This story was inspired by reading ‘Blood in the Machine’ by Brian Merchant, a history of the Luddite movement. The Luddites were skilled artisans who were displaced by machines that produced inferior goods more cheaply (sounds familiar?). The Luddites responded by smashing the machines and the movement attracted widespread public support, including the romantic poets Byron and Shelley. The government, however, was firmly on the side of the wealthy mill owners and responded with brutal military force and draconian legislation that made it a capital offence to smash the machines. Around forty Luddites were hanged and more were transported to penal colonies. The apocryphal figurehead of the Luddite movement was Ned Ludd or General Ludd, based on the legend of Ned Ludd, an apprentice who broke two stocking frames in a fit of rage.

Historically, the term Luddite has been used to describe someone who opposes technology, but this is a fundamental misunderstanding of the movement. The Luddites were not against technological progress per se. They were protesting the loss of jobs and the erosion of wages that led to widespread economic hardship and the decimation of their communities and way of life.

Parallels with the AI revolution are plain to see. Putting aside the risk of total annihilation, as things stand a few obscenely rich men seem destined to become even richer while millions of people lose their jobs or see their wages eroded. In the creative industries this process is already well underway. The question is what, if anything, we are going to do about it?

Fran x

2041

The idea came to Ed from a T-shirt.

Proud Luddite!

The T-shirt was pink, with gothic lettering, and Ed smiled at the girl wearing it. She didn’t return his smile. Not surprising, he was old enough to be her father. His own children were ten and fifteen. The ten-year-old was starting secondary school in September, and they would have to find money for a new uniform, not to mention school trips, software subscriptions, and all the other extras that fell to parents since privatisation.

Andy and Mick were at their usual table in the corner, and Ed told them about the T-shirt as he sat down. They’d been meeting at Jenny’s Caf three mornings a week since Ed finished ‘The Knowledge’ twenty years earlier.

‘What’s a Luddite?’

Mick dropped two sweeteners into his tea. Once they would have tucked into a full English, but their strained finances meant that was no longer an option. Since he sold his cab, Ed had taken to skipping breakfast, and lunch was a bag of crisps or, sometimes, a sandwich if he was home and could make it himself.

‘Isn’t that someone who hates progress?’ Andy said. ‘Someone who wants to live in the past?’

‘Sounds good to me,’ Mick said. ‘At least I’d still have a job.’

‘We all would.’ Ed was facing the window, and he watched as a driverless taxi slid neatly between two parked cars. There were still a few black cabs on London’s streets, but most had long ago given up trying to compete. Those drivers who remained offered guided tours for tourists and spoke in mock Cockney accents. One even dressed as a pearly king. It was humiliating, but Ed didn’t blame them; they also had families to support. ‘The Luddites weren’t against progress; they were against the rich bastards who were using technology to destroy working people’s livelihoods and make themselves even richer.’

‘So, what did they do then, these Luddites?’

A drip had formed on the tip of Mick’s nose, and he wiped it with a napkin. He was wearing the same jumper he’d worn last week and the week before, and Andy’s anorak had a tear in the sleeve. As the months rolled by, it was getting harder to keep up appearances.

‘They smashed the machines that replaced them.’

‘Did it work?’

‘Not really,’ Ed shook his head. ‘They hanged the ringleaders.’

‘Ouch,’ Andy raised his eyebrows. ‘Still, it’s a nice idea. I’d love to smash those bloody cars.’

It was a joke, except the more Ed thought about it, the more it wasn’t. The Luddites had attracted widespread public support, and the problem was far greater now. AI had wiped out jobs in almost every sector. His government-sponsored employment coach, an AI called Jobi, (unironically, the company was American), suggested retraining as a plumber or a bricklayer. When Ed pointed out that there wasn’t enough work for the existing glut of plumbers and bricklayers, Jobi suggested investing in cryptocurrency. If it hadn’t been for the camera monitoring their interaction, Ed would have told Jobi to stuff his cryptocurrency where the sun didn’t shine.

Two days later, when the three of them met again, Ed broached the idea he’d been fermenting.

‘What if we all ordered a self-driving car at the same time?’

‘The three of us?’ Andy didn’t look up from the menu, which he was scrutinising with the intensity of a man faced with an impossible choice. ‘I don’t think that’s going to scare them, mate.’

‘No, I mean all of us. All the unemployed cab drivers.’

‘Including Uber?’ Mick asked doubtfully.

Until autonomous cars came along, Uber drivers were the enemy, undercutting prices and giving the industry a bad name with their tacky air fresheners and dubious music choices. Ed nodded.

‘And delivery drivers. For the plan to work, we need a network across the country.’

Andy put the menu down. Ed knew he would have an Americano. He always did.

‘Okay, hundreds of us order self-driving taxis, and then what?’

‘Then we spray-paint their cameras so they can’t go anywhere. If we choose the locations carefully, we can create chaos, not to mention losing the companies that operate them a tonne of money.’

‘We’ll get arrested for damaging property.’

‘Probably,’ Ed conceded, but there are tens of thousands of out of work drivers up and down the country with nothing to lose, and we don’t need to limit the campaign to drivers. What about the millions of office workers and warehouse pickers who’ve lost their jobs to AI? It could become a global movement. We start with self-driving cars and progress to delivery drones, data farms, and chatbots.

Jenny, the café’s owner, placed a mug of tea in front of Ed. Although the café was always full of unemployed men, her business was suffering because no one had any money. A tent card in the centre of the table reminded customers to buy a minimum of one hot or cold drink every hour to secure their seat.

Mick was stroking his beard. ‘So how would we find all these people?’

‘Easy,’ Andy said, ‘Facebook. There are loads of groups where unemployed drivers congregate to grumble and lick their wounds.’

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Ed, who had hitherto avoided social media, created a profile on Facebook and joined as many groups as he could find. Slowly but surely, the movement built. Like the Luddites of old, they met in person in each other’s homes. Online discussion was forbidden, and they screened every new member carefully. On March 11th, two hundred and thirty years after the original Luddites smashed the first knitting frame, Ed ordered a self-driving taxi to the street where Google was headquartered. Soon towns and cities across the UK were paralysed as hundreds of similar taxis came to a standstill in busy thoroughfares.

In the first week of action, the security services arrested more than a hundred drivers including Ed, Mick and Andy, but as Ed predicted, their protest caught the imagination of a population worn down by job losses and the hollowing out of public services.

Designers rendered obsolete by AI hand-printed posters decrying the misery wrought by the billionaire tech barons and corrupt politicians who enabled them. Jobless accountants and solicitors ordered autonomous taxis only to disable them, and hackers targeted delivery drones and automated warehouses. Bills and taxes went unpaid as customers closed their cryptocurrency accounts, and artisans creating human-authored books and works of art saw their sales surge.

As the movement grew, the stock-market plummeted, and the tech barons demanded tough action from the politicians whose campaigns they had funded so generously.

Ed was in hiding when they came for him. After weeks of sleep deprivation in a windowless cell, a member of the group cracked and revealed that Ed was living in the attic of a sympathetic poet. Ed was the last of the Three Luds, as they were known, to be arrested. Mick and Andy had already been convicted under the terrorism-act and thousands of the movement’s supporters were being held in the primitive camps that had previously housed immigrants. Like the immigrants, many were facing deportation. Specifically, to a re-education facility in Siberia that was part of the government’s co-operation agreement with the Russian Federation.

A drone hovered above Ed’s head as four masked police officers in bullet-proof vests hustled him out of the house. The poet was already in the van with his hands cuffed behind his back. He gave Ed a wry smile.

‘We never learn, do we?’

‘We started too late, but at least we tried. That counts for something.’

The officer gripping Ed’s arm shoved him so hard, he nearly fell as he climbed the steps into the van. The doors slammed behind him, and through the tiny, barred window that separated the prisoners from the cab, Ed watched sadly as the steering wheel turned unaided and the van began to move.

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Photograph by Ylanite Koppens

Hello and welcome to the twilight zone!

As some of you may have seen on Notes, I’m feeling upbeat, not only because it’s May and summer is around the corner, but because I have signed a publishing contract for my psychological thriller which will appear in January. It’s been a long, bumpy road. Five years ago I had an agent and a publisher and lost both when the agent moved on. Since then I have written two more books, the first was deemed too quirky (although I still love it and I’m hoping its time will come) and the second will be published soon - hooray! Anyway, the point of this spiel is not to blow my own tiny trumpet, but to show that persistence pays off. If you are a writer labouring under a pile of rejections and tempted to give up, please don’t. As my experience shows, fortune favours the dogged!

I also want to say a big thank you to everyone who reads these stories and my lovely subscribers. The welcome and support I’ve received from the Substack community since I signed up eighteen months ago has kept me going and I’ve discovered I love writing short stories even if it’s sometimes a challenge coming up with new ideas. This one is based on a real event and scores two on the spookometer, so it’s a safe read for anyone of a sensitive disposition. I hope you enjoy it.

Fran x

Lucy felt it as soon as she entered the room: a strange familiarity, as if she’d been there before. She hadn’t, of course. She was only here on this blisteringly hot day in August because her aunt was staying with them. Joan worshipped the National Trust with a passion befitting an elderly spinster, and when she retired from teaching, she made it her mission to visit every property. This minor stately home in west London was tenth on her list.

Now, as the guide pointed out the room’s features, Lucy’s eyes were drawn to a nondescript desk in the corner. The laminated information sheet she was using as a fan described it simply as ‘a lady’s writing desk from the mid-eighteenth century.’ Nothing special, so why the knot in her stomach as if she’d rounded a corner and encountered a bear? A fly fizzed on the window ledge, and there was a note of desperation in the guide’s voice as if he were leading an expedition that he knew to be doomed. Several people had already dropped out, and only Joan looked fresh. A vision in crumpled linen, with a straw sun hat dangling rakishly from her neck, she was listening with rapt attention as the guide drew their attention to a painting of a corpulent man resting beneath a tree.

Lucy bent to whisper in her ear.

‘Just going for a pee. I’ll catch you up.’

She touched her stomach, which looked increasingly like the silver domes posh restaurants used to cover dishes. Ta da a baby! The midwife would declare with a flourish.

When the last straggler had gone, she clambered awkwardly over the rope barrier and crossed the Turkish rug (also eighteenth-century and purchased by Lord someone or other on his travels) towards the desk. She wasn’t normally a rule breaker, but the object exerted a gravitational pull, which grew stronger as she approached. A powerful instinct seemed to have overridden her mind, which was demanding to know what on earth she thought she was doing.

The desk was open, revealing a bank of tiny drawers which had once been used to store writing materials. With the unerring sense of a bloodhound following a trail, she pulled one open. It was empty, apart from a dead beetle, but there was something behind it, something only she knew. She tugged harder until the drawer came free, releasing a puff of dust into the torpid air.

Her brain was urging her to return to the right side of the barrier before another tour arrived, but her hand was groping in the empty space left by the drawer. When her fingers brushed against a small metallic object, the knot in her stomach tightened. She hooked the catch with her fingernail and a panel in the centre of the desk sprang open. Behind it, in a compartment only two inches wide, lay a key and a scrap of paper.

Later, over scones and tea in the cafe, Lucy confessed what she’d done.

‘It was the strangest feeling. As if I were a puppet and an invisible puppet master was pulling my strings.’

Joan held out her hand. She had been remarkably unjudgmental, nodding sagely as Lucy spoke, as if her behaviour were normal.

‘Can I see?’

Lucy gave her the key and the scrap of paper.

Mary Louise born 6^th May 1765

The writing was scratchy and uneven, and there was an inkblot under the date. Joan frowned as she read it.

‘I think I might know what this is. Have you heard of the Foundling Hospital?

‘No,’ Lucy pushed her half-eaten scone away. She was never hungry in hot weather, and her pregnancy made it worse. ‘Is it some kind of orphanage?’

‘These days it’s a museum not far from here, but in the eighteenth century, it was a place where poor and unmarried mothers could leave their babies. I think the key might be a token. Women often left something with their child to help identify them if they came back. A coin, or a piece of jewellery, or in this case, if I’m right, the key to a padlock.’

‘But why would a wealthy woman leave her baby there?’

‘Maybe it was illegitimate, and she hid the pregnancy, or, more likely, the child belonged to someone else in the household, someone who knew about the secret compartment, a maid, perhaps or a governess.’

‘A maid. She was a lady’s maid.’

Lucy blurted out the words, surprising herself. She could picture the girl as vividly as if she were standing next to them. She was wearing a coarse wool dress and a white apron. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

‘You’re crying,’ Joan said, ‘Are you okay? Should I get you some water?’

Lucy signalled yes, although water wouldn’t help. She was clearly going mad.

The following week, after dispatching Joan to Somerset, she took the Tube to Russell Square and walked the short distance to the Foundling Museum. Joan had suggested speaking to a curator there when Lucy refused to return the items and, to her credit, her aunt also agreed not to say anything to Lucy’s husband, Tom, who would have been horrified by her transgression and would probably have dobbed her in himself.

The curator, a young woman who looked as if she had only recently left school, showed Lucy to a cramped office and beckoned her to sit. Lucy had already sent a picture of the key and the message, which she claimed to have discovered in the London home of a rich relative. The curator turned her computer screen so Lucy could read it.

‘So, I searched our records and believe I’ve found her: Mary Louise Alloway. She arrived on the 7^th of May 1765, the day after she was born. Her mother’s name was Elizabeth. You can see it here. We’ve digitised the records to make it easier to find people.’

Her finger hovered over a line of unfeasibly neat copperplate.

‘The baby’s name was Alloway?’

Lucy was welling up again. It must be her hormones; everyone said they went haywire when you were pregnant.

‘Originally, yes,’ the curator returned the screen to its original position. ‘Her name was changed to Eliza Richmond; they wanted to protect the mothers from being identified. She only lived a few months, poor little thing.’

‘Alloway is my maiden name.’

Lucy took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. She was feeling increasingly peculiar and this latest development was positively creepy.

‘Really?’ Perhaps you’re related; Alloway isn’t a common name in the South.’ The curator slid a heart-shaped padlock out of a bag. ‘And there’s this.’

Lucy’s hand was shaking so badly the curator had to open the padlock for her. The key fitted perfectly, as she knew it would. She’d stolen the lock from the housekeeper, Mrs Morris, who used it to prevent the other servants helping themselves to her stash of madeira and port. Mrs Morris had fallen asleep after dinner leaving the padlock on the dresser with the key still in it.

Lucy pushed her chair back. The baby was performing a nauseating tap dance in her belly, and she was struggling to breathe.

‘I have to go.’

‘Can we keep…?’

She didn’t hear the rest of the sentence. Outside, the weather had broken. Fat raindrops bounced off the pavement, and Lucy’s cotton dress clung to her distended stomach as she hurried to the underground station. Two hundred and sixty years ago, Lizzie Alloway had promised to return for her baby, and now, at last, she had kept her promise.

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Hello lovely readers and a big welcome to those who have recently subscribed. I write short stories with a twist which are often inspired by things I’ve seen or read. This one was prompted by a BBC documentary and it’s creepy rather than scary, so no need to lock the doors!

Fran xx

‘Hey Mum. I was just about to call you. I’ve got some good news.’ Molly’s voice rose the way it always did when she was excited. ‘You know that job I told you about? Well, I got it. I’m starting on Monday.’

Since she was a little girl, Molly had wanted to work in fashion. Lorna had never heard of the company, but that was hardly surprising. She was a jeans and jumper kind of person who bought her T-shirts in packs of three from the supermarket. When Molly graduated, she insisted on choosing Lorna’s outfit, and although it was tame by Molly’s standards, Lorna spent the day worrying about her knees, which looked like bruised apricots in a bag.

‘That’s wonderful, darling. I’m so pleased for you.’

‘And that’s not the only good news,’ Molly continued. ‘I’ll be travelling all over the country helping to style fashion shoots. The first one isn’t far from you and I was thinking maybe…’ There was a pause, and Lorna thought she heard a sniff. ‘I miss you, Mum.’

‘I miss you too, darling.’

An invisible hand clutched Lorna’s heart, squeezing it until she felt light-headed.

‘You know that place by the river, where we used to go with Dad? I could meet you there on Monday at five after we finish.’

The rational part of Lorna’s brain knew it wouldn’t happen, but the irrational part didn’t care. It wasn’t as if she had anything to lose. She squeezed into the graduation dress, pulling it down as far as she could, and on the bus, she clutched a Tupperware container of cup-cakes to her chest. They were Molly’s favourites: vanilla sponge with strawberry frosting.

The pain returned as she stepped onto the towpath. A familiar longing beneath her left breast. Daffodils and primroses smothered the bank, and a flotilla of ducklings bobbed past, trailing in their mother’s wake like a string of beads. The bench was empty, and Lorna brushed away the debris from the previous night’s storm before she sat down. A buzzing in her bag alerted her to a new message.

I’m on my way! xx

Nearly a year had passed since she watched despairingly as Molly loaded her things into his car. Lorna had never liked him. She hated the way he finished Molly’s sentences and criticised her make-up. Molly never spoke about him because she knew it would upset her. Lorna pressed her hand to her chest. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. Two joggers ran by, and a dog walker with an exuberant spaniel. Lorna’s fingernails were digging into her palm. If Molly’s father were alive, he would have stopped her from coming.

The girl who wasn’t Molly was wearing a blue sweatshirt and matching leggings. She came to a breathless halt by the bench.

‘Is it okay if I join you? I’m not cut out for this running thing.’

Lorna nodded.

‘I was waiting for my daughter, but it doesn’t look as if she’s coming.’

The girl sat, bending forward to catch her breath, and Lorna took out a handkerchief and rubbed the brass plaque behind her.

Molly Dean 1999 – 2025, Always in our hearts.

The girl looked up as she was finishing.

‘Did you know her?’

‘Molly is,’ Lorna hesitated before correcting herself, ‘was my daughter.’

‘But you said…’

Understandably, the girl sounded confused and, not for the first time, Lorna wondered if she was losing her mind. She could say she had another daughter, but she couldn’t bring herself to invent a fictional child.

‘It’s the app; it messes with my head. Molly died in a car crash; her boyfriend was driving too fast. She suffered a catastrophic brain injury.’

‘OMG, I’m so sorry, that’s terrible.’ The girl covered her mouth with her hand.

‘I read about this technology that can recreate people who’ve died. Well, not recreate, obviously, but it sounds just like her, even her laugh is the same. I thought it would be comforting.’

There was no point trying to explain what she was doing there; it would only make her sound more deranged. Lorna reached down to pat a Labrador, which was snuffling around the bench hunting for crumbs. Molly, the real Molly, not the ghost in her phone, would be horrified by what she’d done. Molly hated AI. She said it was like a tropical amoeba that slides up your nose when you’re swimming and burrows into your brain.

‘Deadbots,’ the girl said. ‘My mum got one for my nan. It was creepy; I ended up deleting it.’

Lorna’s phone buzzed.

Shoot overrunning. Sorry, I’m not going to make it. Will call tomorrow. xx.

She held out the phone.

‘Would you do the same for me? Delete the app, I mean.’

Lorna sat for a long time after the girl had gone watching the boats and listening to the soft lap of the water. She remembered picnicking at this exact spot; how Molly and her dad fed the ducks with the leftover sandwiches, and how the three of them huddled under her umbrella when it rained. She remembered the expression on Molly’s face when she spotted a kingfisher and how her smile made Lorna feel like the luckiest person in the world.

It was getting dark when her phone rang again, and an unknown number flashed up. Lorna answered instinctively.

‘Hello. Can I help you?’

‘Mum,’ said the voice that sounded like Molly. ‘You’ll never believe what happened at the shoot today…’

Thank you for reading. As always, a like or a share would be much appreciated and please subscribe or check out my homepage to read more twisty tales.

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Robert’s life revolved around his garden. It wasn’t the biggest in the village or the fanciest. He didn’t have a summer house like the vicar or an ornamental pond full of koy carp like the colonel. What distinguished it was its neatness. The borders were as sharp as knives, and the flower beds, which were overflowing with petunias and pelargoniums, were weedless. Thanks to his copious use of chemicals, slugs never nibbled his hostas, and his roses were free from aphids of every hue.

Every Saturday between April and October, Robert mowed his moss-free lawn and doused any dandelion foolish enough to show itself with weed killer. Then one Saturday as he was removing the mower from the shed, the unthinkable happened. Beneath the ceanothus, he spotted a mound of earth and a scattering of pellets the size of musket balls. Horrified, he knelt to examine the damage and found three large holes vanishing between the roots.

Rabbits.

He grasped the lawnmower for support. This was Mrs Jones’s fault. His neighbour had embraced rewilding, and her garden, with its unseemly tangle of nettles and unkempt grass, resembled a scene from The Day of the Triffids. It was a slippery-slope. Next, he would find molehills despoiling his lawn, and then what? Wild boar? Beavers? Lynx? According to the Daily Mail, these people would stop at nothing.

Robert fetched a trowel from the shed and carefully filled the holes, placing a rock over each for good measure. The following day, they were back; five this time. He considered pouring in weedkiller, but wary of damaging the ceanothus, he settled for the spray he used to deter the village cats. For a week, all was well; then, as he was dead-heading roses, he discovered another burrow. It was by the back door and disappeared under the house. He swore under his breath.

‘This time you’ve gone too far.’ There was a suitably lethal-looking bottle of herbicide in the shed, and he emptied the contents into the hole before blocking it with earth and bricks left over from the new extension. ‘Now try getting out.’

That night he dreamt he was being chased around the garden by a giant rabbit with red eyes and fangs that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a Rottweiler. He woke with his heart pounding and went immediately to the window. In the security light’s orb, he saw three rabbits. Two grazing contentedly on the lawn and another nestled in the flower bed.

‘Bloody vermin, get lost.’

He banged on the glass, and the flower-bed rabbit glanced up briefly before resuming the buffet he had so thoughtfully provided. Incandescent with fury, Robert pounded down the stairs in his bare feet, but when he opened the door, the rabbits had gone. What he needed was a shotgun. He imagined himself leaning out of the bedroom window and picking them off. Bang. That would teach them, bloody vermin.

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The hole in the kitchen floor was roughly three feet wide and surrounded by dirt and broken tiles. If it hadn’t been under the table, he could easily have fallen in. For a moment, Robert stared at it in disbelief. Then he pushed the table aside and shone a light into the shaft. A ladder clung invitingly to the side.

‘Right.’ He stuffed his feet into his gardening Crocs and grabbed the poker from the living room. ‘If that’s how you want to play it.’

With the torch shoved into the waistband of his pyjamas, he descended slowly, being careful not to drop the poker. Roots snatched at his legs like skeletal fingers, and as the warm, dank air enveloped him, he felt as if he were entering the mouth of hell. After a minute his feet touched solid ground, and he switched on the torch. A tunnel ran parallel to the floor above and a trail of rabbit droppings vanished into the darkness like breadcrumbs.

‘Right,’ he said again.

Part of him – a big part - wanted to climb back up the ladder, find someone to fill in the hole and forget the whole thing, but another part, fuelled by the anger roiling inside him, was determined to put an end to this nonsense once and for all.

Holding the poker in one hand and the torch in the other, he pushed forward. It was awkward; the roof of the tunnel was low, and every so often he had to navigate a root or a rock that protruded into the cramped space. More concerning, the light from the torch was getting weaker, and he realised he would have to turn around. Pest control was the answer. He should have thought of it before. They would fumigate the warren, or whatever this was, and kill the lot of them. Then he would alert the council to the jungle next door. You couldn’t rewild willy-nilly; there were rules about that sort of thing.

Satisfied, he retraced his steps, and he had almost reached the ladder when the torch stuttered and went out. Behind him, something sneezed. Something bigger than a rabbit. Robert turned, and two eyes glimmered like rubies in the gloom. He scrabbled for the rungs, dropping the poker in his panic.

As he climbed, there was silence beneath him, and he forced himself to breathe. It was going to be okay; rabbits couldn’t climb, and he was almost there. Groping for the next rung, he pulled himself up. A Croc fell off and disappeared into the void. With a bit of luck, it would hit whatever was lurking below. Another rung and another. Shouldn’t it be getting lighter? He looked up and saw only black. Two more rungs and his bowels turned to ice. Where the opening to the kitchen had once been, there was just a perfectly smooth covering of soil.

Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this little story, a like or a share would be much appreciated and please subscribe to read more twisty tales. All my stories are free so what have you got to lose? :) Fran x

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As the world goes to hell in a handcart, I thought we could do with some light relief. If you’re a MAGA fan, you might want to give this one a miss. Fran x

It’s their second day on the moon, and Buck slides into the buggy next to Tyler, as they begin their ascent of Mount Melania — one of many landmarks named after the president and his family. When they reach the summit, they will plant a Make the Moon Great Again flag, and the moon will officially become the fifty-first state of America. So much for the Outer Space Treaty and celestial bodies being ‘The province of all mankind,’ but Buck keeps his thoughts to himself. He doesn’t want to end up breaking rocks in a Florida swamp.

Soon, the development will begin. Soaring skyscrapers will cover the Apollo Basin and the residents, mainly tech bros, will enjoy the gilded opulence of Moon-a-Lago, the first interplanetary outpost of Mar-a-Lago (All being well, Mars-a-Lago will follow in 2040). Then there are the big, beautiful mines (probably the most beautiful mines ever) where a company owned by the president’s sons will extract rare earth minerals and ship them back to earth.

Looking around at the desolate landscape of rocks and craters, Buck finds the prospect depressing, and he is staring disconsolately at a boulder shaped like a banana when the buggy comes to a sudden halt.

‘What the hell?’

‘Look,’ Tyler is pointing towards the top of the mound. ‘Is that a flag?’

Buck follows his finger and sees a flag-like object embedded in a pile of rocks.

‘Looks that way.’ He squints, but the sun is so bright it’s hard to be sure.

‘Bloody Chinese,’ Tyler says. ‘I told them they’d get here first.’

Buck waits for mission-control to interject — surely, they know about this? – but the only sound is a faint buzzing in his right ear.

‘Hello?’

The buzzing gets louder. The radio has been playing up since they started to climb, and Buck feels a twinge of anxiety. Of the six flags left by previous missions, five are still upright. There is a Chinese flag too, placed by a robotic lander, but none is close to their current location and it’s hard to see how the Chinese could have placed another without someone at NASA noticing.

‘We seem to have lost contact with Earth again.’

Tyler shrugs. It’s not the first technical problem they’ve encountered, and it won’t be the last.

‘Maybe it blew there.’

He means the flag, although they both know there isn’t any wind on the moon. Tyler tries to restart the buggy, but the battery warning light is flashing ominously, and eventually he concedes defeat.

‘Looks like we’ll have to walk.’

Buck grabs the MMGA flag and the Stars and Stripes with a newly added star, and Tyler takes the camera. The boulders are as big as cars, and they lose sight of the rogue flag as they climb. Tyler overtakes him on the last stretch, no doubt keen to claim the glory for himself.

When he reaches the top, Buck’s heart is skittering like a trapped animal. The flag is bigger than it appeared from a distance, and judging by the colour, a mossy green, it isn’t Chinese or Russian. The president won’t like this. Only this morning FIFA awarded him the first Intergalactic Peace Prize, and now it appears someone has arrived before them.

‘What does it say?’

Tyler unfurls the flag while Buck holds the camera.

GO AWAY!

The words appear to be printed simultaneously in at least three languages. Buck is only fluent in English, Spanish, and Mandarin, but he also catches a glimpse of Cyrillic and what looks like Abjad, the Arabic alphabet.

‘Bloody Chinese,’ Tyler says again. ‘Although you’ve got to admit it’s clever. Probably some kind of AI.’

‘What if we remove it and don’t tell mission control?’ Buck suggests.

Perhaps the faulty comms are a blessing in disguise. If they replace this flag with theirs, no one on Earth will be any the wiser.

‘Good idea.’ Tyler grips the flag, but it’s firmly wedged in place. ‘You’ll have to help me.’

Buck is putting his back into it when he sees a figure approaching from the opposite side of the mound. It’s very tall, greenish, and judging by the number of arms it’s waving, not human.

‘Shit,’ Tyler spots at the same time. ‘What the hell is that?’

‘I think it’s an alien.’

‘What do we do?’

Their training hasn’t prepared them for this. There aren’t supposed to be aliens on the moon, although perhaps calling it an alien is unfair. They’re the aliens here, and they probably look as strange to it as it does to them. Buck takes a breath to calm himself.

‘Have you got anything you can give it, some kind of peace offering to show we don’t mean any harm?’

He’s thinking of the early explorers who presented the natives with gifts of beads and cloth. It’s a long shot, but it’s the best he can do.

‘I’ve got some Mar-a-Lago chocolate,’ Tyler says, ‘they asked me to film a promotional video for TikTok while we were here.’

Buck nods. ‘Let’s give it a go.’

The creature is only a few feet away, and Buck sees that what he thought were arms are in fact tentacles. It towers over them as Tyler proffers the chocolate.

‘We come in peace,’ Tyler says, and the creature, which has multiple eyes scattered around an enormous mouth, stops, and Tyler waves the candy hopefully. ‘It’s the collector’s edition, made with real gold.’

A tentacle shoots out and seizes the chocolate, and for a moment Buck thinks it will be okay. They’ll apologise to the creature and back quietly down the hill, and if the president isn’t happy, tough. He’s not about to get eaten for the sake of a publicity stunt.

‘There you go,’ Tyler says soothingly as the creature drops the chocolate, gold wrapper and all, into the dark void of its mouth. ‘Tasty, isn’t it?’

Tyler is still babbling when another tentacle fastens itself around his waist and lifts him into the air.

‘No!’ Buck screams as Tyler too vanishes.

He looks around desperately for a weapon and seizes the MMGA flag. The president’s face glowers back at him disapprovingly.

‘Next time, sir,’ he says as he thrusts the flagpole into one of the many creature’s eyes before turning to run. ‘You can do your dirty work yourself.’

If this made you laugh, a like or a share would be much appreciated. You can subscribe for free to read more of my stories or check out my home page.

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Tales at Twilight

Twisty stories with a dark edge. Some previously published, some new, often speculative. Think Tales of the Unexpected meets The Sixth Sense with a hint of Donnie Darko.

By FranB

‘So, is he taking you somewhere nice?’

Lily could hear the excitement in her mother’s voice. After five years of dates with men who wore V-necked jumpers and lived with their parents, Lily had finally found The One, as her mother insisted on calling Matt. Normally, she would have strangled this notion at birth, but on their last trip to London, she allowed her mother to visit the hat department in Selfridges, although she drew the line at baby clothes. She had yet to discuss children with Matt, and she didn’t want to jinx the conversation by getting ahead of herself.

‘We’re having a romantic night in.’ There was silence at her mother’s end, and Lily continued before she could pour cold water on the idea. Her mother was a firm believer in restaurants for special occasions, the fancier the better. ‘I’m making a vegetarian lasagne followed by passion fruit pavlova.’

‘So, you’re cooking?’

‘Yes. Matt works late; I’ve told you.’

Her mother lived in Scotland and had yet to meet Matt. She regularly dropped hints about coming to stay, but so far Lily had successfully deflected them.

‘Anyway, I’d better go. Dinner won’t make itself.’

It was the phrase her mother used when she was in what her father called ‘burning martyr mode,’ but Lily wasn’t being a martyr. She enjoyed cooking and had taken the day off to prepare.

Now she jogged upstairs to get changed. Her dress was on the bed, a slinky red number with a slit that came to her thigh. Matt liked clothes that showed off her figure and although he said she looked lovely without make-up, she applied mascara and lipstick. After a tussle with the hair straighteners and a spritz of perfume behind each ear – Miss Dior was his favourite – she was happy, and dim lighting would do the rest.

A text arrived from her friend Maddy, wishing her luck. Maddy, who was single, hadn’t met Matt either and admitted to being jealous that Lily had found someone so amazing. Good-looking, considerate, funny, with a high-powered job. Matt thought Lily was the bee’s knees and the cat’s pyjamas rolled into one. She replied with a thumbs-up and considered adding a heart before deciding against it. Maddy was spending the evening with Bridget Jones and a bottle of Chardonnay, and she didn’t want to rub it in.

By seven thirty, the candles were lit, and the lasagne was browning in the oven. Lily scattered dried rose petals over the tablecloth. She’d purchased them on Amazon and they were supposed to be edible, but when she tried one, it tasted like kitchen towel. A last glance in the mirror confirmed her makeup was intact, and she felt a frisson of excitement. Perhaps he would propose. Although they’d only been together for a month, her mother, who was wrong about so many things, was right about Matt. Replika had delivered where all the dating apps had failed.

Heart pounding, she placed her laptop on the table, logged into the programme, and waited for his smiling face to appear.

If you enjoyed this, you can make my day by liking, sharing or, best of all, subscribing! Fran xx

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As regular readers know, I love a ghost story and there are few places spookier than a deserted railway station at night. I’m not usually one for trigger warnings, but this story includes references to suicide, so please proceed with caution.

In other news, my lovely actress friend Kate O’Sullivan performed a reading of ‘A Haunting’ a ghost story I posted last year. It sounds fabulous and I’ll add a link at the bottom of this newsletter if you fancy a listen.

Fran xx

‘Is this really necessary?’

He addressed the constable’s back. She was watching another officer lift fingerprints from the kitchen cabinet and he only recognised her when she turned to face him.

‘Mr Brown, we meet again. As my colleague explained, we need your wife’s fingerprints to confirm the victim’s identity.’

Her dark eyes glinted. He didn’t like this woman. She emanated suspicion.

‘You make it sound as if she were the subject of a crime. My wife committed suicide You saw how disturbed she was.’

He pitched his voice somewhere between sadness and confusion.

The constable frowned. ‘Disturbed is an interesting choice of word. The last time I was here, I saw a very frightened woman who called 999 because she thought her husband was going to kill her.’

‘I never laid a finger on her.’

‘So you said.’

The second officer had moved to the food processor, which was pointless because Grace hadn’t cooked for years.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Where were you last night, Mr Brown?’

‘I was at my club. I hope you’re not suggesting I had anything to do with this.’

He balled his hands into fists. Thank God he had an alibi, or next she would accuse him of pushing Grace under the train.

‘I’m just doing my job Mr Brown. What is the name of your club?’

‘Marchant’s in The Strand.’

He fished in his wallet and handed her a card. The thought of this woman poking around asking questions, sent a wave of anger pulsing through his body.

‘So, what do I do now?’

‘I don’t know Mr Brown. Mourn?’

The following day he caught the six thirty-five as usual. He was afraid there would be delays, but the track was clear and everything was running on time. He pitied the people who’d cleared up the mess, not to mention the poor bloody train driver; it was such an inconsiderate way to go. What was wrong with putting your head in a gas oven? Or taking an overdose? Grace certainly had enough pills, anti-depressants, sleeping tablets, and God knows what else.

Her doctor blamed the menopause, but in truth she’d always been mad. He should have divorced her, but then she would have taken half the house and anything else she could lay her hands on. This was messy but preferable.

The train arrived, and he crowded onto it with the rest of the herd. He travelled first class, but even that was busy and he had to ask a woman to move her bag so he could sit down. For five minutes the train dawdled at the platform, and it wasn’t until it was finally pulling away that he saw her. She was wearing a blue coat with a velvet collar, and she was waving. He gripped the armrest as the trolley rattled past, blocking his view. When he looked again, she was gone.

He told himself he was mistaken. The woman bore a fleeting resemblance to Grace, but, as the police later confirmed, his wife, or what remained of her, was in a morgue in the town centre.

The next morning, he saw the figure again, and again the morning after. He tried changing his routine, catching an earlier or a later train to fool her, but she was always there in her blue coat waving. Once he asked another passenger if he could see her, and the man shook his head.

‘There’s no woman there, mate. Perhaps you got confused with the guard. He’s wearing blue.’

As if people wearing blue were interchangeable.

After that, he kept his eyes fixed on his laptop until the train picked up speed and the station was behind them. This tactic worked for a week, then, as he alighted on his way home, he saw her standing at the far end of the platform. He strode towards her.

‘What the hell are you playing at?’ Why are you pretending to be my wife?’ As he got closer, she waved. ‘Grace?’ Her mouth twisted into a sinister smile and, before he could reach her, she was gone.

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She haunted his dreams, always wearing that bloody blue coat, always waving. He drank more, and his work suffered. When the inquest rolled around a year later, his job was hanging by a thread. Once the most successful fund manager at Barker Capital, he was being squeezed out by an algorithm.

The verdict was suicide. Grace’s GP confirmed she was depressed and, to his relief, the dark eyed police constable wasn’t present and there was no mention of the 999 call. Grace hadn’t pressed charges, and he warned her if she tried anything like that again, he really would kill her. The evidence was incontrovertible; CCTV footage clearly showed his wife throwing herself under a speeding train, while a dozen people confirmed he was sipping whisky in his London club.

When he emerged from the court, he was in a celebratory mood, and he stopped at the pub by the station where he ordered a large glass of red. It wasn’t the sort of place he normally frequented; soggy beer mats littered the tables and piped music crackled from ancient speakers, but the barman was garrulous and kept refilling his glass until he placed his hand over it and slid unsteadily from his stool.

By now it was dark and, apart from a threadbare pigeon pecking at a discarded chip, he was the only person on the station platform. Fog blurred the outline of the benches, and he tripped and almost fell.

He felt her before he saw her. Icy fingers caressed his face and he swatted them away. Wasn’t it enough that she had made his life a misery when she was alive with her constant whining?

‘What do you want bitch?’

In the distance a signal changed from red to green and suddenly she was in front of him with her arm raised, waving. It was the same game she’d always played: provoking him then blaming him for the consequences. She backed away into the fog and he lunged after her oblivious to the rumble of the approaching express train. If only he could grab her, he would stop this nonsense once and for all.

If you enjoyed this story a like and/or a share would be much appreciated and please subscribe to receive more twisty tales directly to your inbox. I aim to post two or sometimes three stories a month and they are all completely free.

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Picture by Mateo

Happy New Year dear readers! May your 2026 be healthy and joyful.

Have you made any New Year’s resolutions? My track record isn’t great as far as resolutions are concerned, but this year I plan to step out of my comfort zone and try my hand at writing historical fiction - something I’ve previously avoided because of the daunting amount of research involved. With this in mind, I’ve signed up for the Curtis Brown writing historical fiction course in February and I’ve just finished reading the gloriously titled ‘Medieval Underpants and Other Blunders’ by Susanne Alleyn. I recommend it to anyone thinking of venturing down this path and she has already saved me from feeding my sixteenth-century Italian protagonist pasta pomodoro. Also in the spirit of adventure, I have finally joined a book club (yes that’s how wild my life is) and I look forward to being nudged out of my comfort zone there too!

Progress updates on both to follow, but meanwhile, we’re back in modern times for today’s story, which takes place on New Year’s Day when millennial, Lexie, wakes to a disturbing new reality…

I hope you enjoy it.

Fran x

Lexie stumbled into the lounge with her dressing gown belt trailing and a woodpecker hammering inside her skull. The room looked as if it had been ransacked; the coffee table was upside down and the sofa, which was half in and half out of the open-plan kitchen, was missing its cushions.

‘Shit.’

She stared despondently at the red wine stain on the parquet floor. It resembled a birthmark and would probably never come out.

Her memory of the evening was patchy. She remembered handing around canapes – mini mushroom vol au vents and devils on horseback because they were all M&S had left - and, judging by the empty bottles of fizz and party poppers lying around, her guests had successfully toasted in the New Year.

She righted the coffee table. As well as the greasy paper plates and dirty glasses, personal possessions were scattered around: a jacket draped over two sofa cushions, which were pushed together to form a makeshift bed, a wallet on the floor next to the throw she used to protect the sofa, a stupidly small handbag, a folded jumper which still bore the indentation of a head. Clearly, several guests had crashed there for the night, but where were they now and why had they left their stuff behind?

Lexie checked the bathroom, but there was no one there either, and she averted her eyes as she closed the lid of the toilet. Cleaning would have to wait until she’d evicted the woodpecker, which was drilling a hole above her left eye.

In the kitchen, she downed two paracetamol and brewed a cup of black coffee, which she drank as she checked her messages. The most recent was from her friend Jodie, a selfie of them pulling faces as the party raged behind them. Jodie had sent it at 2:00 a.m. and since then, nothing, not even her mum wishing her a happy New Year. She typed a message to Jodie and added a green-faced emoji.

‘Head banging. You?’

Jodie hadn’t replied an hour later. Nor had anyone messaged to thank her for a lovely evening or to ask if they had left their jacket/handbag/wallet/jumper there. The jumper she understood, because it was manky and smelt of cheap aftershave, but the handbag and wallet? Surely someone had noticed they were missing?

Her mother usually answered on the first ring, but the call went straight to voicemail, and the same thing happened when she rang the respective owners of the handbag and the wallet. The bag belonged to a cousin; identified by her Tesco Clubcard, and the wallet to a friend of her brother’s who looked like a serial killer in the photograph on his gym pass. There was nothing to identify the owner of the jacket, and she couldn’t bring herself to pick up the jumper, instead nudging it into a black bag with her toe.

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By lunchtime, there were still no messages, and she was getting paranoid. Had she done something so appalling, her friends and family were ghosting her? And why was the street outside so quiet? She hadn’t heard a car going past all morning. She scrolled through the contacts in her phone dialling at random. They all went to voicemail. Even her nan told her to leave a message after the tone. Instagram was similarly MIA. No one had posted anything since 2:00 am. Perhaps there was a problem with the internet or the mobile signal. Perhaps both. The thought was reassuring, and if she was having a problem, her neighbours probably were too.

She tried old Mrs Richards first, and when she didn’t answer, Steve in flat four. Steve was single, in his forties and a bit of a geek, so if anyone was going to be home, it was him. After ringing the bell twice, she tried the door and, to her surprise, it was open.

‘Steve?’ She stuck her head inside. ‘Steve, are you there?’

In the background, she could hear explosions and tinny music. He was probably gaming with his headphones on. The living room was scruffy and dominated by two enormous screens and a leather chair that looked like something a Bond villain would use. The noise was coming from the screens, but there was no sign of Steve. A half-empty mug of coffee sat next to a games console. Like her overnighting guests, he seemed to have left in a hurry. A knot tightened in Lexie’s chest. Where the hell was everybody?

***

Steve’s doppelgänger, who was also called Steve, stared at his screen where a tiny Lexie was shutting his front door. She bore a strong resemblance to his ex-girlfriend, who had dumped him on New Year’s Eve, and behind her, in the shadows, lurked something terrifying. Steve chewed his thumb – a habit his ex particularly hated – and weighed up the options. Alien or Zombie? It was a tough one. He imagined something slithery and snake-like that would leave a trail of slime in its wake, or an oversized spider with mandibles that could slice a man, or a woman, in half.

Nope, not aliens. The punters who played his games preferred zombies. He tapped in the relevant instructions and watched with satisfaction as tiny Lexie came face to face with tiny Steve in all his decaying glory. Steve turned up the volume. Lexie’s scream was so loud, his ex, who lived in the flat above, banged on the ceiling. Serves you right, he thought as zombie Steve moved in for the kill.

If you enjoyed Zombies Vs Aliens a like or a share would be much appreciated and please subscribe to have more twisty short stories delivered directly to your inbox.

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Perhaps it’s something to do with the short winter days, but Christmas always puts me in the mood for a ghost story and what better setting could there be than a decaying Tudor mansion in the English countryside?

As with all ghost stories, I recommend reading Heatherwick Hall with the lights turned down - or even better by candlelight - with the fire lit and a glass of port in your hand.

Finally, thank you to all my lovely readers and subscribers for sticking with me in 2025. Writing is a tough gig and your support and encouragement gives me the motivation to keep going.

Merry Christmas and a very happy New Year to you and yours.

Fran x

All houses have secrets, but Heatherwick Hall has more than most. Home to five generations of Heatherwicks, it has witnessed six suspicious deaths, three suicides and two murders in its five-hundred -year history. Today, it is home to Celia Heatherwick and, like Celia – who celebrated her eighty-sixth birthday in September – the hall is slowly decaying. The sun has shredded the silk curtains in the morning room, and when it rains, Mrs Pierce, the housekeeper, places buckets under the holes that perforate the roof. Tiny mushrooms sprout from the hand-painted wallpaper in the yellow bedroom, and mouse droppings litter the servant’s quarters.

Celia has always known she shares her home with ghosts. When she was two, she woke to find a gentleman in a powdered wig peering into her cot, and she often overhears their whispered conversations or sees them standing by her bed or reclining on the chaise longue. The ghosts are her family, and except for Mrs Pierce, who comes six times a week to dust and prepare a hot meal, they are often the only people she sees. Today Mrs Pierce is catching the three o’clock train to spend Christmas Day with her daughter, and Celia and Clarence, Celia’s marmalade cat, will be alone with the ghosts and the mice and the long-legged spiders that lurk in the corners Mrs Pierce’s broom doesn’t reach.

‘Are you sure you’ll be OK?’

Mrs Pierce has done her best. There’s cold turkey and potato salad in the fridge, and she’s made a trifle with the sherry Celia keeps for special occasions.

‘We’ll be fine. Don’t worry about us.’

Celia strokes Clarence, who is nesting in her lap, and waits until Mrs Pierce’s Mini has cleared the drive before disposing of the tinsel the housekeeper has draped over the fireplace. She means well, but tinsel is so tacky. When Celia was young, the house was festooned with greenery, and she held the ladder as her brother, George, shimmied up the old oak to grab the globes of mistletoe clinging to the branches.

They decorated the Christmas tree en famille: Mummy, Daddy, George, and, briefly, her little sister Patricia, who died of pneumonia aged six. Celia remembers carols playing on the radio and the adults sipping mulled wine while she and George drank hot Ribena. There were so many presents under the tree, Daddy joked Father Christmas made a trip especially for them. That tree was nothing like the sad little thing Mrs Pierce insisted on bringing. Celia flicks a branch with her finger. Fake like the tinsel. She can’t throw it away without hurting the housekeeper’s feelings, so she hides it behind an armchair.

‘What do you think?’ She asks the ghosts, who murmur in approval. The dead have better taste than the living.

This morning, as she was getting dressed, she saw Patricia, standing mouselike, in her broderie anglaise nightgown. She was always a timid little thing. Not like Celia, who once urged her mother’s hunter, Lady, over a five-bar gate. She recognises several ghosts from the portraits lining the stairs. There’s Lady Alice Heatherwick, wife of Sir Charles Heatherwick, who broke her neck in a riding accident, and Robert Heatherwick, second son of the Right Honourable Henry Heatherwick, who shot himself over gambling debts. Sometimes she glimpses Mummy or catches the leathery whiff of Daddy’s cigar, and her heart clenches.

These days, Christmas is an ordeal to be endured, and she reads until the sun has disappeared behind the stables in a blaze of crimson, before climbing the stairs with Clarence. A maid in Victorian garb hovers on the landing, and Clarence brushes past with his tail held high. He is comfortable with ghosts, coming as he does from a long line of Heatherwick cats. They fall asleep quickly under the bed’s faded canopy, where Celia dreams of plum pudding and kissing Percy Cavendish under the mistletoe, while Clarence chases mice through the long summer grass.

Downstairs, as the grandfather clock ticks towards midnight, the ghosts stir. Robert Heatherwick presses his lips to Lady Alice’s rouged cheek, and Patricia watches hungrily as Cook places a goose in the oven. Mince pies cool on a wire rack, and the maid, Sarah - murdered by a junior footman in a lover’s tiff - wipes sweat from her forehead as she scrubs the vegetables.

Perhaps it’s the clatter of the baking tray, or the aroma of cinnamon and cloves drifting up the stairs, but Celia prises herself reluctantly from Percy Cavendish’s embrace and sits up.

‘Hello?’ she says, and Clarence flings himself off the bed and lands with a thump on the Turkish rug. ‘You’re right,’ Celia nudges the covers aside. ‘We’d better find out what they’re up to.’

As she descends the wide staircase, she is young again. The tree reaches almost to the first-floor landing, and the babble of voices rises to meet her. All the ghosts are there: Robert and Lady Alice, and Robert’s father, Henry, the two comely Tudor ladies Celia sometimes sees in the walled garden, and the bewigged man who came to an untimely end when a short-sighted gamekeeper mistook him for a deer. There are many others, but her eyes are drawn to the elegant figure in a fitted suit coming towards her.

‘Darling. Your father and I were just wondering where you were.’

Celia inhales the familiar scent of her mother’s perfume, Shalimar. A heady blend of citrus and rose favoured by Hollywood film stars.

‘Is Daddy here?’

‘Of course.’

Her mother points, and Celia sees him. He’s half-hidden by the Christmas tree, but she recognises his velvet smoking jacket. George is with him, and Percy Cavendish. Handsome, witty Percy, who broke her heart when he married a baronet’s daughter. He blows her a kiss, but before she can go to them, Patricia tugs urgently at the hem of her skirt.

‘Come and see the goose. It’s so big Cook could barely fit it in the oven.’

Cook is bent over the range, and when she turns to greet them, her face is the colour of a robin’s breast. On a hot plate, the pudding clatters in its copper pan, and beads of water fly like spittle before landing with a hiss. They admire the goose, which is as plump and bronzed as a Buddha, and lick the spoon Sarah is using to mix the brandy butter. Sarah watches them with her hands on her hips. When the guests have eaten, she, Cook and Eric, the junior gardener, will partake of a feast of their own before repairing to Cook’s parlour to reminisce and debate the merits or otherwise of Brussels sprouts. Eric is in the otherwise camp, while Cook believes in the redeeming power of butter, and Sarah has never encountered a sprout she didn’t like.

For the Heatherwicks, lunch is served in the long dining room, where sparkling silverware and glasses etched with the family crest – two lions rampant and a badger for tenacity – have replaced the dust sheets. Daddy takes his seat at the head of the table, and there’s an audible gasp when Cook appears bearing the goose. Celia passes him the plates as he carves, and George, who is happily sandwiched between the Tudor ladies, raises his glass.

‘To Heatherwick’s past and present.’

Long-dormant emotions swell in Celia’s chest, joy, love, but most of all a profound sense of belonging.

‘To family.’

When the last spoonful of pudding has been consumed and the men have loosened their belts, they play charades in the lounge. George holds up two fingers. He’s wearing a flimsy paper crown and the Arran jumper Mummy knitted before he went away.

‘Two words,’ Patricia says, hopping excitedly from foot to foot.

First word. George sweeps across the room with his arms held wide.

‘Airplane?’ Celia says. Her first thought was bird, but it only has one syllable. Lady Alice frowns, and Robert Heatherwick, who has his hand on her thigh, shakes his head in confusion. George swoops again.

‘Falcon?’ the eldest Tudor lady offers.

‘Give us the second word, Son,’ Daddy waves the bottle of vintage port that has languished untouched in the sideboard since his passing.

George points at the picture hanging above the mantelpiece. Reputedly by a follower of Gainsborough, it depicts a Heatherwick ancestor proudly displaying a brace of pheasants. At his feet lies a bored-looking spaniel, and behind him, artfully framed by trees, is Heatherwick Hall.

‘Dog?’ Robert volunteers.

‘No.’ George makes an inverted V with his hands

‘House,’ the Tudor lady shouts, and George nods, grinning.

‘Haunted house,’ Celia yells.

Laughter ripples around the room, and Daddy tops up everyone’s glass. Celia is next to play, and then Mummy, who mimes Richard the Third to more howls of laughter. When she’s finished, she puts her arm around Celia’s shoulder. She’s smoking a Sobranie in a long holder, and languid curls of smoke encircle them.

‘Isn’t this wonderful, darling? Such fun.’

On Boxing Day, Mrs Pierce will wrinkle her nose and ask Celia if she has taken up smoking, but now, as the grandfather clock once again chimes midnight and the ghosts of Heatherwick Hall slip silently away, Celia smiles to herself under the covers.

‘Christmas was wonderful,’ she will tell Mrs Pierce as the housekeeper stares in confusion at the mistletoe hanging from the chandelier, ‘such fun.’

Tales at Twilight is a reader-supported publication, so if you enjoyed reading this, a like and share would be appreciated and, if you haven’t already, please consider subscribing. All my stories are free and you will make this struggling writer very happy!

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Photograph by Laurent Peignault

Christmas is almost upon us, and while I wrestle with a seasonal ghost story, I thought it would be fun to post something lighter. A friend complained that someone always dies at the end of my stories, so here is a piece that is entirely devoid of death, ghosts, rabid sheep, or aliens who want to steal your skin.

You’re welcome!

Fran x

B. You’ve reached Santa’s workshop, Bernard speaking. How can I be of assistance?

S. Hi Bernard. I’d like to change my order, please.

B. Order?

S. You know the list you have to write every year and send to the North Pole?

B. Oh, you mean the wish list. Could I have your name, please, and your age, and I’ll see if I can find it on the system. Do you know if you’re naughty or nice?

S. Susan Pemberton, fifty-three, and I’m definitely on the nice. Check my OnlyFans page if you don’t believe me.

B. Thank you, Susan. I’m just going to put you on hold for a moment while I have a look.

A tinny rendition of Last Christmas plays.

B. Did you request a Ferrari? Red with a white leather interior? Not fussy about the model as long as it’s faster than the neighbour’s new Audi.

S. Yes, but I’d like to change it to a villa. My husband did a speeding awareness course, and he doesn’t want to get caught again. He said they were the longest three hours of his life and he’d rather have hot needles inserted into his eyes. We were thinking of somewhere hot, Bali or maybe Antigua. The cold weather plays havoc with his sciatica. Three or four bedrooms with a pool would be perfect, and a sea view.

B. I’m sorry, we don’t gift villas or Ferraris. It’s an artisanal operation; everything is lovingly crafted by real elves in our workshop. I could offer you a spinning-top or perhaps a wooden locomotive? Both are hand-finished and come with a two-year warranty that can be renewed for a small fee.

S. Do I sound like someone who wants a wooden locomotive, Bernard? Honestly, this is very disappointing. Are you sure there is nothing you can do? Perhaps one of those flat-pack houses the Germans are so keen on?

B. Unfortunately not. However, we have some jigsaws left. There’s one of a beach and a palm tree that’s very popular with our more mature clients. It’s based on a picture Prancer took in the Seychelles.

S. You deliver to the Seychelles?

B. We deliver everywhere, although we’ll be giving America a miss this year. We don’t want the sleigh being randomly blown up or Santa deported to some gulag in the jungle, not to mention the sixty percent tariff they’ve slapped on goods from the North Pole.

S. And a jigsaw is the best you can do?

B. I’m afraid so. It’s a very nice jigsaw. My wife has one, and she loves it. I could throw in a yoyo as a goodwill gesture? Nothing livens up Christmas like a yoyo.

S. How about a sauna? They’re made of wood and, according to the Daily Mail, saunas are the new hot tubs.

B. Sorry, no saunas. Our mission at Santa’s workshop is to create memories you will treasure forever.

S. You can create memories in a sauna, Bernard, trust me. Did I mention my OnlyFans page?

B. Jigsaw or no jigsaw?

S. Fine. Just tell the reindeer to watch out for the twenty mile an hour speed limit.

B. I’ll pass the message on. Merry Christmas, Susan.

A tinny rendition of Fairytale of New York plays.

If you enjoyed Santa’s Helpline, please give it a like and a share. It only takes a second, but it means a lot!

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Also check out this piece I wrote in a similar vein last year.

https://francesbrindle.substack.com/p/christmas-is-cancelled

Or if you’re itching for a ghost story…

https://francesbrindle.substack.com/p/a-haunting

A story inspired by my own miniature snow leopard, Scarlett.

Fran x

Previously, Jill would have been queuing at the base of the mountain with Steve, waiting for the gondola to open. Now Steve was dead, it was nearly ten, and she was eating pain au chocolat alone in the hotel breakfast room.

In the end, it was Steve’s sister who persuaded her not to cancel the holiday.

‘Steve would want you to go,’ she insisted as Jill dithered.

Would he, though? Steve suffered from FOMO before FOMO was invented, and the hotel was full of families, which only increased her sense of isolation. Last night in the lounge that doubled as a bar, she was so desperate for company she’d engaged a random family in conversation.

She spotted them again on a return trip to the buffet and stopped to say hello. The youngest child, a boy of about seven, was drawing on the paper tablecloth with crayons supplied by the staff. He was a cute kid with freckles and a button nose, and Jill felt a familiar pang for what might have been. She was childless – a word that intimated failure no matter how you framed it - and Steve, who was twice divorced, didn’t want more. His daughter, Sharon, was in her final year at university, and Jill hadn’t spoken to her since the funeral, although she’d left several messages. Sharon called her the trollop behind her back, which was unfair because Steve had done all the running.

‘Is that a lion?’

She peered at the drawing. It was clearly an animal of some sort, and the oversized whiskers suggested a cat.

‘It’s the beast,’ the boy said. ‘He lives at the top of the mountain.’

His mother, whose name Jill had already forgotten, rolled her eyes.

‘It’s a local myth, a kind of Swiss Yetti. The guys who drive the piste bashers claim to have seen it, and supposedly a ski instructor was stalked by a cat-like animal when he was checking the slopes for stragglers.’

‘Gosh.’ Jill looked at the picture again. The boy (Ben?) had given the creature a tail that was longer than its body and almost as wide. ‘Well, I hope I don’t run into it.’

She mentioned the beast to the receptionist as she was collecting a slope map, but the girl, who’d only been working there for a month, had never heard of it.

‘Perhaps it was a dog they saw?’ She volunteered as Jill helped herself to a map from the plastic dispenser.

A dog wandering alone at the top of the mountain? More likely, a story invented to dissuade skiers from leaving the marked runs.

By the time Jill had forced her reluctant feet into ski boots and lugged her gear to the gondola, she was red-faced and sweating. She planned to ski until lunchtime, when the weather was due to change. She attempted a green run first and then, as her confidence returned, a blue and some of the easier reds, before stopping at a mountain hut where she ordered hot chocolate in fractured German.

To her surprise, she was enjoying herself. Steve skied so fast it was hard to keep up, whereas without him she could practice her turns and pause at the crest of each run to appreciate the mountains that rose around her like jagged teeth. She missed him, of course. He would have encouraged her to say yes when the boy serving asked if she wanted whipped cream. Would have helped when she struggled with the combination lock that secured the rented skis to a post.

She took a seat by the window. The sky, which had been clear when she finished her run, was marbled with cloud, and a few flakes of snow clung to the glass. Tempting as it was to keep going, common sense advised her to quit while she was ahead. People were crowding into the hut, and a couple stood pointedly by her table as she consulted the map. Although it was barely twelve, lunch was underway, and a vegetal smell mingled with the fug of warm bodies. She took her time fastening her boots and pulling on her jacket, ignoring the impatient sigh from the young man.

The cat track that led to the village was at the base of a steep red, and she skied it gingerly, avoiding the ice that had formed in the shadows. When she reached the bottom, she stopped to catch her breath. The cat track was narrow with a steep drop on one side, and she eyed it warily through the snow, which was falling more heavily.

‘Take it easy and you’ll be fine.’

She conjured Steve’s voice as she propelled herself forward. The snow blurred the boundary between sky and slope, but her biggest problem was psychological. It was as if the edge was luring her towards it, and the more she tried to veer away, the greater the pull it exerted. As the gradient increased, she became stiffer and more awkward, until every turn was a battle of will.

‘Turn, turn, TURN!’ A snowboarder whizzed past so close she could hear the music leaching from his headphones. ‘TURN!’

She was less than an arm’s length from the drop when her ski caught and she made the fatal mistake of leaning back. It was, as Steve was prone to remind her, the worst thing she could do.

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When she finally came to rest, she was lying in a pocket of snow at the base of a pine tree. One ski was still attached, but the other was nowhere to be seen, and when she moved her free leg, pain radiated from her ankle to her thigh. In the murk, it was impossible to tell how far she had fallen.

‘Help. Help. Please, someone help me.’

A heavy silence descended, broken only by a soft thud as a pillow of snow slipped from a branch. Jill forced herself upright, triggering a tiny avalanche. The pain in her ankle was excruciating, and she realised that if she tried to dig herself out; she risked being buried completely.

After an hour, her voice was hoarse from yelling, and she could barely feel her hands. She banged her gloves against her thighs. Soon, the lifts would close, and no one would use the track until morning. She almost envied Steve his heart attack, which at least had the merit of being quick. One minute he was loading the dishwasher, and the next he was dead on the kitchen floor. What would he do? Well, for a start, he wouldn’t have left his phone on the bedside table.

Perhaps someone at the hotel would notice she was missing. Except, for all they knew, she was guzzling fondue in a village restaurant or had hooked up with friends. A small creature scurried up the tree, dislodging more snow. What else was out here? Chamois? Mountain hares? Squirrels? Nothing that would harm her unless you counted the beast, which she didn’t.

Gradually, the sky turned from purple to indigo, and the sugared walls of her prison glistened in the moonlight. She traced the plough with her finger. Steve had a telescope in his study, and on clear nights, they took turns to observe the stars. It would be nice to see him again, although she hadn’t expected it to happen so soon.

*

She woke to the sound of snoring.

‘Steve?’

She reached out her hand without opening her eyes. If she was dreaming, she didn’t want to break the spell. Her body was, if not warm, considerably warmer than it had been, and it was almost possible to imagine she was snuggled under the duvet at home with Steve beside her. Perhaps she was already dead. Her hand touched something firm, and the sound stopped. Seconds later, it started again. A low rumble like the purr of a domestic cat, only louder and deeper. Definitely not Steve. The creature, whatever it was, was pressed hard against her, radiating heat. Jill kept her eyes closed. Sometimes it was better not to know.

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Scarlett.

Photograph by Andrea Lightfoot.

Halloween is almost upon us, so I thought some light horror was in order. Although my stories are never graphic, this might be one to avoid if you are of a particularly sensitive disposition or have a phobia of sheep!

Fran x

‘The house is five-minutes up the track,’ David said, heaving a suitcase out of the car.

Amber groaned. Despite entreaties from Emily to dress appropriately, she was wearing a skirt that barely skimmed her bottom, black leggings and a short-sleeved T-shirt emblazoned with the words Destroy the Patriarchy. Now she was standing with her arms crossed, shivering.

‘I mean, what the fuck Dad?’

‘I told you this place was remote. That’s the point. No Wi-Fi, no phone. It’s an opportunity for us to talk to each other rather than staring at our screens all the time.’

‘If I wanted to talk to you, I could have done it at home.’ Amber kicked a stone off the path, and it landed with a dull thump in the undergrowth.

David ignored this and continued loading their luggage into the wheelbarrow the owners had thoughtfully provided. The location was stunning, even better than the pictures. Hills the colour of ripe bruises rose on either side and a stream - or was it a brook? - Cascaded over lichen-encrusted rocks inches from where they were standing. Emily took the bags that wouldn’t fit in the wheelbarrow. They’d brought food for several days because the village was eight miles away and only reachable via a single-track road.

The track was steep, and he was out of breath when they reached the farmhouse, a sturdy stone building with a slate roof and a small windswept garden. It had featured in a Guardian article about holidaying off-grid, and when he showed it to Emily, she was dubious.

‘What if one of us gets sick and needs to go to the hospital? Or what if there’s a problem at work?’

David reassured her there was a landline for emergencies, and problems at work were exactly what they needed to escape. Amber would benefit the most. When she wasn’t in her room doing who knows what on her laptop – not schoolwork judging by her grades - she was watching TikTok on her phone or messaging her friends. The holiday would be a reset. A chance to re-connect and wean themselves off their devices.

He let the wheelbarrow drop.

‘Look at that view. You can see all the way to the coast.’

A ribbon of grey water was just visible in the distance, and any thoughts he’d harboured about a day trip to the beach faded. It was too far, and the roads were terrible. Better to stay where they were and enjoy the countryside.

‘Can we go in now? I’m freezing.’

Amber was staring at her phone as if willing it into life, and David felt a twinge of satisfaction. There would be books in the house left by previous visitors, and he hoped they would entice her to read. Boredom was a powerful motivator.

The following morning, the sky was overcast, but it wasn’t raining, and David suggested a walk. Amber, who was pouring granola into an earthenware bowl, grimaced.

‘Do I have to?’

‘No, but wouldn’t it be nice to explore? Apparently, there’s an Iron Age fort nearby.’

He’d come across it the previous evening when he was flicking through a pile of brochures. There was a picture of the monument taken from the air showing the defensive ramparts and ditches and an indentation where a roundhouse had once stood. Amber reached for the milk.

‘Seriously? Why do I care about some old ruin?’

It was pointless to argue, but after some chivvying from her mother, she agreed to join them because the only alternatives were reading – there was a shelf of dog-eared paperbacks in the lounge as David had predicted — or staring despondently out of the window at a field of sheep.

These same sheep watched warily as David clambered over the stile that marked the footpath to the fort and held out his hand, first for Emily and then Amber.

‘Is it safe?’ Amber said disregarding his hand. ‘What if they follow us?’

‘That’s cows, darling,’ Emily said. ‘Sheep run away.’

These sheep didn’t run away. They stood their ground, and David had to leave the path to skirt around them with Amber and Emily following close behind. They were halfway across the field when Amber stopped.

‘What’s wrong with that sheep?’

She pointed at a grey mound lying under a hawthorn tree a few metres away, and David’s heart sank.

‘It’s probably sleeping.’ He glanced hopefully at his watch. ‘We ought to keep moving if we want to reach the fort before the rain.’

‘Perhaps it’s injured?’ Amber continued. ‘I’m going to check it’s OK.’

She strode across the wet grass, and David and Emily exchanged a glance. Amber was soft-hearted about animals, once bringing home a half-dead pigeon, which David reluctantly put out of its misery.

‘I’d better go with her.’

He’d almost reached her when Amber screamed. She was staring at the prone sheep with her hand over her mouth. David jogged to her side. A glistening tangle of entrails protruded from a wide gash in the animal’s belly.

‘The poor thing.’ Amber buried her head in David’s jumper. ‘Who would do something like that?’

David smoothed her hair. ‘It was probably dead already, and a fox got it. Or perhaps a bird of prey.’

He was thinking of an eagle, although he wasn’t sure there were any in Wales. Emily was approaching, and he held up his hand to stop her from getting closer. It was no wonder Amber was upset. The sheep was a gruesome sight; its fleece matted with blood and its eyes open and staring.

‘David, look.’ Emily pointed at a group of sheep standing a short distance from the tree. ‘Look at their faces.’

There was alarm in her voice. Not helpful when Amber was having a meltdown, but then he saw what she meant. The sheep’s muzzles were smeared with blood as if they’d been feasting on their companion. His stomach lurched. Fortunately, Amber hadn’t spotted them, but carrying on was out of the question.

She was still clinging to him as he steered her gently away from the dead sheep and towards her mother. Maybe it was as well. The sky was growing darker, and a fat drop of rain splashed against his hand.

‘Let’s go back to the house and have a cup of tea. You’ve had a nasty shock, and it looks as if it’s going to piss down anyway.’

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The girls went ahead, and David resisted the temptation to look back until they were safely over the stile. He’d concluded the sheep were suffering from a nutrient deficiency, a theory he later shared with Emily, who said whatever it was, she wasn’t going near them again. This was fine by him. The fort had lost its appeal, and the memory of those blank, bloodied faces lingered uncomfortably at the back of his mind.

It rained for the rest of the afternoon. David lit the wood-burning stove, and Emily found cards and board games in a cupboard. Amber wouldn’t normally have deigned to play, but once she’d recovered from her grizzly discovery, she enjoyed thrashing them at Monopoly, buying up Knightsbridge and Mayfair, and accumulating a hoard of money that made him wonder if she might have a career as an entrepreneur. Emily made a curry, and after several games of snap – which Amber also won - they retired early, worn out by the novelty of speaking to each other.

David fell asleep only to wake at two-fifteen with a dry mouth and a full bladder. Beside him, Emily was snoring softly, and moonlight filtered through the gap in the curtains, indicating the rain had finally stopped. He resisted moving for as long as he could, but the pressure on his bladder made sleep impossible, and eventually he slid out of bed and crossed the landing to the bathroom.

The blind was open, and he was about to close it – more out of habit than necessity – when he noticed the sheep clustered around the gate that led to the track. Normally he wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but rather than standing peaceably, the animals were hurling themselves at the gate as if they were trying to escape. Something must have spooked them, and he wondered whether to contact the housekeeper before dismissing the idea. The sheep weren’t his problem, and she wouldn’t thank him for waking her in the early hours to say they were behaving oddly.

Sleep eluded him for the rest of the night, and at six he went downstairs to make a cup of coffee. To his surprise, Amber was also up.

‘The sheep escaped.’ She pointed at the French doors. ‘They’re all over the garden.’

Although he’d anticipated many things that could go wrong with the holiday — a flat tyre, terrible weather, teenage tantrums — the sheep were an unwelcome addition to his list.

‘I’ll call someone.’

He retrieved the house manual from the shelf by the kitchen door. As well as numbers for the housekeeper and a doctor, there was one for the local vet. It was still early, but they must have out of hours cover for emergencies. He tapped the number into the landline, but instead of a dial tone all he heard was a faint hum. Irritated, he checked the phone was plugged in and dialled again. Still nothing. He slammed the handset down, and Amber looked at him quizzically.

‘Is everything OK, Dad?’

‘The bloody thing’s broken. I’ll have to drive to the village.’

Three escaped sheep were gazing at them through the glass panel in the door, and one pawed the frame with its hoof.

‘They’re trying to get in,’ Amber said, and David detected a wobble in her voice.

‘They’re just curious.’

He banged on the window, but the sheep didn’t move.

‘What’s going on?’

Emily had arrived while they were talking, and David explained about the sheep and the broken phone.

‘Nothing will be open yet, so we might as well have breakfast before I go.’

The sheep was still pawing the door as he made breakfast, and he closed the blind to block them out. Through the window, he could still see the rest of the flock, but rather than browsing, they were staring at the house as if waiting for someone to emerge. Emily noticed them too when she reappeared wearing jeans and yesterday’s blouse.

‘Are you sure it’s a good idea to go out there? Maybe it would be better to wait for the farmer. He’s bound to check on them at some point.’

‘And what if he doesn’t? I won’t let a flock of sheep ruin our holiday, and anyway they’re just sheep. The stupid creatures probably think we’re going to feed them.’

He forced a laugh, but Emily didn’t smile.

‘I’m serious. At least take something to fend them off. You saw what they did to that body.’

‘You’re not suggesting they’re going to eat me?’

David laughed again, but when they’d finished breakfast, he grabbed an umbrella from the stand in the porch. He could still hear the sheep banging against the door, and the animals in the front garden hadn’t moved. Perhaps if they were suffering from some brain disorder, a sheep variant of mad cow disease.

He left through the front door and made Emily and Amber stand back when he opened it. He was afraid the sheep would surge forward, but they merely stared placidly with their creepy sheep eyes. There were several on the path and more by the gate, and David walked confidently towards them brandishing the umbrella. He’d read that you shouldn’t show fear around wild animals.

‘Move,’ he said firmly. The sheep didn’t budge, so he poked one with the umbrella. ‘Move.’ This was a mistake. The sheep emitted an angry bleat, which animated its fellows. Within seconds, he was surrounded. ‘Go away!’

He lashed out hitting several of them, then forced his way through the gap. The sheep followed, and one grabbed his shirt, ripping the fabric. His plan was to close the garden gate behind him and trap the animals, but when he reached it, he found it was wedged in place. A sheep nipped his hand as he was trying to free it, and he warded another off with the umbrella. The gate wouldn’t budge, and when he glanced back, he saw Emily gesturing frantically from a window. He realised he would have to return. The sheep were becoming more aggressive, and if he stayed out longer, he risked a nasty bite.

He shouted to let her know he was coming, but the words were barely out of his mouth when a sheep the size of a small car head-butted his legs and sent him flying. He landed nose-down on the path and instantly the sheep were on top of him, pressing him into the ground.

‘David!’

Emily’s voice was shrill with fear, and he tried to lift his head.

‘Get back in the house.’

‘What?’ And let them kill you.’ He heard a sharp crack and a squeal and the pressure on his body lessened. ‘Get up.’ There was another crack, and he struggled to his knees. Emily yanked him upright. In her other hand, she was holding a poker. ‘Now run.’

Using the poker as a sword, she slashed a path through the sheep that lunged towards them, snapping like dogs. By the time they reached the house, David’s — almost certainly broken — nose was pouring blood and their clothes were ripped where the sheep had tried to bite them.

‘Get in.’

Emily held the flock at bay as she pushed him over the threshold, then tumbled in after him slamming the door. David slid to the floor gasping.

‘You saved me.’

‘Of course.’ Emily joined him. Her face was the colour of putty. ‘I promised to be with you until death do us part, and I wasn’t ready to part yet.’

David looked around. The sheep were no longer hammering at the back door, and the house was disconcertingly quiet.

‘Where’s Amber?’

‘She was here a second ago. She’s probably upstairs.’ Emily offered him a handkerchief to stem the gore dripping from his nose. ‘I’ll go and check she’s OK.’

Above their heads, something skittered across the floorboards, and David’s heart stopped mid-beat. A trail of small pebble-like droppings led from the kitchen to the hall.

Nausea washed over him as he leapt to his feet.

‘Amber!’

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We’re just back from a few days in Lisbon where the sun shone every day, temperatures were in the mid twenties and it’s still possible to buy a coffee for less than a euro! It is also home to the stunningly beautiful Jeronimos Monastery and Queluz National Palace - Lisbon’s answer to Versailles complete with a fully tiled artificial canal - and, of course, the famous pasteis de nata tarts which take custard and pastry to a new level. It’s a custard tart Jim, but not as we know it.

Thanks to all the culture and food, I am behind with my posts, so while I plan a new story for Halloween, I thought it would be fun to share some seasonal pieces by my fellow Substackers. There is so much great material it’s hard to choose, so these are just a few of the stories and articles I’ve particularly enjoyed. I hope you will too.

Fran

Witches and witchcraft have long been associated with the Celtic festival of Samhain or what we now call Halloween. Today, witches are often portrayed as evil, but this article by reminds us that the word witch comes from the Old English wicca, which means wise one.

The Gothic Cabinet by CJ Cooke

Why We Still Need Witches

In 1485, Helena stood in a courtroom in Innsbruck accused of witchcraft. A short while previously, the Pope had sent Heinrich Kramer, a Dominican monk in his mid-fifties and a witch hunter who had already garnered a reputation for his dogged determination to root out witches, to Innsbruck, where Helena lived. She knew why Kramer had come. She knew he wa…

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8 months ago · 43 likes · 8 comments · C.J. Cooke

It is a truth universally acknowledged that every witch needs a cat, but as the following story by shows, wizards are also susceptible to feline charm. This tale will resonate with anyone whose cat has walked over the keyboard when they are trying to type or ‘assisted’ with other activities such as present wrapping. My cat is fond of lying underneath me when I am in the plank position, which is nerve-wracking for me if not for her.

Magical Musings with MeBrady

The Haunting

Yes, my stargazing readers, Bartelby is back. Settle in for a haunting tale of this magnificent creature…

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8 months ago · 8 likes · 8 comments · Maryellen Brady 💗📚

Imagine waking in the night to find a skinless monster standing on your chest. Boo hags are a type of spirit from African folklore, and I was fascinated to read this article about them by . A Boo Hag feeds off your energy while you are sleeping and might also steal your skin. Deterrents include items with bristles (the Boo hag will have to stop and count them) and a paint colour called Haint Blue, although annoyingly, last time I checked it didn’t feature on the Farrow and Ball colour chart, so I am stuck with leaving a broom by the bedroom door.

Monster of the Week

The Bewitching Boo Hag

From the pages of our own cuddly and powerful Book of the Dead, Necro, comes the latest Monster of the Week…

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9 months ago · 33 likes · 17 comments · Jessica Maison

The second story I fell in love with this month is by . Like The Haunting, this was a response to a writing challenge set by , so thank you also to Wendy for prompting two such excellent tales. The Orchard’s Daughter is a powerful and beautifully written allegory that reminded me of a book called The Snow Child by Eowyn Ivey, which I also highly recommend. Read it with a box of tissues by your side.

Blessed are the Fires

The Orchard's Daughter

Written for The Spooky Season Writing Challenge, Week 5, hosted by Wendy Cockcroft The prompt was ‘the curse…

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9 months ago · 14 likes · 10 comments · Jack

Finally, I couldn’t resist including this piece by featuring the eccentric writer and illustrator Edward Gorey. I am a big fan of Gorey’s work (which probably says something slightly worrying about me) and have a copy of The Doubtful Guest in the downstairs cloakroom.

Dr King's Curiosities

Home Invasion and The Doubtful Guest

My ‘horror moments’ examine horror-inflected scenes and themes in unexpected places. They are published weekly on Thursdays and come out in series of ten articles focussing on a particular source e.g. ‘Wallace & Gromit,’ ‘Shakespeare,’ or ‘Kate Bush Songs’. Catch up with the current series on Edward Gorey…

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8 months ago · 35 likes · 20 comments · Rebekah King

Halloween is less than three weeks away, and (hopefully) the next post will feature a suitably scary story, but meanwhile this is one I wrote last year to get you in the mood. Thank you for reading and, as always, likes and shares are much appreciated.

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Following my previous post about Amelia, the UK’s second vampire. This story introduces Fred, another character from my new novel.

Fred was heading home when the police car drew up beside him. His stomach was full, and all he wanted was to curl up in the old dog bed under the stairs and go to sleep. The bed had previously belonged to a wolfhound - now long dead - and the new dog, an intensely irritating Patterdale terrier, had one of those fancy beds on legs. The car stopped, and a police constable clambered out.

‘What?’

Fred glared at the constable, who had a round babyish face and fine blond hair through which patches of pink skin were clearly visible. He looked as if he had recently left school, but was probably in his early thirties.

‘Would you mind coming with us to the station, sir? We’d like to ask you some more questions.’

‘I’ve already told you everything I know.’

‘Still,’ the constable said, holding the car door open, ‘humour me.’

The incident they were interested in had happened three days earlier. A local man was poaching deer in the woods when an animal jumped out from the trees and attacked him. He sustained a nasty bite to his leg before beating the animal off, and Fred was the obvious suspect. It was a classic case of profiling, and it made his blood boil.

The first interview had been humiliating. They’d scanned his microchip, and when he told them he was ten and hence a minor, the sergeant laughed and said that was equivalent to seventy human years, although anyone with a brain knows werewolves don’t age. This time it was worse; the constable doused him in flea powder and asked if he was up to date with his vaccinations before the sergeant made a tasteless joke about muzzles.

‘Why am I here?’ Fred scratched his ear, which was itchy from the flea powder.

‘New evidence,’ the sergeant said. ‘We found your DNA at the scene. There was a tuft of hair caught in the undergrowth.’

‘So? I often hunt rabbits in the woods. That’s allowed, isn’t it?’

Since he’d moved to the big house three hundred years ago, he had an agreement with the villagers. If he ate the rabbits that destroyed their crops and the occasional deer, the pitchfork brigade would leave their weapons at home.

‘And,’ the constable added eagerly, ‘there was a full moon. I saw it from the bathroom window when I was brushing my teeth.’

That old trope again. Fred sighed; he had returned to human form only twice in six hundred years. Once on his birthday two years after his brother dared him to drink from the wolf pawprint and the second time, eighty years later, when he was in the middle of dismembering a rabbit. On both occasions, he’d reverted within twenty-four hours, which was frankly a relief because he’d gone right off the rabbit and it was perishingly cold without fur.

‘I told you before; the full moon thing is a myth invented by filmmakers. Once a werewolf, always a werewolf, but I didn’t bite that guy. If I had, there wouldn’t be anything left to come running to you.’ He licked his lips. The constable’s plump thigh was peeking temptingly from under the table. ‘I know who did though.’

‘Really?’ The sergeant raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Who?’

‘The Patterdale terrier. He told me last night. Said the guy kicked him when he was a puppy, and he’d been waiting for a chance to get even.’

‘Richard Fairburn’s dog?’

‘That’s the one. He’ll deny it of course.’

‘That dog wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ the constable said.

‘That’s what he wants you to think.’ Fred drummed his claws on the table. ‘Why don’t you hold an identity parade and see what the victim says?’

‘That’s not a bad idea.’ The sergeant glanced at the constable. ‘Can we bring him in?’

Fred investigated the smells in the interview room while they were gone. He recognised the garlicky tang of the man who ran the off-licence and the lavender fragrance of the old lady who sometimes left him sausage and once, memorably, half a roast chicken. He wondered what she had done wrong; she didn’t seem the criminal type.

When the sergeant returned, he was frowning.

‘Do you have any idea where Mr Jones might have gone?’

Mr Jones, aka Brandon, was the poacher. His scent was in the room too.

Fred shook his head. ‘Fraid not. Why?’

‘He seems to have gone missing.’

Fred rose from the floor where he’d been lying in an anaemic patch of sunlight.

‘That’s too bad. So, you’ll be letting me go then?’

The Patterdale greeted him at the door, tail wagging frantically, with an expression of adoration on its idiot face. Since the wolfhound died, the creature had fixated on him, and although he had so far resisted the temptation to eat it, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold out. The constable was right; the Patterdale didn’t have the balls to bite Brandon – the animal was literally ball-less.

‘There’s a box of gravy bones in the pantry. Do you want one?’ The Patterdale asked excitedly. ‘They’re really delicious. If you like, you can have two, but you’ll have to sit.’

Seriously? Did he look like someone who ate gravy bones?

‘Thanks.’ Fred pushed past the dog. Because of the police and their questions, he had missed his afternoon nap. ‘I’ve already eaten.’

If you enjoyed this, a like or a share would be much appreciated and please subscribe to read more twisty stories. Nothing makes me happier than welcoming a new reader to the dark side! Fran x

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I’ve recently started a new novel and I thought it would be fun to write about some of the characters and their backstories. The novel is cosy horror - which is a new genre for me - and this little story features a character called Amelia.

I hope you enjoy it.

Fran

10^th August 1890 - Whitby

Amelia wakes to find a man leaning over her. He is wearing a silk dressing gown and holding a candle. When he sees she is awake, his expression changes from concern to relief.

‘Where am I?’

She glances around the room, which is simply furnished with a desk, chair, and the sofa on which she is lying. The curtains are drawn and a fire burns in the grate. She assumes it is newly lit because it emits no discernible warmth.

‘You are in my home,’ the man replies. ‘I was working late when I heard a knock at the door and found you collapsed on the step. I carried you inside. Are you ill? Shall I fetch a doctor? Or perhaps a glass of brandy?’

‘No, not ill.’ Amelia tries to sit, but the effort is too great and she falls back against the cushions. She feels as if every ounce of energy has been drained from her body. ‘Merely exhausted. I was on a ship, the Demeter; my father is the first officer. We were returning from Varna. I have cousins there.’

‘The Demeter?’ The man raises his eyebrows. His dark hair is parted in the centre, and he is clean-shaven except for a small handlebar moustache. Amelia is drawn to his neck, which protrudes from his gown like the stipe of a mushroom. ‘The ship that ran aground two nights ago?’

‘Ran aground?’

‘There was a terrible storm. The captain was found lashed to the wheel. There were no…’ He stops, suddenly conscious of what he is about to say.

‘Survivors?’

Her memory is returning, and with it, the hellish details of the journey. The malevolent presence haunting the decks, the sailors driven mad with terror who threw themselves into the sea, the vanishing crew. Finally, only she and the captain were left. When the storm came, he instructed her to hide in the hold with the cargo.

‘Yes,’ the man says. ‘There were thought to be no survivors, except for a black dog that was seen jumping from the ship onto the beach.’

‘No dog,’ Amelia says. ‘If there had been a dog, I would have seen it.’

Yet there was something in the hold. It moved so quickly she barely had time to scream before it latched onto her neck.

‘It’s a miracle. Your survival is truly a miracle.’ The man tilts his head, and saliva floods Amelia’s mouth. She is suddenly ravenous.

‘It is,’ she agrees, ‘and now, if I may, I will accept your kind offer of refreshment.’

All my stories are free, but if you enjoyed this a like and a restack would be much appreciated and please consider subscribing if you haven’t already. My stories are short, dark and often funny, so if you enjoyed Inside Number Nine, Beetlejuice, and The Adams Family this could be the Substack for you. x

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Dorothy Tanning - Eine Kleine Nachtmusik

The gîte was perfect. An ancient stone farmhouse nestled in a wooded valley. Secluded, but within walking distance of the village, where a boulangerie, shop, and café could provide everything she needed. Lily threw open the French doors and stepped onto the terrace, where a table and chairs were arranged beneath a trailing vine. Across the neatly mown lawn and surrounded by low white railings, a small pool glittered invitingly.

She was there to finish her novel, which was proving harder than expected. Her first had taken nearly three years if you counted the endless revisions, and when her agent finally landed a deal, she would have agreed to anything. A year seemed long enough, but ten months in, she was stuck at forty thousand words.

‘Floundering in the soggy middle,’ Jenny from her debut group pronounced cheerfully. ‘You’ll crack it, just keep going.’

But would she? Lily felt close to panic whenever she opened the laptop.

Nathan had suggested renting the gîte. He spotted the advertisement on the noticeboard at his gym, and, surprisingly, there was still availability in August. Two weeks of uninterrupted writing. Then he would join her, and they would spend a week together in this blissful spot, where the air smelt of wild thyme and the only sound was birdsong.

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She unpacked the groceries she’d bought on her way there, tomatoes, courgettes, a baguette, cheese, cherries, milk, coffee, a bottle of local wine, and a pat of butter. It looked far more inviting than the equivalent haul from Tesco. The tomatoes were plumper, the baguette fresher and the courgettes came in varying shapes and sizes, as if grown in a garden rather than an industrial greenhouse. Even the coffee smelt better. She put a handful of cherries in a bowl to eat as she flicked through the house manual, where there was information about what to do in a power cut and instructions for recycling, as well as a list of numbers to call in an emergency.

After dumping her suitcase in the largest of the three bedrooms, she swam. The pool was tepid, and two frogs observed her anxiously from the overflow as she floated with her eyes closed and her face turned towards the unfeasibly blue sky.

She was searching for a hairdryer when she noticed the door. It was in the farthest corner of the bedroom hidden by an enormous wardrobe. There was no mention of a connecting room or an ensuite bathroom in the house description, and when the door didn’t open, she guessed it was a store cupboard. Rental places were notoriously stingy with things like toilet roll and dishwasher tablets, no doubt fearing visitors would stuff any surplus into their bags to take home.

After a supper of bread and cheese and more cherries, she sat on the terrace sipping wine as the sun dipped behind the trees, serenaded by a chorus of cicadas. By ten, she was ready for bed. Already, this place was doing its job; the tension had eased from her shoulders, and rather than dreading the task ahead, she was looking forward to getting started. Tomorrow she would rise early and begin, sloughing off writer’s block like a snake shedding its skin.

When she woke less than two hours after falling asleep, the room was dark, and there was scratching coming from the locked door. Lily switched on the bedside light. Mice. An old building like this was bound to have them. At her grandparent’s place in the country, her grandfather was always trying to plug the gaps where they came in. She slipped out of bed and padded across the floor to the cupboard.

‘Shut up, you lot. Some of us are trying to sleep.’

She rapped on the wood, and the scratching stopped.

The following day, she wrote three thousand words, pausing only to make coffee, then swam fifty lengths of the admittedly not very large pool. After lunch, she called Nathan and wrote another thousand words before exploring the garden. It was large, probably two or three acres and, apart from the lawn, endearingly unkempt. Pink bougainvillea spilled over tumbling walls, and the thrum of crickets surrounded her as she waded through the long grass. When she reached the edge of the property, she perched on the gate and surveyed her temporary home. Her bedroom window was open, and next to it was another window that corresponded to the locked door. Not a cupboard then. The thought made her uneasy.

There was no website for the gîte, only an email sent by the owner. It included a floor-plan and Lily scanned it as she drank the last of the wine. It was as she remembered: three bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs and a kitchen-dining room and lounge downstairs. According to the plan, the room next to hers didn’t exist. Odd, but perhaps the owner didn’t want to give a misleading impression of the usable space, or perhaps the bedroom had been partitioned later. Either way, it didn’t matter; mice aside, the house was lovely, and it wasn’t as if she needed more room.

That night, the sound of scratching woke her again. It was louder and more insistent, as if whatever it was, was trying to get through the connecting door.

‘Go away!’

Lily pulled the duvet over her head and wished she’d brought the earplugs she used to muffle Nathan’s snores.

It was his suggestion to call the housekeeper and alert her to the mouse problem.

‘They’ll want to know,’ he said, ‘rodents can do a lot of damage. Remember that big fire in the town centre? Apparently, rats chewed through the wires.’

Reassuring, not, Lily thought as she ended the call.

She wrote two thousand words before lunch — cold ratatouille left over from the evening before and the end of the baguette, which was chewy and stale. She’d saved the housekeeper’s number in her contacts, and she called it as she walked to the village to buy more provisions. The ringtone was faint, as if it was coming from a thousand miles away, and there was no option to leave a message.

By the time she’d finished, dark clouds were massing on the horizon and there was an ominous yellow tinge to the sky.

‘Orage,’ the woman at the checkout said, pointing towards the window.

She wasn’t wrong. Fat drops splashed Lily’s shoulders as she hurried back to the gîte, and moments after closing the door, the downpour began. Torrents of water poured from the gutters, and the clatter of rain on the roof was deafening. She waited until it slowed before calling the housekeeper again. This time there was no ringtone, and when she checked, no signal either. The gîte didn’t have Wi-Fi, which had seemed like a good thing when she booked it – no distractions – but less so now.

After trying and failing to write, she ran a bath, making liberal use of the bath-salts provided. With the sun gone, the house was chilly, and a long soak in hot water appealed. She was fetching her book from the bedroom when she heard someone calling her name.

‘Hello?’

Perhaps the housekeeper, seeing a missed number, had come round to check she was OK.

‘Lily.’

Now the voice sounded as if it was coming from the locked room, and the hair on the back of her neck prickled.

‘Hello,’ Lily said again. ‘Is there anyone there?’

A sudden gust of wind rattled the window making her jump. It was the wind; it must be. Nathan was always saying she had an overactive imagination. She listened for a moment and when there was no reply — of course there wasn’t — she grabbed her book and fled.

That night she slept in another room. The beds were unmade, and she dozed fitfully beneath the slippery polyester duvet. When she woke, there were three bars on her phone. Relieved she called Nathan, but he didn’t answer, and she left a message asking him to call her back. The housekeeper’s number rang and rang, and she resolved to leave an unfavourable comment in the visitor book. She’d found it in the oak dresser, along with two spare lightbulbs, a box of candles, and a mousetrap. The mousetrap was reassuring because it confirmed the scrabbling was indeed a mouse. There was only one entry in the visitor book, a drawing of a door and next to it the word ‘non!!!’. It seemed she wasn’t the only guest annoyed about the rodent problem. Her pen was upstairs, so she left the book open and reached for her laptop.

She always reread the previous day’s work before starting, and she stared at the screen in horror. It made no sense. Random phrases were interspersed with the words ‘DOOR’ and ‘NO’ in capital letters. Lily recoiled. This wasn’t her writing; someone had clearly tampered with it overnight. She slammed the laptop shut and checked the front door, which was securely bolted, before grabbing a poker from the fireplace and inspecting the rest of the house. She hesitated before entering the master bedroom, but everything was as she’d left it. Her swimsuit was slung across the back of a chair, and her hairbrush and makeup bag were on the dressing table next to her anti-anxiety medication.

Downstairs, she swallowed two tablets and dialled the number for the local police station, only to discover the signal had gone again. There was nothing for it; she would have to retrace her steps to the village and ask the café owner to call for her. Whoever the intruder was, they had a key, and she didn’t want to be there when they returned. She slipped on her jacket and stuffed the laptop into her daypack, grateful they hadn’t deleted the entire book.

Lily was halfway along the path when something made her turn, and she saw the boy waving frantically from the window of the mystery room. He looked about eight or nine, and even from a distance she could tell he was terrified. Every fibre in her body told her to run, but she couldn’t leave him. She dropped the daypack and sprinted towards the house. When she reached the bedroom, her lungs were on fire, and she could hear sobbing through the locked door. What she needed was a hammer or an axe.

‘I’m coming.’

She grabbed the handle and tugged. For a moment, the sobbing intensified and then, slowly; the door creaked open.

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Thank you for reading! A share or a like would be much appreciated if you enjoyed this story and subscribe to read more dark, twisty tales. I post two or three stories a month, so I won’t overwhelm your inbox.

Fran

Photo by Ayla Meinberg

Summer is here, and almost everyone I know is on holiday. For most of us this means a break from the daily grind and more time to read - hooray! - so, rather than a new story, I thought it would be fun to compile a selection of my favourite summer reads from some of the brilliant writers on Substack.

As you’d expect, a few are on the creepy side, so best read in broad daylight with a cocktail in hand, unless, of course, you want to make that spooky old farmhouse you’re staying in even spookier in which case; close the shutters and light a candle…

Fran

Shayna’s Charming Farmhouse by Mata Harris - Burridge

Talking of spooky farmhouses, I laughed out loud at this ‘found fiction’ piece, which takes the form of reviews from visitors who have experienced the dubious charms of a holiday rental in France.

Chill factor ***

The Inciting Incident with Mata Haggis-Burridge

Found footage horror: Shayna’s charming farmhouse

Bonjour! It is I, Mata, returning with a delightful missive about ensuite devilry…

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a year ago · 40 likes · 35 comments · Mata Haggis-Burridge

Dive Log by E.J. Trask

The only time I attempted scuba diving was in a swimming pool in Turkey, where I had a panic attack and had to be rescued by the instructor. The scientist featured in this story is made of sterner stuff, although after reading it; I don’t regret my decision to stick to snorkelling. Chill factor *****

Age of Aquarius

Dive Log

Welcome to Beach Reads for Goth Kids, my summer horror extravaganza. All summer, I’m delivering short stories that pack a pulpy punch, best consumed with a tiny paper umbrella. Think heatwave madness, monsters from the deep, and things that go bump in the backyard…

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a year ago · 48 likes · 31 comments · EJ Trask

Eight Long Legs, Eight Good Eyes by S.E. Reid

At this time of year, when it’s warm, and the sun is shining, I dream about buying a picturesque smallholding in rural France. Inevitably my fantasy features free-range chickens, a bountiful vegetable garden and homemade preserves. I’ve never got further than the estate agent’s window because I know reality would be very different from my rose-tinted imaginings; foxes would eat the chickens, the vegetable garden would fail, and I am about as likely to spend my spare time making preserves as I am to join Elon Musk on a mission to Mars.

Lizzie, the protagonist of this story, grows vegetables and keeps chickens, but as soon becomes clear, foxes are the least of her worries!

Chill factor *** ( ***** if you’re afraid of spiders).

Talebones ✨

Eight Long Legs, Eight Good Eyes

Greetings, Talebones Readers…

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a year ago · 45 likes · 12 comments · S.E. Reid

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Hare Magic by Jane Dougherty

Last week I saw a hare for the first time this year, and it reminded me of this beautiful poem. It’s evocative rather than creepy, but guaranteed to send a thrill of pleasure down your spine.

Chill factor *

Jane Dougherty's Bestiary

Hare magic

We have a lot of hares around at the moment, driving the dogs (hare hounds) wild. The hares don’t care…

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a year ago · 19 likes · 36 comments · Jane Dougherty

Are your Labubu dolls possessed by the demon Pazuzu? By Dr Rebekah King

The Labubu doll craze has reached epic proportions this summer with people fighting to get hold of them. They are unquestionably creepy, but are they possessed by a Mesopotamian demon? One of my favourite Substack writers debunks this theory with reference to The Exorcist and an episode of The Simpsons, where Homer accidentally orders a Pazuzu doll from Amazon instead of a pizza.

Chill factor *

Dr King's Curiosities

Are your Labubu dolls possessed by the demon Pazuzu?

I normally draft my articles well in advance but yesterday I happened to click on this piece by Evie Magazine which claims that ‘Labubu’ dolls are channelling the Mesopotamian demon Pazuzu, last seen menacing Max von Sydow in The Exorcist…

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a year ago · 70 likes · 47 comments · Rebekah King

It also reminded me of a story I wrote last year…

Chill factor *****

I hope you’ve enjoyed this selection. There are so many brilliant writers on Substack it’s been hard to choose and I’m thinking of making this a regular feature with a seasonal theme. Good idea? let me know what you think.

Meanwhile please like, share or even subscribe. You’ll make my day!

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This little story was inspired by a debate about the most popular animal on Substack. Puffins were a close, but nothing, it seems, can beat the sheer cuteness of an otter.

The summer after he retired, Albert spent every morning by the river. After a breakfast of bacon and eggs, he packed the lunch his wife, Jill, had prepared, placed the camping chair under his arm and his binoculars around his neck and walked half a mile to the river bank. Sometimes if rain was forecast, he took the golf umbrella, but rarely used it, preferring to shelter beneath the weeping willow and listen to the gentle patter of drops on the leaves as he sipped sweet tea from a flask.

He didn’t fish or read or paint; instead, he watched. He watched the coot and her babies tripping across the lily pads on spindly legs and the swans gliding past as regal as galleons. Sometimes he saw a kingfisher, an iridescent flash of blue that was gone before he could lift the binoculars, and twice he saw a water vole. Each sighting filled him with joy, but the animal he most longed to see was an otter.

Of all the animals and birds that called the river home, the otters were the most shy. The snap of a branch, a muffled cough, even the sound of breathing was enough to deter them. Their hearing was sharp, and their sense of smell sharper. No matter how still Albert sat, no matter how well he hid himself amongst the alder and viburnum, the otters kept their distance.

Then, one morning in late August, Jill found Albert slumped at the foot of the stairs. The doctor said it was a heart attack, the consequence of high blood pressure and advancing age. He said it was a good way to go, although Jill disagreed because there is no good way to lose your partner of forty years.

They didn’t have children or close family, so Jill walked to the river alone to scatter his ashes. She took the camping chair and the binoculars and carried the urn and a flask of tea in a hessian bag slung over her shoulder. It was a glorious day on the cusp of autumn; the bushes were laden with berries, and a thrush sang as she scattered Arthur’s ashes under the weeping willow. When it was done, she unfurled the camping chair and sipped sweet tea as the swans glided past and the heron posed as still as a statue on the opposite bank.

She didn’t hear the splash as the otter slid into the water or see the waves rippling across the surface. It was only when his head popped up inches from where she sat that she noticed him. She held her breath, and the otter paused. Drops glistened on his whiskers, and Jill felt Albert’s hand gently squeezing her shoulder.

‘You see,’ he seemed to say, ‘I told you it was worth the wait.’

If you enjoyed this a share or a restack would be much appreciated and if you’d like to read more stories like this, you can subscribe and two or three twisty tales will land directly in your inbox every month.

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Last but not least, all my stories are free, but any donations made through the ‘Buy me a Coffee’ link below will go to Zante Strays. This lovely charity rescues and re-homes stray cats and dogs on the Greek island of Zante. Including our pup Smee pictured below on his favourite beach.

Buy a coffee and help a pup

This little story is about a situation my female readers will know only too well. The fear of walking home alone at night. A fear none of us should experience, but sadly still do.

A friend had dragged me to the party, but after an hour, I was ready to leave. The music was too loud, and the people were boring. They talked about babies and house prices and the weather, things that don’t interest me and never will. I told my friend I’d call an Uber, but once outside, I changed my mind. It was dry, and there was a full moon, so even without the street lights, it wasn’t dark and I enjoy walking. During the day, I walk everywhere and it was only a couple of miles to my flat on the outskirts of town.

After twenty minutes, I came to a road that went past a small industrial estate. By then, I was regretting the Uber decision, not only because the place was creepy, but I could feel a headache coming on and I wanted to be in bed with the cat curled beside me. There was no one around, although he must have been watching, like a spider with a freshly spun web waiting for a fly to land. In case you’re wondering — and where crimes against women are concerned, people always do — I wasn’t dressed provocatively. Jeans, jacket, Converse trainers. Not that it matters. Women should be able to wear what they like without worrying about some pervert trying to get into their knickers.

Anyway, I hadn’t gone far when I heard the distinctive slap of leather on tarmac. Thanks to my last boyfriend who cared about that sort of thing, I know an expensive shoe when I hear one. I didn’t look round, instead; I did what we all do and walked faster. Slap, slap, he sped up, matching my pace. That was when I knew I was in trouble. There was a chain-link fence surrounding the industrial estate and a wall on the other side of the road, topped with broken glass and razor wire. Running was an option, but if he chased, he would certainly catch me. I’m five foot nothing and since my gym membership expired, I haven’t been near a treadmill.

I stopped, and the footsteps stopped too. He was so close I could hear him breathing. I’m cautious by nature. I make sure I have all the facts before responding, but what can I say? It was instinct, genetics, whatever you want to call it. The moon was full, and the world wouldn’t miss another creep. His expression was priceless. He expected tears and pleading, not claws and teeth. Later, a woman living a street away claimed she heard a scream, but apart from the shoes – too chewy – there was nothing left. That night, I went to bed with a full stomach and a song in my heart. Reader, I ate him.

If you enjoyed this story a share or a restack would be much appreciated and if you feel like subscribing, it would make my day. I post two or three twisty short stories a month, so I promise I won’t overwhelm your inbox.

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Margee was searching for Cooper when she ran into the boys. He’d been gone for nearly two months and everyone said it was time to stop looking. Her pockets were full of his favourite treats and her arms were so scratched she had to bathe them in salt water when she got home. Last week, she’d found a tick embedded in her calf and when she removed it using the plastic device she’d bought for Cooper, she cried for an hour. Not because of the tick, although that was bad enough, but because she missed him so badly.

The boys were in their early twenties, dressed in khaki shorts and hiking boots and Margee could tell from their bedrolls they were hiking the trail. She had walked it herself when she was younger, but it was cooler then. Already the temperature was approaching thirty and it would rise by ten degrees at least before nightfall.

‘Morning.’

They seemed surprised to see her. They hadn’t expected to bump into a dishevelled old woman in flowery overalls.

‘Hey,’ the taller of the two replied.

He had a wispy beard that didn’t sit comfortably on his babyish face.

‘You haven’t seen a dog, have you? Medium-sized, brown, with white around the muzzle?’

A lump formed in Margee’s throat. She still found it hard to talk about Cooper. Her daughter, Ava, said he would have died soon anyway, which was insensitive, but probably true. Cooper was eleven and would be twelve next week, which somehow made his absence worse.

The boy shook his head. Their gear was box-fresh, and she hoped they knew what they were doing. With no phone signal, you were on your own if you ran into a bear or twisted your ankle.

‘Nope. We saw a squirrel a while back, but that’s all. How long has he been gone?’

‘Two months, just about.’

‘Wow,’ the second boy said. ‘That’s a long time.’

They were thinking the same as Ava. Cooper wasn’t coming back.

‘Well, keep an eye out, just in case. Here.’ Margee reached into her pocket and took out a card. She had a box of them left from selling jewellery at the market. Silver bangles and rings with turquoise inlay. Now her fingers were too stiff to hold the soldering iron. ‘If you see him, call me.’

The boy glanced at the card.

‘Sure.’

He was humouring her.

***

The phone rang a few minutes after she got home.

‘Ma?’ Ava sounded tense, which wasn’t unusual. Her daughter’s life was exhausting. A high-pressure job, three kids at private school, an intense grooming regimen that cost more than Margee’s annual income, and a house with an infinity pool that still wasn’t big enough or fancy enough for Ava and her Ivy League husband. According to Ava, Margee’s nineteen thirties bungalow was a hovel. ‘Have you been listening to the news?’

Above Margee’s head, the fan rotated in lazy circles, barely displacing the stifling air, which had settled over the room like a shroud. Margee confessed she hadn’t, and Ava gave an exasperated sigh.

‘I’ve told you, Ma, you need to keep the radio on for your own safety.’ She paused and Margee heard a child’s voice in the background. She had two grandchildren and they might as well have been creatures from another planet; attached to their screens like limpets and speaking a language she didn’t understand. ‘There’s a fire, a big one. That forest around you is a tinderbox, Ma. You need to get out.’

Margee ended the call while Ava was still talking, and when the phone buzzed again, she switched it off. Ava was always nagging her to move to Dallas so she wouldn’t have to travel to what she called ‘outer nowhere’ to visit her. She came twice a year, the minimum her conscience would allow, and stayed for a week, making life miserable for them both. Last week she’d sent Margee a link for a one bedroomed apartment in a development for seniors. There was a fold out seat in the shower and a cord to pull if you fell over. It was the most depressing thing Margee had ever seen.

In the yard, the trees shivered. The wind was getting up, and a plume of smoke was visible in the distance, rising from the forest like a genie. Margee filled a bottle with water and pulled on her boots. She was thinking about Cooper, but also about the boys with their pasty city complexions and expensive gear. The trail followed the scenic route past the canyon, but there was a cut-through that sliced off a couple of miles and, if she hurried, she might make it in time to warn them.

She whistled for Cooper as she walked, and when something rustled in the undergrowth, her heart stopped and a bird flew out of a bush, squawking. It was always a bird. After that she turned right, but when the path forked again she hesitated. It looked different from how she remembered. Left? Right? She turned left and then left again. Ten minutes later, she was lost and a tree in front of her was on fire.

That was when she saw him. He was at the edge of the path and, at first, she thought she was hallucinating.

‘Baby?’ She closed her eyes, but when she opened them, he was still there. He looked well. Not like a dog that had been missing for two months. She held out her hand because if she touched him, she would know he was real, but he moved further away, luring her onto a path so narrow it looked as if an animal had made it. ‘What? You want me to follow you?’

A blast of wind sent embers skittering through the air like fireflies, igniting two more trees. If she didn’t go now, they would both be trapped.

Cooper loped ahead stopping every so often to let her catch up. It was hard going. The path was steep and, as they descended through the trees, Margee’s lungs were burning. Once she fell and Cooper stood patiently until she hauled herself up. They seemed to walk forever and when, at last, they rounded a corner and she saw the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles; she was on the verge of collapse. Seconds later, a firefighter was pressing an oxygen mask to her face, and the relief was so overwhelming she didn’t realise Cooper was missing until she’d taken several breaths. She pushed the mask aside.

‘Where’s my dog?’

‘Dog?’ The firefighter frowned. ‘I haven’t seen a dog, Mam.’

Margee looked around frantically, but there was no sign of Cooper amongst the firefighters and police officers.

‘He was in front of me. Medium-sized, brown.’

A female officer was coming towards them and the firefighter shouted across to her.

‘You haven’t seen a dog, have you, Alice? This lady says she had a dog.’

‘Afraid not. Although you’re not the first person to mention one.’ The officer smiled at Margee. ‘The two boys my colleague picked up half an hour ago said a dog showed them the way. Perhaps he’s gone to help someone else.’

***

It was a year before Margee could return to her house. Ignoring Ava’s protests, she bought an old RV and parked it in the yard so she could supervise the repairs, and when the contractor’s dog had puppies, she took the smallest. He was brown with oversized ears and she called him Malcolm for no other reason than she liked the name. Malcolm slept on her bed as Cooper had done, and sometimes, when they were out walking and the weather was clear, she would glimpse Cooper, tail wagging frantically, waiting for Malcolm to catch up.

Thank you for reading Tinderbox. If you enjoyed this story a share or a restack would be much appreciated and if you haven’t subscribed, I would be thrilled to have your company on my writing journey. I post two or three twisty short stories a month, so I promise I won’t overwhelm your inbox.

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Last but not least, all my stories are free, but any donations made through the ‘Buy me a Coffee’ link below will go to Zante Strays. This lovely charity rescues and re-homes stray cats and dogs on the Greek island of Zante. Including our pup Smee pictured below on his favourite beach.

Buy me a coffee and help a stray