painfully down the coarse edge of the wall. He would have screamed in pain if he had breath to do it.

The zombie pulled him backward. He landed on his face a second time, this time on the concrete of the yard. He heard his nose snap, a pool of blood welling immediately, tasting of metal in his mouth.

The clapper-board zombie flipped him over like he was nothing, laying him across the table so that his head lolled. She knelt, drooling, not even bothering to pull back his clothing as she leant in for the bite into the soft flesh of his stomach.

The last thing Jordan saw with comprehending eyes was the clapper board, resting on his chest as if the zombie had done it deliberately; a screen to protect his eyes from what she was about to do to his body. He read the words through the screen of blood from his nose which had begun to stream backwards, into his eyes:

‘Bite Me, Too: The Z-quel. Scene: Too much Take: Me home.”

‘Like a joke’, he thought. ‘like a bad joke. As if the clapper-board bitch’d had a sense of humour once. ‘

Jordan felt his head spin, a strange numbness beginning to envelope his brain, blocking out the excruciating agony of the bites to his abdomen. He looked up at the scudding skies overhead, the day melting into early evening. The pallor of his skin nearly matched the grey clouds; had become as mottled.

Dazed, he tried to speak, the words distorted and slurred, as if he had been drinking heavily, “I read your terms and conditions,” he tried to sound a warning, “There was nothing in them about this,”

He spasmed once, twice, as if the girl had been giving him head not ripping out his innards. Then the Jordan that was lay, stiff and lifeless across the little concrete table. The clapper-board zombie stood, blood dripping down her chin. Her expression was blank, lifeless as she began to wander the confines of the school, oblivious to the shrill cries of terror that rent the air on the streets.

It was full dark when Jordan’s corpse began to twitch and move. By the time it was standing, shuffling in pointless circles around the playground, there were sirens blaring, the roads were jamming, people shoving and pushing one another in a bid to get away. Attacking one another through sheer fear, whether their neighbours were undead now or not.

Still Jordan walked, circle after circle around the yard; head bowed, mouth drooling, intestines exposed and torn. On and on he went.

‘And cut!’

S P Oldham