A young teenage girl lived at home with her mother, father and her much loved pet dog.
Being 16 years old her parents decided that she was now old enough to be left alone without a minder while they went out for the evening. Although there was some concern about leaving a young girl in a house all by herself, they knew she was sensible and would behave. And besides, she did have the pet Alsatian dog to look after her and keep her company.
The parents left for the night, leaving Emergency phone numbers and supplies for the night. The girl was thrilled to be spending her first night alone in her parents house and mainly watched TV until 11.00 rolled round.
Deciding she was tired she moved upstairs to her comfy bedroom to retire for the night. Her trusty Alsatian dog following her all the time.
After being asleep for a short time she awoke to a dripping noise coming from the bathroom. Not afraid, but curious as to what the noise was she lowered her hand down beside her bed to gain a little comfort from the Alsatian. She felt the warmth of his soft tongue as he licked her hand, showing her that he was O.K and that everything would be alright. Feeling assured she drifted off to sleep once more.
Waking once again to the sounds of the dripping tap, or whatever it was, in the bathroom she instinctively dropped her hand down to pet her dog. Once again her dog offered up the loyal companionship that only a much trusted and loved pet can, and licked her hand and she once again fell asleep.
For the last time she woke up again, that annoying noise was still going, she reached for her dog but found he wasn't there. Wondering where her parents were at this time of night (it was about 3.30am by this time) and looking for her dog she walked out into the bathroom.
A horrifying sight met her, the dog had been mutilated and was creating the dripping noise, as blood slowly fell and pooled on the floor below. Screaming she ran back through the house and attempted to call the police. The phone was dead, and she turned to suddenly see her parents also mutilated behind her. Her screams could be heard as she looked down at a note written in blood, it read:
"Humans Can Lick Too My Beautiful".
She then runs madly for the stairs only to see a black figure waiting with open arms to catch her.
Variations on this story:
The girl is baby sitting some children for the night, she walks outside to throw out the garbage. The parents have left the home pleading with the young babysitter to beware if the air sirens sound as this is warning that a criminal has escaped from the local asylum.
While throwing out the trash the siren sounds, the girl runs inside locking the doors and windows. She takes comfort from the dog licking her hand on the couch. Same ending.
Written on bathroom mirror beside dog is "Maniacs like hands".
She views long haired, insane type man under her bed when lightning flashes as she is petting him. After police arrive they find he was living in his own room in the attic.
Girl ends up being pulled under the bed by maniac and killed.
Urban legends are popular stories alleged to be true which spread from person to person via oral or written communication (e.g., fax or email). Typically, said stories concern outlandish, humiliating, humorous, terrifying, or supernatural events — events which, in the telling, always happened to someone else.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
The Little One On The Road
A guy I worked with told me this story, he swore it was true...
I was driving up towards Prescott, Arizona, my girlfriend, Becky, dozing off in the seat next to me. Rolling the window partially down, in the hope that the cool air would keep me alert, I wearily kept driving my Chevy down this narrow highway road, with nothing but a thick forested area on the passenger side of me, and mostly open meadowland, with a few clumps of trees here and there, along the driver's side of the road. I had wanted to leave first thing in the morning on Friday, but Becky was called into work at the last minute, so we ended up leaving at close to eight o'clock that night. Knowing we had to head back before early Monday, I didn't want to wait until the next day to go and end up losing a good chunk of a Saturday to boot.
So here I was, it had to be close to at least ten pm by then. Driving by the light of my dim headlights, with a close to full moon overhead (full enough to see the open expanses of the passing meadow areas, anyway) I noticed some smoke or steam coming up from the sides of my car hood. This, in and of itself, was not unusual as the car was close to fifteen years old, dented up a bit, with dimmer than usual lights and hoses that seemed to know the most inopportune time to break. Add to that, a radiator that overheated during the summer months or when in use for long periods of time. This being early October, I hadn't given the radiator much thought - it hadn't bothered to act up since August, and as the saying goes 'out of sight, out of mind'. But something sure was putting off plumes under the hood, so I nudged Becky and explained in short that I had to pull over.
As I slowed down a bit, Becky rolled down her window and peered out along the edges of the dark wall of pine trees. "Up there," she exclaimed, pointing forward, "about twenty feet or so there's a dirt shoulder of some kind." Slowing to a crawl, feeling safe at the moment as another car hadn't passed us for a number of miles now, I quickly saw the flat, dirt indent, about the length and width of two cars, just to the right of the road. The dirt area, much like that whole side of the road, was lined by a knotted mass of trees, giving it the look of a half circle cut down the middle by the road. I pulled over, and turned the car off - leaving the keys hanging from the ignition. With the headlights on, I got out of the car and walked to the front of it, popping the hood. I had grabbed a flashlight out of the glove box, and so proceeded to inspect the damage.
Sure enough, the radiator had overheated. I bent down a little, to peek between the crack of the hood's bottom edge and the top of the car front, to look at Becky through the front windshield. I was going to call out, to ask her to grab the gallon bottle of water I kept behind the front seat (there since August, at least) so, once it cooled a bit, I could add water to the radiator.
Expecting to see her dozing off, or looking toward me, I was surprised to see her staring wide-eyed, mouth agape, out at the direction of the driver's side window. She was as white as a ghost. "What are you doing?" I demanded to know. She kept staring out at the meadow fields, only raising her arm slightly to point in the direction she was looking. "What?" I said, walking back towards the driver's door. As I did, I looked out into the moonlit meadow. I saw a short line of trees in the distant background, a small pine about 20-25 ft out, directly in line with the back end of the car, and, running about ten feet from that point forward, in a line almost parallel with the road, was a short brick wall, about three feet or so high. A sparse forested area began, about forty feet or so from the wall's edges, in either direction of the small meadow. "So?" I said, "Probably part of an old house, or a fence. What's the big deal about the wall?" As I got into the car, and shut the door to wait for the innards to cool, she replied - slowly, quietly - "It isn't the brick wall. It's what I saw looking at us OVER the top of the wall." I turned to her, "What? Quit screwing around." "Stuff you!" she said, "If I..." Then she stopped talking, and her gaze drifted past me, to the wall.
I turned to look. I saw a small translucent-white stocky humanoid form, just shy of three feet tall, its tiny round eyes from this distance appearing as black as night, standing in front of the wall. It slowly took a step or two towards us, its short chubby arms at its side. I screamed, and tried to turn on the flashlight. I knew the batteries were low, and sometimes had to jiggle it and turn the cap slightly to get it to work, so in my excitement I twisted the cap, the batteries flew out and I just about dirtied by pants. As the batteries were now rolling under the seat and across the floor of the car, I decided to forget that. I looked up, saw the hood was still up, and froze.
"He's going back," Becky then said. I looked out over the moonlit field again, just in time to see this....thing... scamper around the side of the wall, out of view. As Becky quickly rolled up her car window, I said I was going to shut the hood - to hell with the water, if the radiator didn't burn out we'd stop down the road and add water. "Give me the bottle. I'll dump some in the reservoir and shut the hood, you just start the car." Becky replied. As she got out and went to the front, I turned the key. The engine groaned, trying to turn over. I looked from the steering wheel, to Becky pouring some water into the reservoir, to the wall, and back again. As Becky slammed the hood shut, I looked towards the wall - to see the small, white head of the ghostly entity peering over the top of it.
"Get in the car!" I yelled, as the entity's tiny hands gripped the top of the wall, and it hoisted itself clean over - landing on its feet, running. Running towards us. Becky jumped in the passenger side, locking her door. She no longer had the bottle, which couldn't have been more than half empty now, but, under the circumstances, I didn't ask and I didn't care. I turned the key, still it wouldn't catch. "Oh, god!" Becky murmured. I didn't want to look. I turned the key again, still just that tired groan. Becky leaned over, reaching past me, hitting my door lock with one hand while rolling the window up with the other (it was one of those older, manual window knob rollup jobs). "Hurry!" she said, frightened, as she sat back up. With one more turn of the key, the car finally started, and as I punched the accelerator, I looked toward the field. That little thing was only a few feet from the edge of the road - the edge on the OTHER side of the road, thankfully, but close enough that I could see its eyes were, indeed, dark, empty holes, its mouth was open now, in a wide leering grin, and I could have sworn it had small pointed teeth but it all happened so fast. Its skin, or surface, seemed to be rolling, as the entire entity ran at my car.
As we headed down the road, I turned my rear view mirror in such a way I could see "it" - quite a bit back now, turning away from us, walking alongside the road in the opposite direction. I watched the road ahead. Then, Becky screamed. She had been half turned, looking back at the entity too. Now, she was bent straight over, her head buried in her hands. I turned my rear view mirror to and fro, but only saw the road - "it" was gone.
We drove another twenty minutes or so with the car smoking a small portion of the way. The car overheated again as we entered the outskirts of town, only then would Becky let me stop. As we parked and waited at the first gas station we hit, I asked what had happened. "I was watching it, it stopped at the edge of the road." she answered. "I know," I said, "I saw it walking away." "Yeah," she answered "it was walking away. But as it walked away, its head turned all the way around, still grinning, and it watched us drive away." Needless to say, when we headed back we left at 10.00 am, to be sure we'd get back LONG before nightfall.
I was driving up towards Prescott, Arizona, my girlfriend, Becky, dozing off in the seat next to me. Rolling the window partially down, in the hope that the cool air would keep me alert, I wearily kept driving my Chevy down this narrow highway road, with nothing but a thick forested area on the passenger side of me, and mostly open meadowland, with a few clumps of trees here and there, along the driver's side of the road. I had wanted to leave first thing in the morning on Friday, but Becky was called into work at the last minute, so we ended up leaving at close to eight o'clock that night. Knowing we had to head back before early Monday, I didn't want to wait until the next day to go and end up losing a good chunk of a Saturday to boot.
So here I was, it had to be close to at least ten pm by then. Driving by the light of my dim headlights, with a close to full moon overhead (full enough to see the open expanses of the passing meadow areas, anyway) I noticed some smoke or steam coming up from the sides of my car hood. This, in and of itself, was not unusual as the car was close to fifteen years old, dented up a bit, with dimmer than usual lights and hoses that seemed to know the most inopportune time to break. Add to that, a radiator that overheated during the summer months or when in use for long periods of time. This being early October, I hadn't given the radiator much thought - it hadn't bothered to act up since August, and as the saying goes 'out of sight, out of mind'. But something sure was putting off plumes under the hood, so I nudged Becky and explained in short that I had to pull over.
As I slowed down a bit, Becky rolled down her window and peered out along the edges of the dark wall of pine trees. "Up there," she exclaimed, pointing forward, "about twenty feet or so there's a dirt shoulder of some kind." Slowing to a crawl, feeling safe at the moment as another car hadn't passed us for a number of miles now, I quickly saw the flat, dirt indent, about the length and width of two cars, just to the right of the road. The dirt area, much like that whole side of the road, was lined by a knotted mass of trees, giving it the look of a half circle cut down the middle by the road. I pulled over, and turned the car off - leaving the keys hanging from the ignition. With the headlights on, I got out of the car and walked to the front of it, popping the hood. I had grabbed a flashlight out of the glove box, and so proceeded to inspect the damage.
Sure enough, the radiator had overheated. I bent down a little, to peek between the crack of the hood's bottom edge and the top of the car front, to look at Becky through the front windshield. I was going to call out, to ask her to grab the gallon bottle of water I kept behind the front seat (there since August, at least) so, once it cooled a bit, I could add water to the radiator.
Expecting to see her dozing off, or looking toward me, I was surprised to see her staring wide-eyed, mouth agape, out at the direction of the driver's side window. She was as white as a ghost. "What are you doing?" I demanded to know. She kept staring out at the meadow fields, only raising her arm slightly to point in the direction she was looking. "What?" I said, walking back towards the driver's door. As I did, I looked out into the moonlit meadow. I saw a short line of trees in the distant background, a small pine about 20-25 ft out, directly in line with the back end of the car, and, running about ten feet from that point forward, in a line almost parallel with the road, was a short brick wall, about three feet or so high. A sparse forested area began, about forty feet or so from the wall's edges, in either direction of the small meadow. "So?" I said, "Probably part of an old house, or a fence. What's the big deal about the wall?" As I got into the car, and shut the door to wait for the innards to cool, she replied - slowly, quietly - "It isn't the brick wall. It's what I saw looking at us OVER the top of the wall." I turned to her, "What? Quit screwing around." "Stuff you!" she said, "If I..." Then she stopped talking, and her gaze drifted past me, to the wall.
I turned to look. I saw a small translucent-white stocky humanoid form, just shy of three feet tall, its tiny round eyes from this distance appearing as black as night, standing in front of the wall. It slowly took a step or two towards us, its short chubby arms at its side. I screamed, and tried to turn on the flashlight. I knew the batteries were low, and sometimes had to jiggle it and turn the cap slightly to get it to work, so in my excitement I twisted the cap, the batteries flew out and I just about dirtied by pants. As the batteries were now rolling under the seat and across the floor of the car, I decided to forget that. I looked up, saw the hood was still up, and froze.
"He's going back," Becky then said. I looked out over the moonlit field again, just in time to see this....thing... scamper around the side of the wall, out of view. As Becky quickly rolled up her car window, I said I was going to shut the hood - to hell with the water, if the radiator didn't burn out we'd stop down the road and add water. "Give me the bottle. I'll dump some in the reservoir and shut the hood, you just start the car." Becky replied. As she got out and went to the front, I turned the key. The engine groaned, trying to turn over. I looked from the steering wheel, to Becky pouring some water into the reservoir, to the wall, and back again. As Becky slammed the hood shut, I looked towards the wall - to see the small, white head of the ghostly entity peering over the top of it.
"Get in the car!" I yelled, as the entity's tiny hands gripped the top of the wall, and it hoisted itself clean over - landing on its feet, running. Running towards us. Becky jumped in the passenger side, locking her door. She no longer had the bottle, which couldn't have been more than half empty now, but, under the circumstances, I didn't ask and I didn't care. I turned the key, still it wouldn't catch. "Oh, god!" Becky murmured. I didn't want to look. I turned the key again, still just that tired groan. Becky leaned over, reaching past me, hitting my door lock with one hand while rolling the window up with the other (it was one of those older, manual window knob rollup jobs). "Hurry!" she said, frightened, as she sat back up. With one more turn of the key, the car finally started, and as I punched the accelerator, I looked toward the field. That little thing was only a few feet from the edge of the road - the edge on the OTHER side of the road, thankfully, but close enough that I could see its eyes were, indeed, dark, empty holes, its mouth was open now, in a wide leering grin, and I could have sworn it had small pointed teeth but it all happened so fast. Its skin, or surface, seemed to be rolling, as the entire entity ran at my car.
As we headed down the road, I turned my rear view mirror in such a way I could see "it" - quite a bit back now, turning away from us, walking alongside the road in the opposite direction. I watched the road ahead. Then, Becky screamed. She had been half turned, looking back at the entity too. Now, she was bent straight over, her head buried in her hands. I turned my rear view mirror to and fro, but only saw the road - "it" was gone.
We drove another twenty minutes or so with the car smoking a small portion of the way. The car overheated again as we entered the outskirts of town, only then would Becky let me stop. As we parked and waited at the first gas station we hit, I asked what had happened. "I was watching it, it stopped at the edge of the road." she answered. "I know," I said, "I saw it walking away." "Yeah," she answered "it was walking away. But as it walked away, its head turned all the way around, still grinning, and it watched us drive away." Needless to say, when we headed back we left at 10.00 am, to be sure we'd get back LONG before nightfall.
Head On A Stick !
A young couple were happily driving home well after midnight one night. They had enjoyed a party until the early hours of the morning and were exhausted, both looked forward to getting home and retiring to bed with the sounds of the party still ringing in their ears.
The boy, suddenly feeling that the night was still only young, abruptly took a detour off the main road home. It happens that the road they were already on was fairly desolate and surrounded by thick foliage from the dense forest as it was, but now he had chosen a gravel road, one that looked as if nobody had driven down it for quite a long time with even thicker scrub that was occasionally scraping down the sides of the old car they were driving.
Waking up and wondering where they were going, the girl inquired as to what their new destination was. The boy admitted he felt like going for a bit of drive and spending some "quality time" alone with his girlfriend. He had in mind somewhere dark and secluded, where no interruptions were going to take place. Although the girl was tired, she agreed to the new plans, knowing that the boy was far too pushy for her to say no.
It was a slow drive down the newly chosen dirt road, and the car headlights did nothing to penetrate the thick black night and scrub that surrounded them. Unexpectedly the car hit something on the road. Not knowing what it was the boy stopped immediately and hopped out to investigate. "Oh No!" he exclaimed as he spied a large log wedged underneath. He turned to see that there was also now a large stream of smoke escaping from his old, tired cars engine. The boy kicked at the log, knowing that he would need to do more than kick it to dislodge it from under his car. "Just my luck!" he thought as he got back in the vehicle and told the girl of what had happened.
Wincing, he attempted to restart the vehicle, but being an early model from the 1970's the car complained loudly then died before it ever really fired up. The starter lights showed but no amount of persuading would start the car properly.
"I'm going to have to walk back to the main road for help" he said, shaking his head and gripping the useless steering wheel in front of him. "Stay in the car and I'll be back soon" was his last words as he climbed out of the vehicle, hunched his shoulders and walked off into the darkness on his own.
Although the girl did not like the idea of spending the rest of the night alone, out on a dirt road, god knows where, she was too tired to be bothered to go with him and sleepily thought of how she might nestle down in her passenger seat and dream while he was away getting help. Anyway wasn't it his idea to come way out here?, he should be the one to go find help!.
She watched him in the side mirror for as long as she could see him, which wasn't very long at all, he seemed swallowed by the night and she thought in the back of her mind how stupid he was to take this road, and hoped he would take a while so she could get some decent shut eye.
While happily drifting off to sleep, she wondered if he'd be back before dawn, and also how on earth he would find help when they had seen no traffic on the main road anyhow.
STARTLED, she awoke suddenly. "what was that?!", sleepy confusion was fogging her thoughts as she shook her head with the distinct impression that something had happened while she was asleep, something that woke her but now had passed or stopped. Peering out the windscreen and into the side mirror all she could see was darkness, darkness and more darkness. The night was as quiet as anything, hadn't she heard night noises before? why on earth was it so still and quiet now, surely something must of woken me!.
On edge and feeling cold and shaky from being pulled from such a deep sleep, she now wished she had of noted the time when her boyfriend had gone for help. Checking her watch it seemed as though dawn was about to break through the trees at any moment. It was now 4.30am.
When did he go? Must of been around 2.00am or 2.30 am surely? her mind started flipping backwards to see if it could conjure up the memory of exactly what time he had left for help. "Well whatever time it was, it was ages ago and he should be coming back pretty soon", she quietly admitted to herself.
The night was unbelievably quiet now, need I say, dead quiet, and she had the distinct impression that she wasn't alone. Not being able to see anything in front or behind her she hoped it was her boyfriend returning with help. Goosebumps were beginning to show themselves on her arms and the hair on the back of her neck started to rise up as the blackness outside suddenly seemed to move. "I must be going mad", she said out loud to nobody in particular. She decided that she'd had enough and went for the keys left in the ignition to see if she could get the headlights working. As she stretched over to the drivers seat there was a loud "THUMP" on the roof of the car. Her instant reaction was to jump, nearly hitting her head on the roof and cower back in her seat. Looking madly around, but instinctively not moving a muscle it became apparent to her that she did see something move outside the car, in the darkness.
"THUMP, THUMP". The loud noise happened again, and a small scream escaped from her mouth. What do I do, what is it, somebody help me, were all thoughts running madly through her mind. I'm alone out here in the darkness, what on earth do I do? "THUMP!" there it goes again, somebody is up there!
Tears of utter fear and horror crawled from her eyes and down her cheeks, there was no help, she was alone, and there was most probably a monster on the roof about to eat her.
THUMP.......again..................THUMP THUMP. The fear overcame her, she decided that she wouldn't be a sitting duck, she would open the door and make a run for it. If she couldn't see into the thick darkness of the night, surely the monster couldn't.
"THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP" and that was it. Fumbling with the lock (she'd forgotten that she'd locked all the doors earlier) and the door handle, tears now streaming from here eyes and blurring her vision, she threw the door open, nearly dislodging it from it's hinges, being so terrified and confused instead of making a grand exit and run for it she fell head first from the car and landed flat on her face in the dirt.
As she was attempting to both crawl and regain her feet and run, bright lights suddenly flooded the area. She could only see the bulbs and dark shadows behind the lights. She was rapidly succumbing to shock as she heard some voice saying something into a loud speaker. Dazed and back on her feet, she could only think to stumble un lady like towards the bright lights. Shading her eyes she could still hear the voice, it sounded like a fairly authoritative voice and it was giving some sort of instructions to her.
Again the voice repeated. "Lady, move away from your car towards us and whatever you do, don't look back". Again "Ma'am would you please continue moving towards us do not look back, face us and don't look back". She was now on the brink of fainting and could only fall towards those bright lights. She was caught by a man in uniform which she recognized to be from the local Police Department and could suddenly see past the lights. There were possibly 10 to 15 Squad cars and double that amount of police officers with guns drawn. Before she lost consciousness she decided there was one last thing she had to do. She struggled to flip over and face the car.
On the roof of the car was what appeared to be a monster, or it could it be a deformed human? It had a large stick in its hands and was drooling madly as it laughed and banged it's stick on the car roof. She did not miss that at the end of the stick, was her boyfriends head.
Variations on this story:
The boyfriend is often hanging from a tree with his hands scratching the car roof.
The story has been featured in films such as "Urban Legends" and other teen scream films.
Monday, September 20, 2010
The Monkey's Paw (The Final Part)
In the brightness of the wintry sun next morning as it streamed over the breakfast table Herbert laughed at his fears. There was an air of prosaic wholesomeness about the room which it had lacked on the previous night, and the dirty, shrivelled little paw was pitched on the sideboard with a carelessness which betokened no great belief in its virtues.
"I suppose all old soldiers are the same," said Mrs. White. "The idea of our listening to such nonsense! How could wishes be granted in these days? And if they could, how could two hundred pounds hurt you, father?"
"Might drop on his head from the sky," said the frivolous Herbert.
"Morris said the things happened so naturally," said his father, "that you might if you so wished attribute it to coincidence."
"Well, don't break into the money before I come back," said Herbert as he rose from the table. "I'm afraid it'll turn you into a mean, avaricious man, and we shall have to disown you."
His mother laughed, and following him to the door, watched him down the road, and returning to the breakfast table, was very happy at the expense of her husband's credulity. All of which did not prevent her from scurrying to the door at the postman's knock, nor prevent her from referring somewhat shortly to retired sergeant- majors of bibulous habits when she found that the post brought a tailor's bill.
"Herbert will have some more of his funny remarks, I expect, when he comes home," she said as they sat at dinner."I dare say," said Mr. White, pouring himself out some beer; "but for all that, the thing moved in my hand; that I'll swear to."
"You thought it did," said the old lady, soothingly.
"I say it did," replied the other. "There was no thought about it; I had just -- What's the matter?"
His wife made no reply. She was watching the mysterious movements of a man outside, who, peering in an undecided fashion at the house, appeared to be trying to make up his mind to enter. In mental connection with the two hundred pounds, she noticed that the stranger was well dressed and wore a silk hat of glossy newness. Three times he paused at the gate, and then walked on again. The fourth time he stood with his hand upon it, and then with sudden resolution flung it open and walked up the path. Mrs. White at the same moment placed her hands behind her, and hurriedly unfastening the strings of her apron, put that useful article of apparel beneath the cushion of her chair.
She brought the stranger, who seemed ill at ease, into the room. He gazed furtively at Mrs. White, and listened in a preoccupied fashion as the old lady apologized for the appearance of the room, and her husband's coat, a garment which he usually reserved for the garden. She then waited as patiently as her sex would permit for him to broach his business, but he was at first strangely silent.
"I -- was asked to call," he said at last, and stooped and picked a piece of cotton from his trousers. "I come from 'Maw and Meggins.'"
The old lady started. "Is anything the matter?" she asked, breathlessly. "Has anything happened to Herbert? What is it? What is it?"
Her husband interposed. "There, there, mother," he said, hastily. "Sit down, and don't jump to conclusions. You've not brought bad news, I'm sure, sir," and he eyed the other wistfully.
"I'm sorry -- " began the visitor.
"Is he hurt?" demanded the mother.
The visitor bowed in assent. "Badly hurt," he said, quietly, "but he is not in any pain."
"Oh, thank God!" said the old woman, clasping her hands. "Thank God for that! Thank -- "
She broke off suddenly as the sinister meaning of the assurance dawned upon her and she saw the awful confirmation of her fears in the other's averted face. She caught her breath, and turning to her slower-witted husband, laid her trembling old hand upon his. There was a long silence.
"He was caught in the machinery," said the visitor at length in a low voice.
"Caught in the machinery," repeated Mr. White in a dazed fashion, "yes."
He sat staring blankly out at the window, and taking his wife's hand between his own, pressed it as he had been wont to do in their old courting days nearly forty years before.
"He was the only one left to us," he said, turning gently to the visitor. "It is hard."
The other coughed, and rising, walked slowly to the window. "The firm wished me to convey their sincere sympathy with you in your great loss," he said, without looking round. "I beg that you will understand I am only their servant and merely obeying orders."
There was no reply; the old woman's face was white, her eyes staring, and her breath inaudible; on the husband's face was a look such as his friend the sergeant might have carried into his first action.
"I was to say that Maw and Meggins disclaim all responsibility," continued the other. "They admit no liability at all, but in consideration of your son's service they wish to present you with a certain sum as compensation."
Mr. White dropped his wife's hand, and rising to his feet, gazed with a look of horror at his visitor. His dry lips shaped the words, "How much?"
"Two hundred pounds," was the answer.
Unconscious of his wife's shriek, the old man smiled faintly, put out his hands like a sightless man, and dropped, a senseless heap, to the floor.
In the huge new cemetery, some two miles distant, the old people buried their dead, and came back to a house steeped in shadow and silence. It was all over so quickly that at first they could hardly realize it, and remained in a state of expectation as though of something else to happen -- something else which was to lighten this load, too heavy for old hearts to bear.
But the days passed, and expectation gave place to resignation -- the hopeless resignation of the old, sometimes miscalled apathy. Sometimes they hardly exchanged a word, for now they had nothing to talk about, and their days were long to weariness.
It was about a week after that that the old man, waking suddenly in the night, stretched out his hand and found himself alone. The room was in darkness, and the sound of subdued weeping came from the window. He raised himself in bed and listened.
"Come back," he said, tenderly. "You will be cold."
"It is colder for my son," said the old woman, and wept afresh.
The sound of her sobs died away on his ears. The bed was warm, and his eyes heavy with sleep. He dozed fitfully, and then slept until a sudden wild cry from his wife awoke him with a start.
"The monkey's paw!" she cried, wildly. "The monkey's paw!"
He started up in alarm. "Where? Where is it? What's the matter?"
She came stumbling across the room towards him. "I want it," she said, quietly. "You've not destroyed it?"
"It's in the parlor, on the bracket," he replied, marvelling. "Why?"
She cried and laughed together, and bending over, kissed his cheek.
"I only just thought of it," she said, hysterically. "Why didn't I think of it before? Why didn't you think of it?"
"Think of what?" he questioned.
"The other two wishes," she replied, rapidly. "We've only had one."
"Was not that enough?" he demanded, fiercely.
"No," she cried, triumphantly; "we'll have one more. Go down and get it quickly, and wish our boy alive again."
The man sat up in bed and flung the bedclothes from his quaking limbs. "Good God, you are mad!" he cried, aghast.
"Get it," she panted; "get it quickly, and wish -- Oh, my boy, my boy!"
Her husband struck a match and lit the candle. "Get back to bed," he said, unsteadily. "You don't know what you are saying."
"We had the first wish granted," said the old woman, feverishly; "why not the second?"
"A coincidence," stammered the old man.
"Go and get it and wish," cried the old woman, and dragged him towards the door.
He went down in the darkness, and felt his way to the parlor, and then to the mantel-piece. The talisman was in its place, and a horrible fear that the unspoken wish might bring his mutilated son before him ere he could escape from the room seized upon him, and he caught his breath as he found that he had lost the direction of the door. His brow cold with sweat, he felt his way round the table, and groped along the wall until he found himself in the small passage with the unwholesome thing in his hand.
Even his wife's face seemed changed as he entered the room. It was white and expectant, and to his fears seemed to have an unnatural look upon it. He was afraid of her.
"Wish!" she cried, in a strong voice.
"It is foolish and wicked," he faltered.
"Wish!" repeated his wife.
He raised his hand. "I wish my son alive again."
The talisman fell to the floor, and he regarded it shudderingly. Then he sank trembling into a chair as the old woman, with burning eyes, walked to the window and raised the blind.
He sat until he was chilled with the cold, glancing occasionally at the figure of the old woman peering through the window. The candle end, which had burnt below the rim of the china candlestick, was throwing pulsating shadows on the ceiling and walls, until, with a flicker larger than the rest, it expired. The old man, with an unspeakable sense of relief at the failure of the talisman, crept back to his bed, and a minute or two afterwards the old woman came silently and apathetically beside him.
Neither spoke, but both lay silently listening to the ticking of the clock. A stair creaked, and a squeaky mouse scurried noisily through the wall. The darkness was oppressive, and after lying for some time screwing up his courage, the husband took the box of matches, and striking one, went down stairs for a candle.
At the foot of the stairs the match went out, and he paused to strike another, and at the same moment a knock, so quiet and stealthy as to be scarcely audible, sounded on the front door.
The matches fell from his hand. He stood motionless, his breath suspended until the knock was repeated. Then he turned and fled swiftly back to his room, and closed the door behind him. A third knock sounded through the house.
" What's that?" cried the old woman, starting up.
"A rat," said the old man in shaking tones -- "a rat. It passed me on the stairs."
His wife sat up in bed listening. A loud knock resounded through the house.
"It's Herbert!" she screamed. "It's Herbert!" She ran to the door, but her husband was before her, and catching her by the arm, held her tightly.
"What are you going to do?" he whispered hoarsely.
"It's my boy; it's Herbert!" she cried, struggling mechanically. "I forgot it was two miles away. What are you holding me for? Let go. I must open the door."
"For God's sake don't let it in," cried the old man, trembling.
"You're afraid of your own son," she cried, struggling. "Let me go. I'm coming, Herbert; I'm coming."
There was another knock, and another. The old woman with a sudden wrench broke free and ran from the room. Her husband followed to the landing, and called after her appealingly as she hurried down stairs. He heard the chain rattle back and the bottom bolt drawn slowly and stiffly from the socket. Then the old woman's voice, strained and panting.
"The bolt," she cried loudly. "Come down. I can't reach it."
But her husband was on his hands and knees groping wildly on the floor in search of the paw. If he could only find it before the thing outside got in. A perfect fusillade of knocks reverberated through the house, and he heard the scraping of a chair as his wife put it down in the passage against the door. He heard the creaking of the bolt as it came slowly back, and at the same moment he found the monkey's paw, and frantically breathed his third and last wish.
The knocking ceased suddenly, although the echoes of it were still in the house. He heard the chair drawn back and the door opened. A cold wind rushed up the staircase, and a long loud wail of disappointment and misery from his wife gave him courage to run down to her side, and then to the gate beyond. The street lamp flickering opposite shone on a quiet and deserted road.
THE END
The Monkey's Paw (Part 1)
A Classic Short Horror story written by William Wymark Jacobs (1863-1943) at the turn of the century.
Often quoted as being one of the best short horror stories ever, I think this story is a great spooky read.
WITHOUT, the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlor of Lakesnam Villa the blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly. Father and son were at chess, the former, who possessed ideas about the game involving radical changes, putting his king into such sharp and unnecessary perils that it even provoked comment from the white-haired old lady knitting placidly by the fire.
Often quoted as being one of the best short horror stories ever, I think this story is a great spooky read.
WITHOUT, the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlor of Lakesnam Villa the blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly. Father and son were at chess, the former, who possessed ideas about the game involving radical changes, putting his king into such sharp and unnecessary perils that it even provoked comment from the white-haired old lady knitting placidly by the fire. "Hark at the wind," said Mr. White, who, having seen a fatal mistake after it was too late, was amiably desirous of preventing his son from seeing it.
"I'm listening," said the latter, grimly surveying the board as he stretched out his hand. "Check."
"I should hardly think that he'd come to-night," said his father, with his hand poised over the board.
"Mate," replied the son.
"That's the worst of living so far out," bawled Mr. White, with sudden and unlooked-for violence; "of all the beastly, slushy, out-of-the-way places to live in, this is the worst. Pathway's a bog, and the road's a torrent. I don't know what people are thinking about. I suppose because only two houses on the road are let, they think it doesn't matter."
"Never mind, dear," said his wife, soothingly; "perhaps you'll win the next one."
Mr. White looked up sharply, just in time to intercept a knowing glance between mother and son. The words died away on his lips, and he hid a guilty grin in his thin gray beard.
"There he is," said Herbert White, as the gate banged to loudly and heavy footsteps came towards the door.
The old man rose with hospitable haste, and opening the door, was heard condoling with the new arrival. The new arrival alsocondoled with himself, so that Mrs. White said, "Tut, tut!" and coughed gently as her husband entered the room, followed by a tall burly man, beady of eye and rubicund of visage.
"Sergeant-Major Morris," he said, introducing him.
The sergeant-major shook hands, and taking the proffered seat by the fire, watched contentedly while his host got out whiskey and tumblers and stood a small copper kettle on the fire.
At the third glass his eyes got brighter, and he began to talk, the little family circle regarding with eager interest this visitor from distant parts, as he squared his broad shoulders in the chair and spoke of strange scenes and doughty deeds, of wars and plagues and strange peoples.
"Twenty-one years of it," said Mr. White, nodding at his wife and son. "When he went away he was a slip of a youth in the warehouse. Now look at him."
"He don't look to have taken much harm," said Mrs. White, politely.
"I'd like to go to India myself," said the old man, "just to look round a bit, you know."
"Better where you are," said the sergeant-major, shaking his head. He put down the empty glass, and sighing softly, shook it again.
"I should like to see those old temples and fakirs and jugglers," said the old man. "What was that you started telling me the other day about a monkey's paw or something, Morris?"
"Nothing," said the soldier, hastily. "Leastways nothing worth hearing."
"Monkey's paw?" said Mr. White, curiously.
"Well, it's just a bit of what you might call magic, perhaps," said the sergeant-major, off-handedly.
His three listeners leaned forward eagerly. The visitor absent-mindedly put his empty glass to his lips and then set it down again. His host filled it for him.
"To look at," said the sergeant-major, fumbling in his pocket, "it's just an ordinary little paw, dried to a mummy."
He took something out of his pocket and proffered it. Mrs. White drew back with a grimace, but her son, taking it, examined it curiously.
He took something out of his pocket and proffered it. Mrs. White drew back with a grimace, but her son, taking it, examined it curiously.
"And what is there special about it?" inquired Mr. White as he took it from his son, and having examined it, placed it upon the table.
"It had a spell put on it by an old fakir," said the sergeant- major, "a very holy man. He wanted to show that fate ruled people's lives, and that those who interfered with it did so to their sorrow. He put a spell on it so that three separate men could each have three wishes from it."
His manner was so impressive that his hearers were conscious that their light laughter jarred somewhat.
"Well, why don't you have three, sir?" said Herbert White, cleverly.
The soldier regarded him in the way that middle age is wont to regard presumptuous youth. "I have," he said, quietly, and his blotchy face whitened.
"And did you really have the three wishes granted?" asked Mrs. White.
"I did," said the sergeant-major, and his glass tapped against his strong teeth.
"And has anybody else wished?" inquired the old lady.
"The first man had his three wishes, yes," was the reply. "I don't know what the first two were, but the third was for death. That's how I got the paw."
His tones were so grave that a hush fell upon the group.
"If you've had your three wishes, it's no good to you now, then, Morris," said the old man at last. "What do you keep it for?"
The soldier shook his head. "Fancy, I suppose," he said, slowly. "I did have some idea of selling it, but I don't think I will. It has caused enough mischief already. Besides, people won't buy. They think it's a fairy-tale, some of them, and those who do think anything of it want to try it first and pay me afterwards."
"If you could have another three wishes," said the old man, eying him keenly, "would you have them?"
"I don't know," said the other. "I don't know."
He took the paw, and dangling it between his front finger and thumb, suddenly threw it upon the fire. White, with a slight cry, stooped down and snatched it off.
"Better let it burn," said the soldier, solemnly.
"If you don't want it, Morris," said the old man, "give it to me."
"I won't," said his friend, doggedly. "I threw it on the fire. If you keep it, don't blame me for what happens. Pitch it on the fire again, like a sensible man."
The other shook his head and examined his new possession closely. "How do you do it?" he inquired.
"Hold it up in your right hand and wish aloud," said the sergeant-major, "but I warn you of the consequences."
"Sounds like the Arabian Nights," said Mrs. White, as she rose and began to set the supper. "Don't you think you might wish for four pairs of hands for me?"
Her husband drew the talisman from his pocket, and then all three burst into laughter as the sergeant-major, with a look of alarm on his face, caught him by the arm.
"If you must wish," he said, gruffly, "wish for something sensible."
Mr. White dropped it back into his pocket, and placing chairs, motioned his friend to the table. In the business of supper the talisman was partly forgotten, and afterwards the three sat listening in an enthralled fashion to a second instalment of the soldier's adventures in India.
"If the tale about the monkey paw is not more truthful than those he has been telling us," said Herbert, as the door closed behind their guest, just in time for him to catch the last train, "we sha'n't make much out of it."
"Did you give him anything for it, father?" inquired Mrs. White, regarding her husband closely.
"A trifle," said he, coloring slightly. "He didn't want it, but I made him take it. And he pressed me again to throw it away."
"Likely," said Herbert, with pretended horror. "Why, we're going to be rich, and famous, and happy. Wish to be an emperor, father, to begin with; then you can't be henpecked."
He darted round the table, pursued by the maligned Mrs. White armed with an antimacassar.
Mr. White took the paw from his pocket and eyed it dubiously. "I don't know what to wish for, and that's a fact," he said, slowly. "It seems to me I've got all I want."
"If you only cleared the house, you'd be quite happy, wouldn't you?" said Herbert, with his hand on his shoulder. "Well, wish for two hundred pounds, then; that'll just do it."
His father, smiling shamefacedly at his own credulity, held up the talisman, as his son, with a solemn face somewhat marred by a wink at his mother, sat down at the piano and struck a few impressive chords.
"I wish for two hundred pounds," said the old man, distinctly.
A fine crash from the piano greeted the words, interrupted by a shuddering cry from the old man. His wife and son ran towards him.
"It moved," he cried, with a glance of disgust at the object as it lay on the floor. "As I wished, it twisted in my hands like a snake."
"Well, I don't see the money," said his son as he picked it up and placed it on the table, "and I bet I never shall."
"It must have been your fancy, father," said his wife, regarding him anxiously.
He shook his head. "Never mind, though; there's no harm done, but it gave me a shock all the same."
They sat down by the fire again while the two men finished their pipes. Outside, the wind was higher than ever, and the old man started nervously at the sound of a door banging upstairs. A silence unusual and depressing settled upon all three, which lasted until the old couple rose to retire for the night.
"I expect you'll find the cash tied up in a big bag in the middle of your bed," said Herbert, as he bade them good-night, "and something horrible squatting up on top of the wardrobe watching you as you pocket your ill-gotten gains."
Man-Size in Marble (The Final Part)
I got up early, I remember, and lighted the kitchen fire, and had just achieved a smoky success, when my little wife came running down, as sunny and sweet as the clear October morning itself. We prepared breakfast together, and found it very good fun. The housework was soon done, and when brushes and brooms and pails were quiet again, the house was still indeed. It is wonderful what a difference one makes in a house. We really missed Mrs. Dorman, quite apart from considerations concerning pots and pans. We spent the day in dusting our books and putting them straight, and dined gaily on cold steak and coffee.
Laura was, if possible, brighter and gayer and sweeter than usual, and I began to think that a little domestic toil was really good for her. We had never been so merry since we were married, and the walk we had that afternoon was, I think, the happiest time of all my life. When we had watched the deep scarlet clouds slowly pale into leaden grey against a pale-green sky, and saw the white mists curl up along the hedgerows in the distant marsh, we came back to the house, silently, hand in hand.
"You are sad, my darling," I said, half-jestingly, as we sat down together in our little parlour. I expected a disclaimer, for my own silence had been the silence of complete happiness. To my surprise she said "Yes. I think I am sad, or rather I am uneasy. I don't think I'm very well. I have shivered three or four times since we came in, and it is not cold, is it?" "No," I said, and hoped it was not a chill caught from the treacherous mists that roll up from the marshes in the dying light. No she said, she did not think so. Then, after a silence, she spoke suddenly "Do you ever have presentiments of evil?"
"No," I said, smiling, "and I shouldn't believe in them if I had."
"I do," she went on; "the night my father died I knew it, though he was right away in the north of Scotland." I did not answer in words.
She sat looking at the fire for some time in silence, gently stroking my hand. At last she sprang up, came behind me, and, drawing my head back, kissed me. "There, it's over now," she said. "What a baby I am! Come, light the candles, and we'll have some of these new Rubinstein duets."
And we spent a happy hour or two at the piano.
At about half-past ten I began to long for the good-night pipe, but Laura looked so white that I felt it would be brutal of me to fill our sitting-room with the fumes of strong cavendish. "I'll take my pipe outside," I said. "Let me come, too." "No, sweetheart, not to-night; you're much too tired. I shan't be long. Get to bed, or I shall have an invalid to nurse tomorrow as well as the boots to clean." I kissed her and was turning to go, when she flung her arms round my neck, and held me as if she would never let me go again. I stroked her hair.
"Come, Pussy, you're over-tired. The housework has been too much for you."
She loosened her clasp a little and drew a deep breath. "No. We've been very happy to-day, Jack, haven't we? Don't stay out too long."
"I won't, my dearie."
I strolled out of the front door, leaving it unlatched. What a night it was ! The jagged masses of heavy dark cloud were rolling at intervals from horizon to horizon, and thin white wreaths covered the stars. Through all the rush of the cloud river, the moon swam, breasting the waves and disappearing again in the darkness. When now and again her light reached the woodlands they seemed to be slowly and noiselessly waving in time to the swing of the clouds above them. There was a strange grey light over all the earth; the fields had that shadowy bloom over them which only comes from the marriage of dew and moonshine, or frost and starlight.
I walked up and down, drinking in the beauty of the quiet earth and the changing sky. The night was absolutely silent. Nothing seemed to be abroad. There was no skurrying of rabbits, or twitter of the half-asleep birds. And though the clouds went sailing across the sky, the wind that drove them never came low enough to rustle the dead leaves in the woodland paths. Across the meadows I could see the church tower standing out black and grey against the sky. I walked there thinking over our three months of happiness and of my wife, her dear eyes, her loving ways. Oh, my little girl! my own little girl; what a vision came then of a long, glad life for you and me together!
I heard a bell-beat from the church. Eleven already! I turned to go in, but the night held me. I could not go back into our little warm rooms yet. I would go up to the church. I felt vaguely that it would be good to carry my love and thankfulness to the sanctuary whither so many loads of sorrow and gladness had been borne by the men and women of the dead years.
I looked in at the low window as I went by. Laura was half lying on her chair in front of the fire. I could not see her face, only her little head showed dark against the pale blue wall. She was quite still. Asleep, no doubt. My heart reached out to her, as I went on. There must be a God, I thought, and a God who was good. How otherwise could anything so sweet and dear as she have ever been imagined?
I walked slowly along the edge of the wood. A sound broke the stillness of the night, it was a rustling in the wood. I stopped and listened. The sound stopped too. I went on, and now distinctly heard another step than mine answer mine like an echo. It was a poacher or a wood-stealer, most likely, for these were not unknown in our Arcadian neighbourhood. But whoever it was, he was a fool not to step more lightly. I turned into the wood, and now the footstep seemed to come from the path I had just left. It must be an echo, I thought. The wood looked perfect in the moonlight. The large dying ferns and the brushwood showed where through thinning foliage the pale light came down. The tree trunks stood up like Gothic columns all around me. They reminded me of the church, and I turned into the bier-balk, and passed through the corpse-gate between the graves to the low porch. I paused for a moment on the stone seat where Laura and I had watched the fading landscape. Then I noticed that the door of the church was open, and I blamed myself for having left it unlatched the other night. We were the only people who ever cared to come to the church except on Sundays, and I was vexed to think that through our carelessness the damp autumn airs had had a chance of getting in and injuring the old fabric. I went in. It will seem strange, perhaps, that I should have gone half-way up the aisle before I remembered with a sudden chill, followed by as sudden a rush of self-contempt that this was the very day and hour when, according to tradition, the "shapes drawed out man-size in marble" began to walk.
Having thus remembered the legend, and remembered it with a shiver, of which I was ashamed, I could not do otherwise than walk up towards the altar, just to look at the figures as I said to myself; really what I wanted was to assure myself, first, that I did not believe the legend, and, secondly, that it was not true. I was rather glad that I had come. I thought now I could tell Mrs. Dorman how vain her fancies were, and how peacefully the marble figures slept on through the ghastly hour. With my hands in my pockets I passed up the aisle. In the grey dim light the eastern end of the church looked larger than usual, and the arches above the two tombs looked larger too. The moon came out and showed me the reason. I stopped short, my heart gave a leap that nearly choked me, and then sank sickeningly.
The "bodies drawed out man-size" were gone, and their marble slabs lay wide and bare in the vague moonlight that slanted through the east window.
Were they really gone? or was I mad? Clenching my nerves, I stooped and passed my hand over the smooth slabs, and felt their flat unbroken surface. Had some one taken the things away? Was it some vile practical joke? I would make sure, anyway. In an instant I had made a torch of a newspaper, which happened to be in my pocket, and lighting it held it high above my head. Its yellow glare illumined the dark arches and those slabs. The figures were gone. And I was alone in the church; or was I alone?
And then a horror seized me, a horror indefinable and indescribable an overwhelming certainty of supreme and accomplished calamity. I flung down the torch and tore along the aisle and out through the porch, biting my lips as I ran to keep myself from shrieking aloud. Oh, was I mad or what was this that possessed me? I leaped the churchyard wall and took the straight cut across the fields, led by the light from our windows. Just as I got over the first stile, a dark figure seemed to spring out of the ground. Mad still with that certainty of misfortune, I made for the thing that stood in my path, shouting, "Get out of the way, can't you!"
But my push met with a more vigorous resistance than I had expected. My arms were caught just above the elbow and held as in a vice, and the raw-boned Irish doctor actually shook me.
"Would ye?" he cried, in his own unmistakable accents — "would ye, then?"
"Let me go, you fool," I gasped. "The marble figures have gone from the church; I tell you they've gone."
He broke into a ringing laugh. "I'll have to give ye a draught to-morrow, I see. Ye've bin smoking too much and listening to old wives' tales."
"I tell you, I've seen the bare slabs."
"Well, come back with me. I'm going up to old Palmer's his daughter's ill; we'll look in at the church and let me see the bare slabs."
"You go, if you like," I said, a little less frantic for his laughter; "I'm going home to my wife."
"Rubbish, man," said he; "d'ye think I'll permit of that? Are ye to go saying all yer life that ye've seen solid marble endowed with vitality, and me to go all me life saying ye were a coward? No, sir ye shan't do ut."
The night air a human voice and I think also the physical contact with this six feet of solid common sense, brought me back a little to my ordinary self, and the word "coward" was a mental shower-bath.
"Come on, then," I said sullenly; "perhaps you're right."
He still held my arm tightly. We got over the stile and back to the church. All was still as death. The place smelt very damp and earthy. We walked up the aisle. I am not ashamed to confess that I shut my eyes: I knew the figures would not be there. I heard Kelly strike a match.
"Here they are, ye see, right enough; ye've been dreaming or drinking, asking yer pardon for the imputation."
I opened my eyes. By Kelly's expiring vesta I saw two shapes lying "in their marble" on their slabs. I drew a deep breath, and caught his hand.
"I'm awfully indebted to you," I said. "It must have been some trick of light, or I have been working rather hard, perhaps that's it. Do you know, I was quite convinced they were gone."
"I'm aware of that," he answered rather grimly; "ye'll have to be careful of that brain of yours, my friend, I assure ye."
He was leaning over and looking at the right-hand figure, whose stony face was the most villainous and deadly in expression.
"By Jove," he said, "something has been afoot here this hand is broken."
And so it was. I was certain that it had been perfect the last time Laura and I had been there.
"Perhaps some one has tried to remove them," said the young doctor.
"That won't account for my impression," I objected.
"Too much painting and tobacco will account for that, well enough."
"Come along," I said, "or my wife will be getting anxious. You'll come in and have a drop of whisky and drink confusion to ghosts and better sense to me."
"I ought to go up to Palmer's, but it's so late now I'd best leave it till the morning," he replied. "I was kept late at the Union, and I've had to see a lot of people since. All right, I'll come back with ye."
I think he fancied I needed him more than did Palmer's girl, so, discussing how such an illusion could have been possible, and deducing from this experience large generalities concerning ghostly apparitions, we walked up to our cottage. We saw, as we walked up the garden-path, that bright light streamed out of the front door, and presently saw that the parlour door was open too. Had she gone out?
"Come in," I said, and Dr. Kelly followed me into the parlour. It was all ablaze with candles, not only the wax ones, but at least a dozen guttering, glaring tallow dips, stuck in vases and ornaments in unlikely places. Light, I knew, was Laura's remedy for nervousness. Poor child! Why had I left her? Brute that I was.
We glanced round the room, and at first we did not see her. The window was open, and the draught set all the candles flaring one way. Her chair was empty and her handkerchief and book lay on the floor. I turned to the window. There, in the recess of the window, I saw her. Oh, my child, my love, had she gone to that window to watch for me? And what had come into the room behind her? To what had she turned with that look of frantic fear and horror? Oh, my little one, had she thought that it was I whose step she heard, and turned to meet what?
She had fallen back across a table in the window, and her body lay half on it and half on the window-seat, and her head hung down over the table, the brown hair loosened and fallen to the carpet. Her lips were drawn back, and her eyes wide, wide open. They saw nothing now. What had they seen last?
The doctor moved towards her, but I pushed him aside and sprang to her; caught her in my arms and cried
"It's all right, Laura! I've got you safe, wifie." She fell into my arms in a heap. I clasped her and kissed her, and called her by all her pet names, but I think I knew all the time that she was dead. Her hands were tightly clenched. In one of them she held something fast. When I was quite sure that she was dead, and that nothing mattered at all any more, I let him open her hand to see what she held.
It was a grey marble finger.
Laura was, if possible, brighter and gayer and sweeter than usual, and I began to think that a little domestic toil was really good for her. We had never been so merry since we were married, and the walk we had that afternoon was, I think, the happiest time of all my life. When we had watched the deep scarlet clouds slowly pale into leaden grey against a pale-green sky, and saw the white mists curl up along the hedgerows in the distant marsh, we came back to the house, silently, hand in hand.
"You are sad, my darling," I said, half-jestingly, as we sat down together in our little parlour. I expected a disclaimer, for my own silence had been the silence of complete happiness. To my surprise she said "Yes. I think I am sad, or rather I am uneasy. I don't think I'm very well. I have shivered three or four times since we came in, and it is not cold, is it?" "No," I said, and hoped it was not a chill caught from the treacherous mists that roll up from the marshes in the dying light. No she said, she did not think so. Then, after a silence, she spoke suddenly "Do you ever have presentiments of evil?"
"No," I said, smiling, "and I shouldn't believe in them if I had."
"I do," she went on; "the night my father died I knew it, though he was right away in the north of Scotland." I did not answer in words.
She sat looking at the fire for some time in silence, gently stroking my hand. At last she sprang up, came behind me, and, drawing my head back, kissed me. "There, it's over now," she said. "What a baby I am! Come, light the candles, and we'll have some of these new Rubinstein duets."
And we spent a happy hour or two at the piano.
At about half-past ten I began to long for the good-night pipe, but Laura looked so white that I felt it would be brutal of me to fill our sitting-room with the fumes of strong cavendish. "I'll take my pipe outside," I said. "Let me come, too." "No, sweetheart, not to-night; you're much too tired. I shan't be long. Get to bed, or I shall have an invalid to nurse tomorrow as well as the boots to clean." I kissed her and was turning to go, when she flung her arms round my neck, and held me as if she would never let me go again. I stroked her hair.
"Come, Pussy, you're over-tired. The housework has been too much for you."
She loosened her clasp a little and drew a deep breath. "No. We've been very happy to-day, Jack, haven't we? Don't stay out too long."
"I won't, my dearie."
I strolled out of the front door, leaving it unlatched. What a night it was ! The jagged masses of heavy dark cloud were rolling at intervals from horizon to horizon, and thin white wreaths covered the stars. Through all the rush of the cloud river, the moon swam, breasting the waves and disappearing again in the darkness. When now and again her light reached the woodlands they seemed to be slowly and noiselessly waving in time to the swing of the clouds above them. There was a strange grey light over all the earth; the fields had that shadowy bloom over them which only comes from the marriage of dew and moonshine, or frost and starlight.
I walked up and down, drinking in the beauty of the quiet earth and the changing sky. The night was absolutely silent. Nothing seemed to be abroad. There was no skurrying of rabbits, or twitter of the half-asleep birds. And though the clouds went sailing across the sky, the wind that drove them never came low enough to rustle the dead leaves in the woodland paths. Across the meadows I could see the church tower standing out black and grey against the sky. I walked there thinking over our three months of happiness and of my wife, her dear eyes, her loving ways. Oh, my little girl! my own little girl; what a vision came then of a long, glad life for you and me together!
I heard a bell-beat from the church. Eleven already! I turned to go in, but the night held me. I could not go back into our little warm rooms yet. I would go up to the church. I felt vaguely that it would be good to carry my love and thankfulness to the sanctuary whither so many loads of sorrow and gladness had been borne by the men and women of the dead years.
I looked in at the low window as I went by. Laura was half lying on her chair in front of the fire. I could not see her face, only her little head showed dark against the pale blue wall. She was quite still. Asleep, no doubt. My heart reached out to her, as I went on. There must be a God, I thought, and a God who was good. How otherwise could anything so sweet and dear as she have ever been imagined?
I walked slowly along the edge of the wood. A sound broke the stillness of the night, it was a rustling in the wood. I stopped and listened. The sound stopped too. I went on, and now distinctly heard another step than mine answer mine like an echo. It was a poacher or a wood-stealer, most likely, for these were not unknown in our Arcadian neighbourhood. But whoever it was, he was a fool not to step more lightly. I turned into the wood, and now the footstep seemed to come from the path I had just left. It must be an echo, I thought. The wood looked perfect in the moonlight. The large dying ferns and the brushwood showed where through thinning foliage the pale light came down. The tree trunks stood up like Gothic columns all around me. They reminded me of the church, and I turned into the bier-balk, and passed through the corpse-gate between the graves to the low porch. I paused for a moment on the stone seat where Laura and I had watched the fading landscape. Then I noticed that the door of the church was open, and I blamed myself for having left it unlatched the other night. We were the only people who ever cared to come to the church except on Sundays, and I was vexed to think that through our carelessness the damp autumn airs had had a chance of getting in and injuring the old fabric. I went in. It will seem strange, perhaps, that I should have gone half-way up the aisle before I remembered with a sudden chill, followed by as sudden a rush of self-contempt that this was the very day and hour when, according to tradition, the "shapes drawed out man-size in marble" began to walk.
Having thus remembered the legend, and remembered it with a shiver, of which I was ashamed, I could not do otherwise than walk up towards the altar, just to look at the figures as I said to myself; really what I wanted was to assure myself, first, that I did not believe the legend, and, secondly, that it was not true. I was rather glad that I had come. I thought now I could tell Mrs. Dorman how vain her fancies were, and how peacefully the marble figures slept on through the ghastly hour. With my hands in my pockets I passed up the aisle. In the grey dim light the eastern end of the church looked larger than usual, and the arches above the two tombs looked larger too. The moon came out and showed me the reason. I stopped short, my heart gave a leap that nearly choked me, and then sank sickeningly. The "bodies drawed out man-size" were gone, and their marble slabs lay wide and bare in the vague moonlight that slanted through the east window.
Were they really gone? or was I mad? Clenching my nerves, I stooped and passed my hand over the smooth slabs, and felt their flat unbroken surface. Had some one taken the things away? Was it some vile practical joke? I would make sure, anyway. In an instant I had made a torch of a newspaper, which happened to be in my pocket, and lighting it held it high above my head. Its yellow glare illumined the dark arches and those slabs. The figures were gone. And I was alone in the church; or was I alone?
And then a horror seized me, a horror indefinable and indescribable an overwhelming certainty of supreme and accomplished calamity. I flung down the torch and tore along the aisle and out through the porch, biting my lips as I ran to keep myself from shrieking aloud. Oh, was I mad or what was this that possessed me? I leaped the churchyard wall and took the straight cut across the fields, led by the light from our windows. Just as I got over the first stile, a dark figure seemed to spring out of the ground. Mad still with that certainty of misfortune, I made for the thing that stood in my path, shouting, "Get out of the way, can't you!"
But my push met with a more vigorous resistance than I had expected. My arms were caught just above the elbow and held as in a vice, and the raw-boned Irish doctor actually shook me.
"Would ye?" he cried, in his own unmistakable accents — "would ye, then?"
"Let me go, you fool," I gasped. "The marble figures have gone from the church; I tell you they've gone."
He broke into a ringing laugh. "I'll have to give ye a draught to-morrow, I see. Ye've bin smoking too much and listening to old wives' tales."
"I tell you, I've seen the bare slabs."
"Well, come back with me. I'm going up to old Palmer's his daughter's ill; we'll look in at the church and let me see the bare slabs."
"You go, if you like," I said, a little less frantic for his laughter; "I'm going home to my wife."
"Rubbish, man," said he; "d'ye think I'll permit of that? Are ye to go saying all yer life that ye've seen solid marble endowed with vitality, and me to go all me life saying ye were a coward? No, sir ye shan't do ut."
The night air a human voice and I think also the physical contact with this six feet of solid common sense, brought me back a little to my ordinary self, and the word "coward" was a mental shower-bath.
"Come on, then," I said sullenly; "perhaps you're right."
He still held my arm tightly. We got over the stile and back to the church. All was still as death. The place smelt very damp and earthy. We walked up the aisle. I am not ashamed to confess that I shut my eyes: I knew the figures would not be there. I heard Kelly strike a match.
"Here they are, ye see, right enough; ye've been dreaming or drinking, asking yer pardon for the imputation."
I opened my eyes. By Kelly's expiring vesta I saw two shapes lying "in their marble" on their slabs. I drew a deep breath, and caught his hand.
"I'm awfully indebted to you," I said. "It must have been some trick of light, or I have been working rather hard, perhaps that's it. Do you know, I was quite convinced they were gone."
"I'm aware of that," he answered rather grimly; "ye'll have to be careful of that brain of yours, my friend, I assure ye."
He was leaning over and looking at the right-hand figure, whose stony face was the most villainous and deadly in expression.
"By Jove," he said, "something has been afoot here this hand is broken."
And so it was. I was certain that it had been perfect the last time Laura and I had been there.
"Perhaps some one has tried to remove them," said the young doctor.
"That won't account for my impression," I objected.
"Too much painting and tobacco will account for that, well enough."
"Come along," I said, "or my wife will be getting anxious. You'll come in and have a drop of whisky and drink confusion to ghosts and better sense to me."
"I ought to go up to Palmer's, but it's so late now I'd best leave it till the morning," he replied. "I was kept late at the Union, and I've had to see a lot of people since. All right, I'll come back with ye."
I think he fancied I needed him more than did Palmer's girl, so, discussing how such an illusion could have been possible, and deducing from this experience large generalities concerning ghostly apparitions, we walked up to our cottage. We saw, as we walked up the garden-path, that bright light streamed out of the front door, and presently saw that the parlour door was open too. Had she gone out?
"Come in," I said, and Dr. Kelly followed me into the parlour. It was all ablaze with candles, not only the wax ones, but at least a dozen guttering, glaring tallow dips, stuck in vases and ornaments in unlikely places. Light, I knew, was Laura's remedy for nervousness. Poor child! Why had I left her? Brute that I was.
We glanced round the room, and at first we did not see her. The window was open, and the draught set all the candles flaring one way. Her chair was empty and her handkerchief and book lay on the floor. I turned to the window. There, in the recess of the window, I saw her. Oh, my child, my love, had she gone to that window to watch for me? And what had come into the room behind her? To what had she turned with that look of frantic fear and horror? Oh, my little one, had she thought that it was I whose step she heard, and turned to meet what?
She had fallen back across a table in the window, and her body lay half on it and half on the window-seat, and her head hung down over the table, the brown hair loosened and fallen to the carpet. Her lips were drawn back, and her eyes wide, wide open. They saw nothing now. What had they seen last?
The doctor moved towards her, but I pushed him aside and sprang to her; caught her in my arms and cried
"It's all right, Laura! I've got you safe, wifie." She fell into my arms in a heap. I clasped her and kissed her, and called her by all her pet names, but I think I knew all the time that she was dead. Her hands were tightly clenched. In one of them she held something fast. When I was quite sure that she was dead, and that nothing mattered at all any more, I let him open her hand to see what she held.
It was a grey marble finger.
Man-Size in Marble (Part 2)
The church was a large and lonely one, and we loved to go there, especially upon bright nights. The path skirted a wood, cut through it once, and ran along the crest of the hill through two meadows, and round the churchyard wall, over which the old yews loomed in black masses of shadow. This path, which was partly paved, was called "the bier-balk," for it had long been the way by which the corpses had been carried to burial. The churchyard was richly treed, and was shaded by great elms which stood just outside and stretched their majestic arms in benediction over the happy dead. A large, low porch let one into the building by a Norman doorway and a heavy oak door studded with iron.
Inside, the arches rose into darkness, and between them the reticulated windows, which stood out white in the moonlight. In the chancel, the windows were of rich glass, which showed in faint light their noble colouring, and made the black oak of the choir pews hardly more solid than the shadows. But on each side of the altar lay a grey marble figure of a knight in full plate armour lying upon a low slab, with hands held up in everlasting prayer, and these figures, oddly enough, were always to be seen if there was any glimmer of light in the church.
Their names were lost, but the peasants told of them that they had been fierce and wicked men, marauders by land and sea, who had been the scourge of their time, and had been guilty of deeds so foul that the house they had lived in the big house, by the way, that had stood on the site of our cottage had been stricken by lightning and the vengeance of Heaven. But for all that, the gold of their heirs had bought them a place in the church. Looking at the bad hard faces reproduced in the marble, this story was easily believed.
The church looked at its best and weirdest on that night, for the shadows of the yew trees fell through the windows upon the floor of the nave and touched the pillars with tattered shade. We sat down together without speaking, and watched the solemn beauty of the old church, with some of that awe which inspired its early builders. We walked to the chancel and looked at the sleeping warriors. Then we rested some time on the stone seat in the porch, looking out over the stretch of quiet moonlit meadows, feeling in every fibre of our being the peace of the night and of our happy love; and came away at last with a sense that even scrubbing and blackleading were but small troubles at their worst.
Mrs. Dorman had come back from the village, and I at once invited her to a tête-à-tête. "Now, Mrs. Dorman," I said, when I had got her into my painting room, "what's all this about your not staying with us?"
"I should be glad to get away, sir, before the end of the month," she answered, with her usual placid dignity.
"Have you any fault to find, Mrs. Dorman?"
"None at all, sir; you and your lady have always been most kind, I'm sure"
"Well, what is it? Are your wages not high enough?"
"No, sir, I gets quite enough."
"Then why not stay?"
"I'd rather not" with some hesitation "my niece is ill."
"But your niece has been ill ever since we came."
No answer. There was a long and awkward silence. I broke it.
"Can't you stay for another month?" I asked.
"No, sir. I'm bound to go by Thursday."
And this was Monday!
"Well, I must say, I think you might have let us know before. There's no time now to get any one else, and your mistress is not fit to do heavy housework. Can't you stay till next week?"
"I might be able to come back next week."
I was now convinced that all she wanted was a brief holiday, which we should have been willing enough to let her have, as soon as we could get a substitute.
"But why must you go this week?" I persisted. "Come, out with it."
Mrs. Dorman drew the little shawl, which she always wore, tightly across her bosom, as though she were cold. Then she said, with a sort of effort
"They say, sir, as this was a big house in Catholic times, and there was a many deeds done here."
The nature of the "deeds" might be vaguely inferred from the inflection of Mrs. Dorman's voice which was enough to make one's blood run cold. I was glad that Laura was not in the room. She was always nervous, as highly-strung natures are, and I felt that these tales about our house, told by this old peasant woman, with her impressive manner and contagious credulity, might have made our home less dear to my wife.
"Tell me all about it, Mrs. Dorman," I said; "you needn't mind about telling me. I'm not like the young people who make fun of such things."
Which was partly true.
"Well, sir" she sank her voice "you may have seen in the church, beside the altar, two shapes."
"You mean the effigies of the knights in armour," I said cheerfully.
"I mean them two bodies, drawed out man-size in marble," she returned, and I had to admit that her description was a thousand times more graphic than mine, to say nothing of a certain weird force and uncanniness about the phrase "drawed out man-size in marble."
"They do say, as on All Saints' Eve them two bodies sits up on their slabs, and gets off of them, and then walks down the aisle, in their marble" (another good phrase, Mrs. Dorman) "and as the church clock strikes eleven they walks out of the church door, and over the graves, and along the bier-balk, and if it's a wet night there's the marks of their feet in the morning."
"And where do they go?" I asked, rather fascinated.
"They comes back here to their home, sir, and if any one meets them"
"Well, what then?" I asked.
But no not another word could I get from her, save that her niece was ill and she must go. After what I had heard I scorned to discuss the niece, and tried to get from Mrs. Dorman more details of the legend. I could get nothing but warnings.
"Whatever you do, sir, lock the door early on All Saints' Eve, and make the cross-sign over the doorstep and on the windows."
"But has any one ever seen these things?" I persisted.
"That's not for me to say. I know what I know, sir."
"Well, who was here last year?"
"No one, sir; the lady as owned the house only stayed here in summer, and she always went to London a full month afore the night. And I'm sorry to inconvenience you and your lady, but my niece is ill and I must go on Thursday."
I could have shaken her for her absurd reiteration of that obvious fiction, after she had told me her real reasons. She was determined to go, nor could our united entreaties move her in the least.
I did not tell Laura the legend of the shapes that "walked in their marble," partly because a legend concerning our house might perhaps trouble my wife, and partly, I think, from some more occult reason. This was not quite the same to me as any other story, and I did not want to talk about it till the day was over. I had very soon ceased to think of the legend, however.
I was painting a portrait of Laura, against the lattice window, and I could not think of much else. I had got a splendid background of yellow and grey sunset, and was working away with enthusiasm at her lace. On Thursday Mrs. Dorman went. She relented, at parting, so far as to say "Don't you put yourself about too much, ma'am, and if there's any little thing I can do next week, I'm sure I shan't mind." From which I inferred that she wished to come back to us after Hallowe'en. Up to the last she adhered to the fiction of the niece with touching fidelity.
Thursday passed off pretty well. Laura showed marked ability in the matter of steak and potatoes, and I confess that my knives, and the plates, which I insisted upon washing, were better done than I had dared to expect. Friday came. It is about what happened on that Friday that this is written. I wonder if I should have believed it, if any one had told it to me. I will write the story of it as quickly and plainly as I can. Everything that happened on that day is burnt into my brain. I shall not forget anything, nor leave anything out.(continued...............)
Inside, the arches rose into darkness, and between them the reticulated windows, which stood out white in the moonlight. In the chancel, the windows were of rich glass, which showed in faint light their noble colouring, and made the black oak of the choir pews hardly more solid than the shadows. But on each side of the altar lay a grey marble figure of a knight in full plate armour lying upon a low slab, with hands held up in everlasting prayer, and these figures, oddly enough, were always to be seen if there was any glimmer of light in the church.
Their names were lost, but the peasants told of them that they had been fierce and wicked men, marauders by land and sea, who had been the scourge of their time, and had been guilty of deeds so foul that the house they had lived in the big house, by the way, that had stood on the site of our cottage had been stricken by lightning and the vengeance of Heaven. But for all that, the gold of their heirs had bought them a place in the church. Looking at the bad hard faces reproduced in the marble, this story was easily believed.
The church looked at its best and weirdest on that night, for the shadows of the yew trees fell through the windows upon the floor of the nave and touched the pillars with tattered shade. We sat down together without speaking, and watched the solemn beauty of the old church, with some of that awe which inspired its early builders. We walked to the chancel and looked at the sleeping warriors. Then we rested some time on the stone seat in the porch, looking out over the stretch of quiet moonlit meadows, feeling in every fibre of our being the peace of the night and of our happy love; and came away at last with a sense that even scrubbing and blackleading were but small troubles at their worst.
Mrs. Dorman had come back from the village, and I at once invited her to a tête-à-tête. "Now, Mrs. Dorman," I said, when I had got her into my painting room, "what's all this about your not staying with us?"
"I should be glad to get away, sir, before the end of the month," she answered, with her usual placid dignity.
"Have you any fault to find, Mrs. Dorman?"
"None at all, sir; you and your lady have always been most kind, I'm sure"
"Well, what is it? Are your wages not high enough?"
"No, sir, I gets quite enough."
"Then why not stay?"
"I'd rather not" with some hesitation "my niece is ill."
"But your niece has been ill ever since we came."
No answer. There was a long and awkward silence. I broke it.
"Can't you stay for another month?" I asked.
"No, sir. I'm bound to go by Thursday."
And this was Monday!
"Well, I must say, I think you might have let us know before. There's no time now to get any one else, and your mistress is not fit to do heavy housework. Can't you stay till next week?"
"I might be able to come back next week."
I was now convinced that all she wanted was a brief holiday, which we should have been willing enough to let her have, as soon as we could get a substitute.
"But why must you go this week?" I persisted. "Come, out with it."
Mrs. Dorman drew the little shawl, which she always wore, tightly across her bosom, as though she were cold. Then she said, with a sort of effort
"They say, sir, as this was a big house in Catholic times, and there was a many deeds done here."
The nature of the "deeds" might be vaguely inferred from the inflection of Mrs. Dorman's voice which was enough to make one's blood run cold. I was glad that Laura was not in the room. She was always nervous, as highly-strung natures are, and I felt that these tales about our house, told by this old peasant woman, with her impressive manner and contagious credulity, might have made our home less dear to my wife.
"Tell me all about it, Mrs. Dorman," I said; "you needn't mind about telling me. I'm not like the young people who make fun of such things."
Which was partly true.
"Well, sir" she sank her voice "you may have seen in the church, beside the altar, two shapes."
"You mean the effigies of the knights in armour," I said cheerfully.
"I mean them two bodies, drawed out man-size in marble," she returned, and I had to admit that her description was a thousand times more graphic than mine, to say nothing of a certain weird force and uncanniness about the phrase "drawed out man-size in marble."
"They do say, as on All Saints' Eve them two bodies sits up on their slabs, and gets off of them, and then walks down the aisle, in their marble" (another good phrase, Mrs. Dorman) "and as the church clock strikes eleven they walks out of the church door, and over the graves, and along the bier-balk, and if it's a wet night there's the marks of their feet in the morning."
"And where do they go?" I asked, rather fascinated.
"They comes back here to their home, sir, and if any one meets them"
"Well, what then?" I asked.
But no not another word could I get from her, save that her niece was ill and she must go. After what I had heard I scorned to discuss the niece, and tried to get from Mrs. Dorman more details of the legend. I could get nothing but warnings.
"Whatever you do, sir, lock the door early on All Saints' Eve, and make the cross-sign over the doorstep and on the windows."
"But has any one ever seen these things?" I persisted.
"That's not for me to say. I know what I know, sir."
"Well, who was here last year?"
"No one, sir; the lady as owned the house only stayed here in summer, and she always went to London a full month afore the night. And I'm sorry to inconvenience you and your lady, but my niece is ill and I must go on Thursday."
I could have shaken her for her absurd reiteration of that obvious fiction, after she had told me her real reasons. She was determined to go, nor could our united entreaties move her in the least.
I did not tell Laura the legend of the shapes that "walked in their marble," partly because a legend concerning our house might perhaps trouble my wife, and partly, I think, from some more occult reason. This was not quite the same to me as any other story, and I did not want to talk about it till the day was over. I had very soon ceased to think of the legend, however.
I was painting a portrait of Laura, against the lattice window, and I could not think of much else. I had got a splendid background of yellow and grey sunset, and was working away with enthusiasm at her lace. On Thursday Mrs. Dorman went. She relented, at parting, so far as to say "Don't you put yourself about too much, ma'am, and if there's any little thing I can do next week, I'm sure I shan't mind." From which I inferred that she wished to come back to us after Hallowe'en. Up to the last she adhered to the fiction of the niece with touching fidelity.
Thursday passed off pretty well. Laura showed marked ability in the matter of steak and potatoes, and I confess that my knives, and the plates, which I insisted upon washing, were better done than I had dared to expect. Friday came. It is about what happened on that Friday that this is written. I wonder if I should have believed it, if any one had told it to me. I will write the story of it as quickly and plainly as I can. Everything that happened on that day is burnt into my brain. I shall not forget anything, nor leave anything out.(continued...............)
Man-Size in Marble (Part 1)
Although every word of this story is as true as despair, I do not expect people to believe it. Nowadays a "rational explanation" is required before belief is possible. Let me then, at once, offer the "rational explanation" which finds most favour among those who have heard the tale of my life's tragedy. It is held that we were "under a delusion," Laura and I, on that 31st of October; and that this supposition places the whole matter on a satisfactory and believable basis.The reader can judge, when he, too, has heard my story, how far this is an "explanation," and in what sense it is "rational." There were three who took part in this; Laura and I and another man. The other man still lives, and can speak to the truth of the least credible part of my story.
I never knew in my life what it was to have as much money as I required to supply the most ordinary needs of life good colours, canvases, brushes, books and cab-fares and when we were married, we knew quite well that we should only be able to live at all by "strict punctuality and attention to business." I used to paint in those days, and Laura used to write, and we felt sure we could keep the pot at least simmering. Living in town was out of the question, so we went to look for a cottage in the country, which should be at once sanitary and picturesque. So rarely do these two qualities meet in one cottage that our search was for some time quite fruitless. We tried advertisements, but most of the desirable rural residences which we did look at, proved to be lacking in both essentials, and when a cottage chanced to have drains, it always had stucco as well and was shaped like a tea-caddy. And if we found a vine or rose-covered porch, corruption invariably lurked within. Our minds got so befogged by the eloquence of house-agents, and the rival disadvantages of the fever-traps and outrages to beauty which we had seen and scorned, that I very much doubt whether either of us on our wedding morning, knew the difference between a house and a haystack. But when we got away from friends and house-agents, on our honeymoon, our wits grew clear again, and we knew a pretty cottage when at last we saw one.
It was at Brenzett a little village set on a hill over against the southern marshes. We had gone there, from the seaside village where we were staying, to see the church, and two fields from the church we found this cottage. It stood quite by itself, about two miles from the village. It was a long, low building, with rooms sticking out in unexpected places. There was a bit of stone-work ivy-covered and moss-grown, just two old rooms, all that was left of a big house that had once stood there and round this stone-work the house had grown up. Stripped of its roses and jasmine it would have been hideous. As it stood it was charming, and after a brief examination we took it. It was absurdly cheap.
The rest of our honeymoon we spent in grubbing about in second-hand shops in the county town, picking up bits of old oak and Chippendale chairs for our furnishing. We wound up with a run up to town and a visit to Liberty's, and soon the low oak-beamed lattice-windowed rooms began to be home. There was a jolly old-fashioned garden, with grass paths, and no end of hollyhocks and sunflowers, and big lilies. From the window you could see the marsh-pastures, and beyond them the blue, thin line of the sea.
We were as happy as the summer was glorious, and settled down into work sooner than we ourselves expected. I was never tired of sketching the view and the wonderful cloud effects from the open lattice, and Laura would sit at the table and write verses about them, in which I mostly played the part of foreground.
We got a tall old peasant woman to do for us. Her face and figure were good, though her cooking was of the homeliest; but she understood all about gardening, and told us all the old names of the coppices and cornfields, and the stories of the smugglers and highwaymen, and, better still, of the "things that walked," and of the "sights" which met one in lonely glens of a starlight night. She was a great comfort to us, because Laura hated housekeeping as much as I loved folklore, and we soon came to leave all the domestic business to Mrs. Dorman, and to use her legends in little magazine stories which brought in the jingling guinea.
We had three months of married happiness, and did not have a single quarrel. One October evening I had been down to smoke a pipe with the doctor our only neighbour a pleasant young Irishman. Laura had stayed at home to finish a comic sketch of a village episode for the Monthly Marplot. I left her laughing over her own jokes, and came in to find her a crumpled heap of pale muslin weeping on the window seat.
"Good heavens, my darling, what's the matter?" I cried, taking her in my arms. She leaned her little dark head against my shoulder and went on crying. I had never seen her cry before we had always been so happy, you see and I felt sure some frightful misfortune had happened.
"What is the matter? Do speak."
"It's Mrs. Dorman," she sobbed.
"What has she done?" I inquired, immensely relieved.
"She says she must go before the end of the month, and she says her niece is ill; she's gone down to see her now, but I don't believe that's the reason, because her niece is always ill. I believe someone has been setting her against us. Her manner was so queer". "Never mind, Pussy," I said; "whatever you do, don't cry, or I shall have to cry too, to keep you in countenance, and then you'll never respect your man again!" She dried her eyes obediently on my handkerchief, and even smiled faintly. "But you see," she went on, "it is really serious, because these village people are so sheepy, and if one won't do a thing you may be quite sure none of the others will. And I shall have to cook the dinners, and wash up the hateful greasy plates; and you'll have to carry cans of water about, and clean the boots and knives and we shall never have any time for work, or earn any money, or anything. We shall have to work all day, and only be able to rest when we are waiting for the kettle to boil!"
I represented to her that even if we had to perform these duties, the day would still present some margin for other toils and recreations. But she refused to see the matter in any but the greyest light. She was very unreasonable, my Laura, but I could not have loved her any more if she had been as reasonable as Whately.
"I'll speak to Mrs. Dorman when she comes back, and see if I can't come to terms with her," I said. "Perhaps she wants a rise in her screw. It will be all right. Let's walk up to the church."
I never knew in my life what it was to have as much money as I required to supply the most ordinary needs of life good colours, canvases, brushes, books and cab-fares and when we were married, we knew quite well that we should only be able to live at all by "strict punctuality and attention to business." I used to paint in those days, and Laura used to write, and we felt sure we could keep the pot at least simmering. Living in town was out of the question, so we went to look for a cottage in the country, which should be at once sanitary and picturesque. So rarely do these two qualities meet in one cottage that our search was for some time quite fruitless. We tried advertisements, but most of the desirable rural residences which we did look at, proved to be lacking in both essentials, and when a cottage chanced to have drains, it always had stucco as well and was shaped like a tea-caddy. And if we found a vine or rose-covered porch, corruption invariably lurked within. Our minds got so befogged by the eloquence of house-agents, and the rival disadvantages of the fever-traps and outrages to beauty which we had seen and scorned, that I very much doubt whether either of us on our wedding morning, knew the difference between a house and a haystack. But when we got away from friends and house-agents, on our honeymoon, our wits grew clear again, and we knew a pretty cottage when at last we saw one.
It was at Brenzett a little village set on a hill over against the southern marshes. We had gone there, from the seaside village where we were staying, to see the church, and two fields from the church we found this cottage. It stood quite by itself, about two miles from the village. It was a long, low building, with rooms sticking out in unexpected places. There was a bit of stone-work ivy-covered and moss-grown, just two old rooms, all that was left of a big house that had once stood there and round this stone-work the house had grown up. Stripped of its roses and jasmine it would have been hideous. As it stood it was charming, and after a brief examination we took it. It was absurdly cheap.
The rest of our honeymoon we spent in grubbing about in second-hand shops in the county town, picking up bits of old oak and Chippendale chairs for our furnishing. We wound up with a run up to town and a visit to Liberty's, and soon the low oak-beamed lattice-windowed rooms began to be home. There was a jolly old-fashioned garden, with grass paths, and no end of hollyhocks and sunflowers, and big lilies. From the window you could see the marsh-pastures, and beyond them the blue, thin line of the sea.
We were as happy as the summer was glorious, and settled down into work sooner than we ourselves expected. I was never tired of sketching the view and the wonderful cloud effects from the open lattice, and Laura would sit at the table and write verses about them, in which I mostly played the part of foreground.
We got a tall old peasant woman to do for us. Her face and figure were good, though her cooking was of the homeliest; but she understood all about gardening, and told us all the old names of the coppices and cornfields, and the stories of the smugglers and highwaymen, and, better still, of the "things that walked," and of the "sights" which met one in lonely glens of a starlight night. She was a great comfort to us, because Laura hated housekeeping as much as I loved folklore, and we soon came to leave all the domestic business to Mrs. Dorman, and to use her legends in little magazine stories which brought in the jingling guinea.
We had three months of married happiness, and did not have a single quarrel. One October evening I had been down to smoke a pipe with the doctor our only neighbour a pleasant young Irishman. Laura had stayed at home to finish a comic sketch of a village episode for the Monthly Marplot. I left her laughing over her own jokes, and came in to find her a crumpled heap of pale muslin weeping on the window seat.
"Good heavens, my darling, what's the matter?" I cried, taking her in my arms. She leaned her little dark head against my shoulder and went on crying. I had never seen her cry before we had always been so happy, you see and I felt sure some frightful misfortune had happened.
"What is the matter? Do speak."
"It's Mrs. Dorman," she sobbed.
"What has she done?" I inquired, immensely relieved.
"She says she must go before the end of the month, and she says her niece is ill; she's gone down to see her now, but I don't believe that's the reason, because her niece is always ill. I believe someone has been setting her against us. Her manner was so queer". "Never mind, Pussy," I said; "whatever you do, don't cry, or I shall have to cry too, to keep you in countenance, and then you'll never respect your man again!" She dried her eyes obediently on my handkerchief, and even smiled faintly. "But you see," she went on, "it is really serious, because these village people are so sheepy, and if one won't do a thing you may be quite sure none of the others will. And I shall have to cook the dinners, and wash up the hateful greasy plates; and you'll have to carry cans of water about, and clean the boots and knives and we shall never have any time for work, or earn any money, or anything. We shall have to work all day, and only be able to rest when we are waiting for the kettle to boil!"
I represented to her that even if we had to perform these duties, the day would still present some margin for other toils and recreations. But she refused to see the matter in any but the greyest light. She was very unreasonable, my Laura, but I could not have loved her any more if she had been as reasonable as Whately.
"I'll speak to Mrs. Dorman when she comes back, and see if I can't come to terms with her," I said. "Perhaps she wants a rise in her screw. It will be all right. Let's walk up to the church."
THE FURRY COLLAR
It was December 26, and my very dear friend, Sara, had just received a pair of new pajamas. They were so beautiful! They were red, but the red was very deep and rich, almost blood red. The best part was the furry collar. It was so soft, almost like clouds or real fur. I envied her so much because I wanted pajamas like hers. Her parents travelled a lot, business, and when they did, I would spend the night with her. I did it just to keep her company, but her parents also felt that it was better if she had someone there in case something happened.
On this particular night in December, her parents went to a Christmas party and would not be home until very late (like 4:00 A.M.), so, I packed some clothes and headed over to her house around 8:00 P.M.
When I got there, I rang the doorbell (you should know that she is always aware that I am spending the night, so she is always waiting by the door), but this time it took her quite a while to answer the door. When she finally did, she was wearing the new pajamas that I loved so much. The long, deep red sleeves reached out to her finger tips, proving that they were a little too big for her, and the rich red pants hung loosely around her feet so that I could not even see her toes.
When I got inside, I ran up the stairs to change into my pajamas. They were not as nice as Sara's, but they were OK As I ran up the stairs, I got a funny feeling, like something was chasing me, but I always get nervous in her house. It's so big and most of the time it's mainly dark in most of the rooms.
When I got back downstairs, Sara put on a movie for us to watch. I love to watch scary movies at night, like Stephen King movies.( HINT: THAT'S WHY I'M ON THIS SITE!) Sara does not like those kinds of movies, so, since it was her house, we watched one of her movies.
Halfway through the movie, she offered to make popcorn. So, while she was in the kitchen, I kept on watching the movie. It was just getting interesting when, all of a sudden the TV changed channels! It was on the video channel, so it would have gone staticy if I had pushed the channel button. The new show that was on was very weird. It was pitch back, but I could hear a faint muffled sound. Then, a faint "THUMP, THUMP.". This repeated several times, but each time, it got softer and softer, like it was getting farther and farther away. After about 60 seconds, it went away and the movie was back on, like nothing had ever happened.
Sara came back with the popcorn, and I did not mention the "THUMP, THUMP." to her.
After the movie finished, we decided to head upstairs. I had totally forgotten the "THUMP,THUMP." As we slowly walked up the stairs, I noticed that feeling I had gotten the first time I walked up the stairs. I also noticed that my pace quickened, so did Sara's. Before I knew what was happening we were running as fast as we could up to her room and did not stop until the door to her room was locked tight.
Smiling weakly to her, I tried to talk myself into telling me that it was just my imagination, but Sara was also running as fast as I was!
We sat on her bed and talked about anything other than what just happened. Everything was going OK, like nothing had happened, like everything was fine, until Sara jumped up as fast as she could, ran to the light switch, turned the lights out and and ran out of her bedroom door.
I sat frozen in fear, I could not move, I did not want to move. I just sat there, staring into the pitch blackness. Then, all of the sudden I heard a soft "THUMP,THUMP". My mind flashed back to the tape. It started to get louder and louder, instead of softer and softer. Then I knew. Something was coming up the stairs, so when I was downstairs, "IT" was going up, so it would sound softer. But this was coming up the stairs, so "IT" was getting louder. And louder! Then it stopped right outside Sara's door. "Sara, is that you?", no answer. I finally got the nerve to stand. I walked to the door, thinking that Sara was just trying to scare me, or I was HOPING that she was. I don't know what made me do it, but I decided to reach out and touch her, just to see if it was her. So, gathering up all of my strength I reached out my arm and touched those soft new pajamas. I almost fainted from relief, it was Sara.
"OK, Sara that was NOT funny! You almost scared the $@#%&* out of me!!! Sara? Sara?' She was not answering me at all. She did not even move. I slowly made my way up the sleeve of her arm. Then I touched the furry collar. I was in a state of giddiness . I had to force my hand up past it, up to her neck, and then.....NOTHING!! There was only a bloody stump where her head was supposed to be!!!!
On this particular night in December, her parents went to a Christmas party and would not be home until very late (like 4:00 A.M.), so, I packed some clothes and headed over to her house around 8:00 P.M.
When I got there, I rang the doorbell (you should know that she is always aware that I am spending the night, so she is always waiting by the door), but this time it took her quite a while to answer the door. When she finally did, she was wearing the new pajamas that I loved so much. The long, deep red sleeves reached out to her finger tips, proving that they were a little too big for her, and the rich red pants hung loosely around her feet so that I could not even see her toes.
When I got inside, I ran up the stairs to change into my pajamas. They were not as nice as Sara's, but they were OK As I ran up the stairs, I got a funny feeling, like something was chasing me, but I always get nervous in her house. It's so big and most of the time it's mainly dark in most of the rooms.
When I got back downstairs, Sara put on a movie for us to watch. I love to watch scary movies at night, like Stephen King movies.( HINT: THAT'S WHY I'M ON THIS SITE!) Sara does not like those kinds of movies, so, since it was her house, we watched one of her movies.
Halfway through the movie, she offered to make popcorn. So, while she was in the kitchen, I kept on watching the movie. It was just getting interesting when, all of a sudden the TV changed channels! It was on the video channel, so it would have gone staticy if I had pushed the channel button. The new show that was on was very weird. It was pitch back, but I could hear a faint muffled sound. Then, a faint "THUMP, THUMP.". This repeated several times, but each time, it got softer and softer, like it was getting farther and farther away. After about 60 seconds, it went away and the movie was back on, like nothing had ever happened.
Sara came back with the popcorn, and I did not mention the "THUMP, THUMP." to her.
After the movie finished, we decided to head upstairs. I had totally forgotten the "THUMP,THUMP." As we slowly walked up the stairs, I noticed that feeling I had gotten the first time I walked up the stairs. I also noticed that my pace quickened, so did Sara's. Before I knew what was happening we were running as fast as we could up to her room and did not stop until the door to her room was locked tight.
Smiling weakly to her, I tried to talk myself into telling me that it was just my imagination, but Sara was also running as fast as I was!
We sat on her bed and talked about anything other than what just happened. Everything was going OK, like nothing had happened, like everything was fine, until Sara jumped up as fast as she could, ran to the light switch, turned the lights out and and ran out of her bedroom door.
I sat frozen in fear, I could not move, I did not want to move. I just sat there, staring into the pitch blackness. Then, all of the sudden I heard a soft "THUMP,THUMP". My mind flashed back to the tape. It started to get louder and louder, instead of softer and softer. Then I knew. Something was coming up the stairs, so when I was downstairs, "IT" was going up, so it would sound softer. But this was coming up the stairs, so "IT" was getting louder. And louder! Then it stopped right outside Sara's door. "Sara, is that you?", no answer. I finally got the nerve to stand. I walked to the door, thinking that Sara was just trying to scare me, or I was HOPING that she was. I don't know what made me do it, but I decided to reach out and touch her, just to see if it was her. So, gathering up all of my strength I reached out my arm and touched those soft new pajamas. I almost fainted from relief, it was Sara.
"OK, Sara that was NOT funny! You almost scared the $@#%&* out of me!!! Sara? Sara?' She was not answering me at all. She did not even move. I slowly made my way up the sleeve of her arm. Then I touched the furry collar. I was in a state of giddiness . I had to force my hand up past it, up to her neck, and then.....NOTHING!! There was only a bloody stump where her head was supposed to be!!!!
NEXT OF KIN
The old man longed for children. But he and his young wife had none, so he invited his nephew to live with them. This infuriated his wife, who had a vile temper. When her husband welcomed the young man with great affection, she turned pale with jealousy. Her eyes narrowed and her head flattened. And when she licked her lips, her nephew saw that her tongue was forked. From that day on, the young man spent as much time as possible with his uncle and tried to avoid his aunt. But she seemed to enjoy startling him, suddenly appearing when he least expected her.
One evening, the nephew returned to the house quite late. He lit a candle and started up the stairs. Halfway up, he tripped on what seemed to be a coiled rope. Imagine his horror when that rope uncoiled and slithered up the steps in front of him! Then he saw it glide across the hall and under the door of his uncle's bedroom.
"Wake up! Wake up" the young man shouted, and he knocked on the door until his knuckles hurt. But when his sleepy uncle finally let him in the bedroom, there was no snake in sight.
"Wake up! Wake up" the young man shouted, and he knocked on the door until his knuckles hurt. But when his sleepy uncle finally let him in the bedroom, there was no snake in sight.
His aunt seemed to be sleeping, so the young man whispered in his uncle's ear. "I saw a snake." But his uncle was too groggy to respond, and he slid back under the covers. The young man searched the room quietly, looking into drawers and cupboards and corners. He peered under the bed and behind chairs. He was beginning to think he was going mad when he suddenly his aunt sat up in bed, narrowed her eyes, and gave him an evil look that made his flesh creep.
"I'm sorry to bother you," he cried, racing to his bedroom and firmly shutting the door.
When he awoke the next morning, he noticed that the bottom of his bedroom door was arched up in the center, leaving just enough space for a snake to slither through. He bolted out of bed trembling. When he went downstairs, he was shocked to see that every door in the house had a snake-sized arch beneath it.
His aunt was sitting at the table, eating. "Your uncle left for the day," she said, licking her lips with her forked tongue. The young man was too terrified to speak, but his silence only made matters worse.
"I don't like the way you treat me," she said and grabbed his arm. Then she pressed her fingernails so deeply into his skin that he felt as if he were being bitten. He rushed outdoors and saw the his arm was swelling. His hand and fingers were biginning to throb. He knew he must seek help, so he ran into the forest to find the wise old hermit who lived there. The old man examined him carefully and handed him some leaves. "These are best for snakebite," he said "Bind them around your arm and keep them wet."
"But I wasn't bitten by a snake," said the young man. "Those marks were made by my aunt's fingernails."
The old hermit shook his head in despair. "The touch of a snake-woman is even worse," he said, "but try these leaves. They should help"
The young man was appalled. "Is my aunt really a snake- woman?" he asked.
"If you want to find out," the hermit replied, "stay awake tonight, and if a snake enters you room, cut off the tip of its tail."
"I don't like the way you treat me," she said and grabbed his arm. Then she pressed her fingernails so deeply into his skin that he felt as if he were being bitten. He rushed outdoors and saw the his arm was swelling. His hand and fingers were biginning to throb. He knew he must seek help, so he ran into the forest to find the wise old hermit who lived there. The old man examined him carefully and handed him some leaves. "These are best for snakebite," he said "Bind them around your arm and keep them wet."
"But I wasn't bitten by a snake," said the young man. "Those marks were made by my aunt's fingernails."
The old hermit shook his head in despair. "The touch of a snake-woman is even worse," he said, "but try these leaves. They should help"
The young man was appalled. "Is my aunt really a snake- woman?" he asked.
"If you want to find out," the hermit replied, "stay awake tonight, and if a snake enters you room, cut off the tip of its tail."
The young man wasn't sure how this would help, but he thanked the hermit for his advice and returned to his uncle's house. By afternoon, he was happy to see that the wet leaves had reduced the swelling.
He watched his aunt closely that evening, but he didn't notice anything strange until she tasted her soup. She said it needed more "ssssseasoning" and lingered on the "s" as if she were hissing. Her nephew felt gooseflesh rise from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. He excused himself from the table and went up to his bedroom. But not to sleep.
He planned to watch for the snake all night long.
There was just enough moonlight for him to see the bottom of his door, so he blew out his candle and unsheated his sword. Then he stood waiting.
He watched for hours wondering what the snake might do. What if it slithered through the window instead, crept up behind him, and struck him with it's venomous fangs? What if it slithered to the top of the wardrobe and dropped down from above? He was thinking of fleeing for his life, when he finally saw the snake glide under the door-first its head, then its body, then its tail.
Slash! He swung the sword so quickly that the snake had no warning. And the tip of its tail began writhing, all by itself, there on the floor. The snake raised its head as if to strike, but then it hissed viciously and slithered out of the room. And when he looked down the hall, he saw it disappear under his uncle's door.
The young man couldn't stand looking at that quivering tail, so he scooped it up with his sword and flung it in a drawer. He hardly slept all that night, and when he did snakes chased him through his dreams.
The next morning, he opened the drawer a crack to look at the snake's tail and was amazed to see that it had turned into human toes.
He raced back to the forest to tell the hermit what had happened. "And now my aunt is staying in bed, but do you know what my uncle said? She told him she hurt her foot while sleepwalking!"
"Either she will fear you now," said the old man. "Or she wil try to get rid of you. Listen carefully. If you think you are in danger, you must search her bedroom for her snakeskin, and when you find it, burn it."
"Either she will fear you now," said the old man. "Or she wil try to get rid of you. Listen carefully. If you think you are in danger, you must search her bedroom for her snakeskin, and when you find it, burn it."
The young man thanked the hermit, but he was concerned. What would happen if he burned the snakeskin? He decided to give his aunt one last chance.
While she was recovering, she caused no trouble, but as soon as her wound healed, she resumed her nightly slithering about the house.
Sometimes, when the young man was lying in bed, he saw the snake slip in and out of his empty boots or up the sleeve of a coat he had worn. One dreadful night, he felt the snake wiggling under his pillow, and he jumped out of bed in a cold sweat.
His dreams grew worse. He had a terrifying nightmare in which his aunt was trying to choke him. He awoke gasping for breath and realized that something was coiled tightly around his neck.
It was the snake.
He pulled it off and threw it across the room. And after he caught his breath, he knew he had to follow the hermit's advice.
It was the snake.
He pulled it off and threw it across the room. And after he caught his breath, he knew he had to follow the hermit's advice.
The next day his aunt said her back was sore, but this didn't keep her from going for a walk with his uncle.
As soon as they left the house, the young man slipped into >their bedroom to look for the snakeskin, but he couldn't find it. He was about to give up when he noticed dusty footprints on a chair. He stepped up on the seat and looked on top of the wardrobe, and there neatly coiled, lay the shiny snakeskin. But just as he picked it up, he heard the door open downstairs, and he knew that his aunt and uncle were home. He rolled up the snakeskin tightly and hid it in his fist before he raced back to his room. And that's when he heard hideous sounds coming from the lower hall.
His aunt ws shrieking, "Something is crushing me!"
When her nephew heard her cries, he almost lost his resolve. But then he remembered how he felt when the snake wrapped itself around his neck and tried to choke him.
He threw the snakeskin into the fire and watched it burn.
By the time he went downstairs, he was startled to see his aunt lying dead on the floor. He thought he was getting rid of the snake, but now his aunt was gone too.
"I'm sorry," he said to his uncle.
But the old man seemed relieved. "It'ssss only the poisonousssss onessssss who are dangerousssssss," he said, and he licked his lips.
THE DARK CORRIDOR
The whole, frightening experience began at around 5 O’clock on the evening of the 23rd of December 1969. The chill night air was biting and the last remnants of day were creeping over the horizon. The thought of spending another night away from home, away from the comfort of the family over the festive period would be enough to fill most with melancholy and yet, here in the Wayfarer’s Inn, there was not the slightest feeling of loneliness. Quiet contentment appeared to be shared by all of the residents. Jonathan Harper was a travelling sales representative. Nothing too much could be said about him except that he gave the impression of someone uncomfortable with the thought of Christmas alone. If there were anything that left one to assume he was not part of the crowd, this would be it. Otherwise he was no different to anyone else in the inn.
Outside a thick, cloying mist rolled in off the hills spreading icy tentacles across everything in its path. It wouldn’t be too long before the landscape were covered in a heavy, white coat of frost. The residents knew that they would be here for some time - transport to these far outreaches was, at the best of times, limited and as for their own vehicles, parked in the yard around the back of the inn, no one was going to risk driving in these conditions - no one with any sense that is.
The Wayfarer was a small Inn, only ten rooms; each one bijou but welcoming; yet it exuded a warmth that was easy to comprehend. This hotel, deep in the English countryside, offered a respite for the exhausted traveller. The site of a lonely inn, lights glowing like a beacon to the lost, would act as a welcome break for the weary.
Sat in a comfortable, wingback, leather armchair Jonathan mused over the day’s business. He had completed a successful mission into Scarborough and his company would reap the benefits of these labours with a healthy contract, sure to earn them a huge amount of money over the coming year. Jonathan took a sip of brandy and looked into the comforting fire that was burning brightly in the fireplace beside him. Thoughts of his family, the children opening expensive parcels on Christmas morning without him, left him with a small tear rolling down the side of his cheek; yet over the next few days he would have little more time to think of them - he would be too busy trying to survive.
It was about 5 minutes to 5 O’clock and he was almost asleep in his chair when he was approached by a cheery gentleman. Not too unusual a man, except for his dress. His clothes seemed odd, out of place for the modern style of the day. Jonathan, avoiding comment, stood and introduced himself. He invited his fellow resident to take a seat opposite him. The man appeared a jovial sort, ruddy cheeks and a broad grin that Jonathan responded to straightaway: “I couldn’t see myself going much further in that”, he said, pointing to the atrocious weather outside, “I’m just glad that I found this place when I did” he added. “It’ll be here for a while, according to the Inn keeper. Says it often gets like this in these parts with it being so open to the elements” said the man. He held out a warm hand of friendship to Jonathan, “Henry Clement, or should I say Pilot Officer Henry Clement, DFC”.
The two men sat down, Jonathan thinking it rather strange that his guest should introduce himself in such a way. It was a little unusual for people, in his experience, to introduce themselves twice, once to affirm military status. “Perhaps he assumes I am a military man too”, he thought to himself.
“Come far?” the gentleman asked.
“London - Kensington to be precise. I was hoping to get back home tonight but when I saw the fog was getting worse I phoned the wife to say I’d find somewhere to stay for the night and be home tomorrow,” Jonathan replied.
As soon had the words left his mouth he felt taken over by doubt. Was it the expression on the gentleman’s face? Was it the fact that the weather was that bad? Was it even, the thought that facing Christmas ‘alone’ somehow appealed to his sub-conscious? No specific reason occurred to him, he just sensed doubt. In any way the feeling of contentment, of comfort, in the company of Henry somehow appealed more than the prospect of leaving the safety of this place. Being with his family on Christmas day may still be possible if the fog lifted in time.
For a while the two men continued in deep conversation, occasionally laughing, occasionally arguing, but in all, remaining friendly with each other. It was apparent that his guest had been a serving officer during the Second World War, originally flying missions across Germany in the reconnaissance corp. before joining the mission to ‘Arnhem’ as a pilot transporting the parachute drop safely to their destination. Jonathan was fascinated. Such tales of heroism were often seen on the television yet here he was, listening to every aspect of a life as a pilot during this daring time.
“I haven’t so much as been involved in the boy scouts”, he told Henry, “And here you are, telling me all about a time I could only be in awe of. Well here’s to you, Henry”, added Jonathan, raising his glass. His companion gratefully accepted the plaudits.
Several hours had passed before both gentlemen chose to draw the evening to a close. Tiredness had encroached upon them without notice as they yawned almost in unison, neither having any idea how long they had been in conversation, except to say that several drinks had passed their lips and further chatter would result in either or both falling asleep where they sat.
Bidding his guest a good night, Jonathan moved slowly to gather his things. Since his arrival he had neglected to check into his room - he was told that it would have to be prepared as he was an unexpected, but never-the-less very welcome guest.
The gentleman at reception had a somewhat ‘odd’ appearance. The more he thought about it the more he noticed that his clothes resembled those of a similar period of dress to that Henry appeared to belong. He began to look around the whole reception area, at various objects, at the pictures on the wall behind the clerk, at the telephone exchange in the corner, everything reminded him of the 1940’s. Jonathan hadn’t noticed it before, but now the whole place appeared decked out as if in a bygone era.
“Excuse me?” he asked “I feel as if I have walked into some kind of themed Hotel, do you collect memorabilia at all?” A puzzled look upon the clerk’s face told him that this was not worth pursuing. “Perhaps he’s not the conversational type,” Jonathan thought to himself, contenting himself with the prospect of a warm bed and a peaceful night’s sleep.
On entry to his room he noticed that the theme downstairs carried on here too, however he was too tired to think about it any further. After turning on the bedside light and settling down his bedclothes he stepped into the bathroom for a quick wash and returned to the warm bed in anticipation of a comfortable night’s slumber. A few moments later and he was fast asleep - the rigours of a hard day’s work finally taking its toll.
It was approximately 2 am when Jonathan was disturbed by a knocking at his door. Rising from a heavy sleep, his eyes still not settled enough for him to turn on the lamp at the side of his bed; he wandered across to the door. On opening, the site of smoke rising from the corridor, in the direction of the stairwell gave cause for alarm. Calling out for whoever knocked at his door he suddenly became aware of a droning noise emanating from above. Within moments, the person responsible for waking him had returned. He couldn’t see the owner of the voice for smoke. “You’d better make your way downstairs to the lobby. We’ve been hit”.
“What?” cried Jonathan in astonishment, “You say, ‘we’ve been hit’?”
There was no reply. The disembodied voice had already made its way down the corridor, warning other residents to vacate their rooms. Jonathan followed his fellow guests safely making his way downstairs.
The lobby was crammed full with residents, so much so that chaos reigned. Nobody stood out as knowing what was going on as Jonathan searched for his friend, Mr. Clement. He was nowhere to be seen.
Grabbing at the desk clerk he asked him for some answers. “I can’t tell you much”, the clerk replied, “Except to say that we’ve been hit.”
“Hit? Hit by what? What do you mean, we’ve been hit?” Jonathan asked again, once more to be thwarted by the clerk. Nothing could explain the smoke and there did not seem to be any damage that would add weight to being ‘hit’ by anything.
Jonathan had almost forgotten about the droning noise he had heard earlier when he was still upstairs, rushing around the corridor looking for the stairwell. On deciding to ask one or two of the other guests if they had heard it too he was surprised by their response.
“That’ll be the bombers flying overhead. They’re always around at this time of night” one cried out. Another said one might have crashed on its way back home.
“On its way back to where? Where’s home? Jonathan asked, curious to know what this was all about. “Is there some kind of airbase near here? Is this a flight path for aircraft?” he questioned further; nobody offered any more information. They all appeared too concerned with themselves to give him any answers.
At that moment, a rather dishevelled and bloodied gentleman entered the building. His head was adorned with a leather cap and flying goggles. Thinking it rather strange that anyone would be flying on an evening such as this Jonathan overlooked the man’s injuries. There was something else peculiar about this chap, a familiarity about him that he couldn’t quite place. “If I’m not mistaken”, he thought, “I’ve seen his face before”. Within moments there was sudden rush of guests towards the man, each one offering assistance and subsequently disturbing Jonathan’s concentration.
“Quick, someone help the gentleman to a chair. He looks as if he’s been in the thick of it”, shouted the desk clerk. Standing in amazement, Jonathan realised something was not right here and he intended getting to the bottom of it, though he would have to wait until the morning, as the main concern was the comfort of this apparent victim of an accident.
Running to the bar Jonathan grabbed a glass, filled it with brandy before taking a swig himself and then took the remainder over to the bewildered patient.
“It came at me, straight from nowhere. I tried you know, I tried!” the mystery man mumbled.
Jonathan could not make head or tail of what he was muttering about. “Poor fellow, he must be deluded”, he thought to himself. “Whatever it was that had happened outside must have given him a shock and he’s confused”. Within moments the man had fallen into an unconscious state. Efforts to bring him round again proved fruitless; he was out for the count.
Checking on his safety, the clerk advised that the gentleman be given breathing space, whilst he felt for a pulse. With a sigh of relief, he realised that the patient would be likely to recover after some much needed rest. Putting the man’s feet onto a stool he proceeded to call out to the other guests for a blanket. Someone with forethought had already arranged for this and it subsequently was laid across the patient in order that he remain warm while he slept comfortably.
Gradually, the chaos died down and everyone began making their way back to their rooms. Jonathan following suit, felt quite confused by recent events. He was determined to find out what had happened that night but this was no time to ask.
Leaving the clerk to deal with the mystery gentleman Jonathan retired to his bedroom once more, still puzzled by the poor chap’s condition and the reasons for such. He took one final look out of his window to see if there was anything that could satisfy his curiosity but all he saw was thick, thick fog and a white landscape. Nothing else could be gleaned by further enquiries that night so, resolving to sort things out in the morning, he decided to get some much-needed sleep; it would be a long day tomorrow. Jonathan hoped he would be able to travel home for a family Christmas. The fog would make travel difficult but he was determined to make it home.
The weather conditions for Christmas Eve had not improved any. In fact, if anything they had become increasingly worse since the previous evening. Pulling his curtains apart, Jonathan noticed that where he could see the white carpet covering the surrounding countryside the night before, this morning visibility was almost down to zero. There was no way he could travel under these circumstances at all. “It would be incredibly stupid to set off in this”, he murmured to himself.
Once Jonathan had carried out his daily ablutions and dressed himself he made his way downstairs, determined to call his wife and advise her of the dangerous conditions and to tell her that he would try again later that day if things improved.
On the stairwell, crossing his path was Jonathan’s friend of a few hours, Henry Clement. “What was all the fun and games about last night then?” he asked.
Henry stared for a moment in bewilderment, almost as if he hadn’t met Jonathan the previous evening, before replying that he had no recollection of what was being asked of him. “The crash!” said Jonathan. “Last night there was some kind of accident and a gentleman was rescued. He’s probably still downstairs at this moment. I must say the poor man looked in an awful state”, he continued “I suppose they couldn’t raise you up last night so you probably missed it all. Quite a commotion, I’d say”
Again Henry stared blankly into his face. Now Jonathan was beginning to feel rather uneasy about his friend. “Henry, It’s Jonathan, we met yesterday evening, do you remember?” he asked, puzzlingly.
Without wishing to appear absent minded or ignorant, the distinguished gentleman acknowledged his companion and in an attempt to avoid embarrassment responded, rather wishing to save awkwardness on both accounts. “Of course. Yesterday! I remember. Of course you’ll have to forgive me, I may have drunk a little too much and that’s when the memory plays up, isn’t it? You’re the gentleman that erm… that erm…” said Henry, gracefully covering his ignorance. “Jonathan. Jonathan Harper”, he affirmed. “I’m sorry, I should have realised that you have probably just woken up. “Nonsense. Not at all”, said an apologetic Henry, “Perhaps we can meet up in the bar later? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get to my room”, he added. And with that, Henry marched off in the appropriate direction. Once again, Jonathan felt overcome by confusion. “I could have sworn he didn’t recognise me”, he thought to himself, continuing his way down the stairs to the lobby.
Jonathan’s search for a telephone took him to an old fashioned booth at the far side of the reception area. In a fashion, this didn’t seem out of place; especially with the other furniture in the inn, but again it was not something he was accustomed to. However, his only thoughts were whether he could get through to his wife to inform her of the current situation.
Eagerly Jonathan dialled the number… 01 984 7325… “Hello operator, which number are you calling?” said a voice at the other end of the line. He hung up immediately. Calling the number twice more he received the same response. “Hello operator, which number…?”
“How odd!”, he exclaimed. Dialling once more he allowed the operator to continue before he answered her. “Yes, I’d like to place a call to London 984 7325 if I may?” he asked.
“I’m sorry sir, that number is not available”, came the reply. “May I ask who are you trying to reach?”
Nervous panic began to manifest itself in his speech as he passed details of his home address to the operator. “I’m trying to reach my wife, Mrs. Cathy… Catherine Harper, 94. Whiterush House, K… Kensington, London”.
Immediately the operator responded, “I have no such person listed at that address sir. Are you sure that you have given me the correct address?”
Jonathan was getting quite irritated by the operator’s inability to locate the correct telephone number. “It’s my home address and I should know where we live. Good God, we’ve lived there since ‘66”, he yelled back down the line. Red faced with anger he demanded that the operator try the number once more. She was having none of it. “Sir, the number you wish to call doesn’t exist and the address which you gave me does not list Harper as the subscriber and is not the number you have given me” she responded firmly. Panic, beginning to get the better of him, he slammed down the phone with such a bang that the noise attracted the attention of the desk clerk who was not amused by Jonathan’s behaviour. “Mr. Harper, may I remind you that our other guests may need to use the telephone?” Immediately Jonathan responded. “Well why can I not seem to get through to my home to call my wife? The operator keeps telling me that our address doesn’t exist. What’s going on here?”
“Perhaps the line is down sir and the operator can’t get through. The fog sometimes has that effect; causing problems with the telegraph cables. It may be better to wait until later in the day, try again then”, the clerk advised. “In the meantime, would you like anything else?” Stunned into silence, Jonathan just stood, staring at the clerk, as if he had just been informed that his dilemma with the operator was not all that important.
After a few moments Jonathan moved towards the stairs, muttering as he clambered up each step. “I can’t believe this place, what the hell is going on here?” he thought, his blood beginning to boil over. Deciding to do a little bit of finding out for himself he made up his mind to have a word or two with his friend Henry. “He may be able to provide me with some answers” mused Jonathan. On reaching the door of Henry’s room he knocked loudly. “Hello!” a voice called from within.
“It’s Jonathan Harper. I would like to have a word with you about something if I may?”
The same jovial, ruddy-faced gentleman opened the door to him. “Can I help you?” he asked. Once again, Jonathan’s friend appeared oblivious as to who he was. “We met yesterday, in the bar area, don’t you remember me?” cried Jonathan, desperate to find some familiarity. “You talked about your days as a pilot in the reconnaissance corps: The parachute drop over Arnhem? What about the bombing raids in Germany? Please tell me you remember all of that?” he pleaded, his voice progressively rising in a fit of pique, almost screaming at the bewildered gentleman standing before him.
“My dear fellow, I have neither been to Arnhem nor do I know anything about a parachute drop you refer to”, said a stern faced Henry. “And even if I had I couldn’t possibly tell you about it, could I? Now, if you don’t mind, I have a lot of things to do and I would appreciate the time to get on with it. I have to be at camp for 1600 hundred hours” he added impatiently.
An uncontrollable Jonathan forced his way into the room, grabbed at the lapels of Henry’s jacket, held the man firmly in his grasp for a few moments whilst staring into his eyes before turning his attention to the jacket that his friend was wearing: A blue surge, Royal Air Force jacket of the type worn during the Second World War. It was adorned with various badges, each representing something or other. Jonathan had a limited knowledge of military awards, having himself served his time in the draft a few years previously but the one thing he didn’t recognise was anything resembling a DFC.
“I thought you were awarded a DFC?” he asked, releasing his victim for a moment. “I distinctly remember you referring to yourself as Pilot Officer Henry Clement, DFC. Where is your DFC?” Jonathan said, accusingly.
“You have to earn one before you can attach it to your uniform and as yet, I have not received such an honour,” replied Henry, attempting to reassure Jonathan of his status. Unconvinced, Jonathan again asked about Arnhem. How would he know so much about Arnhem and the landings if they had not taken place? How would he know about the parachute drop? Operation ‘Market Garden’? The hundreds of troops flown over for the offensive? The bombing raids on Germany? How could he possibly know of Henry’s involvement if none of this had taken place? He wanted answers and he wanted them now! “Tell me what is going on and what all this has to do with the Wayfarer’s!” he demanded.
“Listen to me”, said Henry, confronting Jonathan. “Whatever it is that is causing you to be alarmed has little to do with me. I don’t know how you know of any planned military action and I don’t care how you came by this information but for the sake of national security, please keep it to yourself and don’t talk about it again. I’ll tell you what you need to know and nothing more if you will just calm down and have a drink with me”. With that, Henry moved over to his chest-of-drawers and retrieved a bottle of malt from a drawer and two drinking glasses. Pouring a measure into each he returned to an armchair ushering Jonathan to be seated and began relaying the events to which Jonathan had referred.
A couple of hours past before Henry, looking at his watch, decided to wrap up the conversation. “Now you promise that this information will remain between the two of us? Nobody outside of Whitehall knows of these events and they wish to keep it quiet until they know how things play out. Any leak and you could jeopardise tonight’s flight”, he warned. Jonathan said nothing for a few moments before responding to his friend. “It’s almost as if you believe this happened recently”, he replied, questioningly. “That was all over 26 years ago”. Rising from his chair, he began to back out of the room, still staring at Henry, occasionally nodding his head from side to side in defiance of what he had heard and was expected to believe. “26 years ago, Henry!” he cried out once more, as he exited.
Needing to have a lie down in order to get his head together Jonathan made his way to his own room, still musing over what he had just heard. “The poor fellow is living in the past. Maybe that’s why he’s here, recuperating from some delusion” he thought to himself.
It was long into the night when Jonathan awoke. Realising that he must have drunk too much whiskey whilst listening to Henry and his strange tale earlier that afternoon, he looked at his watch - It was 1.50 am. He’d slept way too long for comfort and his poor wife would be at home in Kensington, fretting about why her husband had not yet returned home safely to her and the children. Strangely, there was a noise; a droning noise emanating from above. It was a similar droning noise to the noise that he had heard the previous night; only on this occasion he could hear screeching too. It sounded like nothing Jonathan had heard before. Leaping from his bed he ran towards the window and pulled at the curtains. Nothing could be seen except a faint ball of light, something on fire perhaps and it was getting brighter by the second, its angle of elevation dipping downwards.
Suddenly Jonathan was aware something was happening; somehow he knew this mystery object was going to crash into the Wayfarer’s and he had to get out and quickly. Grabbing at his coat and suitcase lying by the side of his bed he hurriedly made his way for the door. There was little light in the hallway but Jonathan was un-perturbed as he felt his way to the stairwell, dropping his coat as he stumbled down the corridor. The droning noise was getting louder and the building had now started to shake. He had to get out fast and stopping for his coat was not a priority, or it wouldn’t have been if his car keys weren’t in the pocket. Jonathan had to turn back and pick them up. As he felt his way along the ground for the overcoat the noise from above became almost deafening. The walls were vibrating rapidly and pictures began falling from their hooks to the floor. Jonathan realised there was little time, if he didn’t make his escape now he would surely be caught in the middle of it all. The glass from the picture frames crunched beneath his shoes but he knew that unless he could get outside to safety, small cuts to his feet would be the least of his worries.
Jonathan tripped over each step as ran down the staircase, stumbling over objects that had fallen from the walls, catching his feet in the ill-fitting carpet. He eventually found the reception area. The droning was unbearable and now it appeared to be joined by a high pitch screaming or whining noise, like that of engines in high revs. He knew he had only seconds to find the exit and get outside. A clock in the reception area began the chiming of the hour as he found the doorway leading outside into the car park. Looking into the night sky Jonathan could see swirls of fog parting under the pressure of heat and flame as suddenly, the cockpit of an aircraft loomed clear through the mist. There was little time to recognise anything about the plane heading straight for the building he had just escaped from, except that it was big. Within seconds all around had became a huge ball of flame as the two objects, aircraft and building, met in a flurry of hurling brick, metal and burning debris. Diving onto the grass below his feet Jonathan covered his head with his hands and began praying. Praying for those still inside, the pilot and his crew and most of all, for his own safety.
The searing heat caused by the blast proved too much for Jonathan as he drifted in and out of consciousness. In the moments when he was aware he could just make out people running, some with buckets in hand, others with blankets, each one trying to douse the flames as they attempted to take control of the building. One whole side of the Wayfarer’s appeared to be gone, or was it just the smoke and fog? Jonathan tried rubbing his eyes in order to get a better view. No! It was indeed gone.
Wearily standing to his feet Jonathan surveyed the wreckage. What looked like a bomber aircraft was lying in flames at the rear of the Inn, its wing and engine on the right side missing from the main fuselage. It became apparent that the wing had parted company with the rest of the aircraft and collided with the back of the building causing a wall to fall away. He was lucky; if he had remained in his room he would surely have been dead by now. Gathering his thoughts he was alert enough now to realise that people inside must need help.
In the lobby Jonathan saw utter chaos as people were running in all directions trying to help each other or assist in some way with the clearing away of debris. Nobody had time for the full affects of the situation to get the better of him or her, they all co-operated fully with the desk clerk as he gave polite but firm orders. He had assembled the remaining guests in the lobby whilst he completed a thorough search of the building.
When all had calmed down inside and out people began to relax and take in the situation. Nerves gradually began to creep in with some of the female residents as they sought solace with their partners or other friendly guests. The clerk returned, grim faced as he recounted the damage to the back of his Inn. “Two rooms have completely gone; seven and nine. I’m sorry but there is no sign of any survivors at all” he said mournfully. Jonathan immediately recognised room nine as being his room. “I’m here”, he called out, “Room nine, that’s my room. I believe room seven was Mr. Henry Clement”, Jonathan added. Strangely, nobody responded to him. Again he informed the clerk. Again nobody responded to him. Jonathan manoeuvred himself in to a better position in font of the desk clerk in case, over all of the noise, he couldn’t be heard. “I am in room nine and Henry Clement is room seven”, he shouted once more. The clerk stood unresponsive, blankly looking straight through Jonathan. “I think Mr. Clement was in room seven but room nine was empty, I’m sure of it”, said the clerk working through his memory of the register of his guests. “Though Mr. Clement would have been due at camp this afternoon so I presume he’s safe”. he continued.
“This is absurd!” cried Jonathan, “I’m here, Jonathan Harper, standing right in front of you. I’ve been in room nine since I arrived, the day before yesterday. What the hell’s going on?” Still the response he was looking for didn’t come. He looked around the lobby at the rest of the guests; they too appeared not to notice him standing in front of them.
Suddenly, Jonathan was overcome by fear. If nobody saw him that meant he wasn’t there. If he wasn’t there, in front of them, he must be… dead! “But I can’t be!” he screamed. “I got out! I got away! I was outside when the plane hit the building I tell you!” His normal self-control had departed him as he ran furiously around each of the guests trying to attract their attention, as if in defiance of his slowly evolving conclusions.
“Harper?” a voice called out from behind. “Harper, you’re here”. Jonathan turned sharply to see his friend, Henry Clement standing in the doorway of the inn. “You made it then?” he added.
“Henry, you can see me? Then I’m here? Alive?” Jonathan queried. “Tell them all that I’m here, they can see me”, he pleaded. He turned his attention back to the other residents and the desk clerk. “You see! I am here. What the hell is the matter with you all?” Still, his ranting went unobserved by his fellow guests.
“They won’t hear you Harper. They won’t see or hear either of us”. Said a woeful Henry. “I’m afraid that we both went down with the plane. I managed to hold on for a minute or two in an attempt to steer her clear but you’d already gone”.
“What the hell are you talking about? I wasn’t in that plane. I couldn’t have been, I was outside the building when I saw it crash”. Said Jonathan, imploring his friend to see sense.
“You were thrown clear by the impact, Harper”, replied Henry, “That’s how you ended up outside”
Jonathan continued to argue his corner. “I am a travelling sales representative and I arrived here on the 23rd. I have nothing to do with you except that I met you in the bar” Henry immediately responded. “Harper, you didn’t have a room here. You remained at the station with the crew. I only came here on the 23rd to get some rest while my billet was being repaired. You were never here!”
Gradually, Jonathan ran through the events of the evening of the 23rd in his head: He hadn’t received a room key on arrival at the Wayfarer’s, as the room was not ready for him. All of the furniture and décor was not contemporary to 1969, neither were the clothes the guests were in, especially Henry. The operator hadn’t been able locate his address or telephone number the previous morning. She didn’t even recognise his name. Henry didn’t recall the conversation they had over drinks at the fireside or even, that he knew him at all. All of these anomalies started to fix themselves clearly in his mind. But wait. There was something! Something had actually happened to him that could not be explained. During the business with the telephone the desk clerk actually spoke to him. “No he didn’t. He spoke to someone but it wasn’t you, Harper”. Said Henry.
The stark realisation of what had occurred steadily seeped through into Jonathan’s head. He was never going to see his wife and children again. How could he, as they had never happened? He wasn’t a travelling sales representative; he was apparently a co-pilot in the RAF under the command of Henry Clement, DFC as yet to be.
“But how did I end up here, at the Wayfarer’s?” Jonathan asked Henry.
“Quite simple, my dear friend. This is our main flight corridor for Germany. Something must have caught us off guard and we were hit. This particular corridor avoids all of the towns and villages in the area and was deemed the safest path over to Europe”, Henry informed his colleague. “As to how you are involved? Well, let me tell you. A driver, in a hurry to return home to his family at Christmas time finds himself in a thick fog; so thick that it becomes an unbearable nightmare trying to continue onward. Suddenly, from out of the mist, a light looms. It appears to be a safe haven for the weary motorist, the Wayfarer’s Inn. Not listed on any map for over 26 years, it was destroyed by a returning bomber crashing into it, yet here it was. A cheery welcome is accorded the traveller and the promise of a comfortable night. Naturally, the traveller accepts this luxury of avoiding possible peril in such horrendous conditions. Snugly relaxing in an armchair by the side of an open fire, the gentleman begins to reflect upon Christmas with his family. Was it, after all, going to be an enjoyable time spent with the children? They always find time to fight over something, don’t they? Perhaps the thought of the relatives dropping in caused the gentleman concern - either way, he wasn’t really looking forward to getting home, was he?”
“A welcoming face appears offering warm, friendly conversation. The traveller gratefully accepts the opportunity to converse with someone who is not part of his family. He has, by now, already made a subconscious decision to remain here. All that was left for him was to have the desire to find a resolution to the strange events that were unfolding before him. He began to doubt his reality and started to accept another. Once you make the decision to peep into an alternate reality it slowly becomes your reality and what is becomes what was. The events of the 23rd of December were very genuine but you looked a little too deep and for you and myself, and all of the guests here tonight, let this be a warning to other voyeurs of the past”.
The light gradually began to fade on both Jonathan and Henry as they continued their conversation. In the distance the sound of a radio could be heard. The interference was strong at first but became clearer as the light faded.
“Sierra one, seven. We’re at the scene. Abandoned vehicle. It looks like the driver lost the car in the fog and came off the road. Can we have a recovery team?” the voice on the radio said. “Incident call-out time logged as 2 am on Wayfarer Road. No sign of the driver, may have wandered into the fog for assistance”.
Outside a thick, cloying mist rolled in off the hills spreading icy tentacles across everything in its path. It wouldn’t be too long before the landscape were covered in a heavy, white coat of frost. The residents knew that they would be here for some time - transport to these far outreaches was, at the best of times, limited and as for their own vehicles, parked in the yard around the back of the inn, no one was going to risk driving in these conditions - no one with any sense that is.
The Wayfarer was a small Inn, only ten rooms; each one bijou but welcoming; yet it exuded a warmth that was easy to comprehend. This hotel, deep in the English countryside, offered a respite for the exhausted traveller. The site of a lonely inn, lights glowing like a beacon to the lost, would act as a welcome break for the weary.
Sat in a comfortable, wingback, leather armchair Jonathan mused over the day’s business. He had completed a successful mission into Scarborough and his company would reap the benefits of these labours with a healthy contract, sure to earn them a huge amount of money over the coming year. Jonathan took a sip of brandy and looked into the comforting fire that was burning brightly in the fireplace beside him. Thoughts of his family, the children opening expensive parcels on Christmas morning without him, left him with a small tear rolling down the side of his cheek; yet over the next few days he would have little more time to think of them - he would be too busy trying to survive.
It was about 5 minutes to 5 O’clock and he was almost asleep in his chair when he was approached by a cheery gentleman. Not too unusual a man, except for his dress. His clothes seemed odd, out of place for the modern style of the day. Jonathan, avoiding comment, stood and introduced himself. He invited his fellow resident to take a seat opposite him. The man appeared a jovial sort, ruddy cheeks and a broad grin that Jonathan responded to straightaway: “I couldn’t see myself going much further in that”, he said, pointing to the atrocious weather outside, “I’m just glad that I found this place when I did” he added. “It’ll be here for a while, according to the Inn keeper. Says it often gets like this in these parts with it being so open to the elements” said the man. He held out a warm hand of friendship to Jonathan, “Henry Clement, or should I say Pilot Officer Henry Clement, DFC”.
The two men sat down, Jonathan thinking it rather strange that his guest should introduce himself in such a way. It was a little unusual for people, in his experience, to introduce themselves twice, once to affirm military status. “Perhaps he assumes I am a military man too”, he thought to himself.
“Come far?” the gentleman asked.
“London - Kensington to be precise. I was hoping to get back home tonight but when I saw the fog was getting worse I phoned the wife to say I’d find somewhere to stay for the night and be home tomorrow,” Jonathan replied.
As soon had the words left his mouth he felt taken over by doubt. Was it the expression on the gentleman’s face? Was it the fact that the weather was that bad? Was it even, the thought that facing Christmas ‘alone’ somehow appealed to his sub-conscious? No specific reason occurred to him, he just sensed doubt. In any way the feeling of contentment, of comfort, in the company of Henry somehow appealed more than the prospect of leaving the safety of this place. Being with his family on Christmas day may still be possible if the fog lifted in time.
For a while the two men continued in deep conversation, occasionally laughing, occasionally arguing, but in all, remaining friendly with each other. It was apparent that his guest had been a serving officer during the Second World War, originally flying missions across Germany in the reconnaissance corp. before joining the mission to ‘Arnhem’ as a pilot transporting the parachute drop safely to their destination. Jonathan was fascinated. Such tales of heroism were often seen on the television yet here he was, listening to every aspect of a life as a pilot during this daring time.
“I haven’t so much as been involved in the boy scouts”, he told Henry, “And here you are, telling me all about a time I could only be in awe of. Well here’s to you, Henry”, added Jonathan, raising his glass. His companion gratefully accepted the plaudits.
Several hours had passed before both gentlemen chose to draw the evening to a close. Tiredness had encroached upon them without notice as they yawned almost in unison, neither having any idea how long they had been in conversation, except to say that several drinks had passed their lips and further chatter would result in either or both falling asleep where they sat.
Bidding his guest a good night, Jonathan moved slowly to gather his things. Since his arrival he had neglected to check into his room - he was told that it would have to be prepared as he was an unexpected, but never-the-less very welcome guest.
The gentleman at reception had a somewhat ‘odd’ appearance. The more he thought about it the more he noticed that his clothes resembled those of a similar period of dress to that Henry appeared to belong. He began to look around the whole reception area, at various objects, at the pictures on the wall behind the clerk, at the telephone exchange in the corner, everything reminded him of the 1940’s. Jonathan hadn’t noticed it before, but now the whole place appeared decked out as if in a bygone era.
“Excuse me?” he asked “I feel as if I have walked into some kind of themed Hotel, do you collect memorabilia at all?” A puzzled look upon the clerk’s face told him that this was not worth pursuing. “Perhaps he’s not the conversational type,” Jonathan thought to himself, contenting himself with the prospect of a warm bed and a peaceful night’s sleep.
On entry to his room he noticed that the theme downstairs carried on here too, however he was too tired to think about it any further. After turning on the bedside light and settling down his bedclothes he stepped into the bathroom for a quick wash and returned to the warm bed in anticipation of a comfortable night’s slumber. A few moments later and he was fast asleep - the rigours of a hard day’s work finally taking its toll.
It was approximately 2 am when Jonathan was disturbed by a knocking at his door. Rising from a heavy sleep, his eyes still not settled enough for him to turn on the lamp at the side of his bed; he wandered across to the door. On opening, the site of smoke rising from the corridor, in the direction of the stairwell gave cause for alarm. Calling out for whoever knocked at his door he suddenly became aware of a droning noise emanating from above. Within moments, the person responsible for waking him had returned. He couldn’t see the owner of the voice for smoke. “You’d better make your way downstairs to the lobby. We’ve been hit”.
“What?” cried Jonathan in astonishment, “You say, ‘we’ve been hit’?”
There was no reply. The disembodied voice had already made its way down the corridor, warning other residents to vacate their rooms. Jonathan followed his fellow guests safely making his way downstairs.
The lobby was crammed full with residents, so much so that chaos reigned. Nobody stood out as knowing what was going on as Jonathan searched for his friend, Mr. Clement. He was nowhere to be seen.
Grabbing at the desk clerk he asked him for some answers. “I can’t tell you much”, the clerk replied, “Except to say that we’ve been hit.”
“Hit? Hit by what? What do you mean, we’ve been hit?” Jonathan asked again, once more to be thwarted by the clerk. Nothing could explain the smoke and there did not seem to be any damage that would add weight to being ‘hit’ by anything.
Jonathan had almost forgotten about the droning noise he had heard earlier when he was still upstairs, rushing around the corridor looking for the stairwell. On deciding to ask one or two of the other guests if they had heard it too he was surprised by their response.
“That’ll be the bombers flying overhead. They’re always around at this time of night” one cried out. Another said one might have crashed on its way back home.
“On its way back to where? Where’s home? Jonathan asked, curious to know what this was all about. “Is there some kind of airbase near here? Is this a flight path for aircraft?” he questioned further; nobody offered any more information. They all appeared too concerned with themselves to give him any answers.
At that moment, a rather dishevelled and bloodied gentleman entered the building. His head was adorned with a leather cap and flying goggles. Thinking it rather strange that anyone would be flying on an evening such as this Jonathan overlooked the man’s injuries. There was something else peculiar about this chap, a familiarity about him that he couldn’t quite place. “If I’m not mistaken”, he thought, “I’ve seen his face before”. Within moments there was sudden rush of guests towards the man, each one offering assistance and subsequently disturbing Jonathan’s concentration.
“Quick, someone help the gentleman to a chair. He looks as if he’s been in the thick of it”, shouted the desk clerk. Standing in amazement, Jonathan realised something was not right here and he intended getting to the bottom of it, though he would have to wait until the morning, as the main concern was the comfort of this apparent victim of an accident.
Running to the bar Jonathan grabbed a glass, filled it with brandy before taking a swig himself and then took the remainder over to the bewildered patient.
“It came at me, straight from nowhere. I tried you know, I tried!” the mystery man mumbled.
Jonathan could not make head or tail of what he was muttering about. “Poor fellow, he must be deluded”, he thought to himself. “Whatever it was that had happened outside must have given him a shock and he’s confused”. Within moments the man had fallen into an unconscious state. Efforts to bring him round again proved fruitless; he was out for the count.
Checking on his safety, the clerk advised that the gentleman be given breathing space, whilst he felt for a pulse. With a sigh of relief, he realised that the patient would be likely to recover after some much needed rest. Putting the man’s feet onto a stool he proceeded to call out to the other guests for a blanket. Someone with forethought had already arranged for this and it subsequently was laid across the patient in order that he remain warm while he slept comfortably.
Gradually, the chaos died down and everyone began making their way back to their rooms. Jonathan following suit, felt quite confused by recent events. He was determined to find out what had happened that night but this was no time to ask.
Leaving the clerk to deal with the mystery gentleman Jonathan retired to his bedroom once more, still puzzled by the poor chap’s condition and the reasons for such. He took one final look out of his window to see if there was anything that could satisfy his curiosity but all he saw was thick, thick fog and a white landscape. Nothing else could be gleaned by further enquiries that night so, resolving to sort things out in the morning, he decided to get some much-needed sleep; it would be a long day tomorrow. Jonathan hoped he would be able to travel home for a family Christmas. The fog would make travel difficult but he was determined to make it home.
The weather conditions for Christmas Eve had not improved any. In fact, if anything they had become increasingly worse since the previous evening. Pulling his curtains apart, Jonathan noticed that where he could see the white carpet covering the surrounding countryside the night before, this morning visibility was almost down to zero. There was no way he could travel under these circumstances at all. “It would be incredibly stupid to set off in this”, he murmured to himself.
Once Jonathan had carried out his daily ablutions and dressed himself he made his way downstairs, determined to call his wife and advise her of the dangerous conditions and to tell her that he would try again later that day if things improved.
On the stairwell, crossing his path was Jonathan’s friend of a few hours, Henry Clement. “What was all the fun and games about last night then?” he asked.
Henry stared for a moment in bewilderment, almost as if he hadn’t met Jonathan the previous evening, before replying that he had no recollection of what was being asked of him. “The crash!” said Jonathan. “Last night there was some kind of accident and a gentleman was rescued. He’s probably still downstairs at this moment. I must say the poor man looked in an awful state”, he continued “I suppose they couldn’t raise you up last night so you probably missed it all. Quite a commotion, I’d say”
Again Henry stared blankly into his face. Now Jonathan was beginning to feel rather uneasy about his friend. “Henry, It’s Jonathan, we met yesterday evening, do you remember?” he asked, puzzlingly.
Without wishing to appear absent minded or ignorant, the distinguished gentleman acknowledged his companion and in an attempt to avoid embarrassment responded, rather wishing to save awkwardness on both accounts. “Of course. Yesterday! I remember. Of course you’ll have to forgive me, I may have drunk a little too much and that’s when the memory plays up, isn’t it? You’re the gentleman that erm… that erm…” said Henry, gracefully covering his ignorance. “Jonathan. Jonathan Harper”, he affirmed. “I’m sorry, I should have realised that you have probably just woken up. “Nonsense. Not at all”, said an apologetic Henry, “Perhaps we can meet up in the bar later? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get to my room”, he added. And with that, Henry marched off in the appropriate direction. Once again, Jonathan felt overcome by confusion. “I could have sworn he didn’t recognise me”, he thought to himself, continuing his way down the stairs to the lobby.
Jonathan’s search for a telephone took him to an old fashioned booth at the far side of the reception area. In a fashion, this didn’t seem out of place; especially with the other furniture in the inn, but again it was not something he was accustomed to. However, his only thoughts were whether he could get through to his wife to inform her of the current situation.
Eagerly Jonathan dialled the number… 01 984 7325… “Hello operator, which number are you calling?” said a voice at the other end of the line. He hung up immediately. Calling the number twice more he received the same response. “Hello operator, which number…?”
“How odd!”, he exclaimed. Dialling once more he allowed the operator to continue before he answered her. “Yes, I’d like to place a call to London 984 7325 if I may?” he asked.
“I’m sorry sir, that number is not available”, came the reply. “May I ask who are you trying to reach?”
Nervous panic began to manifest itself in his speech as he passed details of his home address to the operator. “I’m trying to reach my wife, Mrs. Cathy… Catherine Harper, 94. Whiterush House, K… Kensington, London”.
Immediately the operator responded, “I have no such person listed at that address sir. Are you sure that you have given me the correct address?”
Jonathan was getting quite irritated by the operator’s inability to locate the correct telephone number. “It’s my home address and I should know where we live. Good God, we’ve lived there since ‘66”, he yelled back down the line. Red faced with anger he demanded that the operator try the number once more. She was having none of it. “Sir, the number you wish to call doesn’t exist and the address which you gave me does not list Harper as the subscriber and is not the number you have given me” she responded firmly. Panic, beginning to get the better of him, he slammed down the phone with such a bang that the noise attracted the attention of the desk clerk who was not amused by Jonathan’s behaviour. “Mr. Harper, may I remind you that our other guests may need to use the telephone?” Immediately Jonathan responded. “Well why can I not seem to get through to my home to call my wife? The operator keeps telling me that our address doesn’t exist. What’s going on here?”
“Perhaps the line is down sir and the operator can’t get through. The fog sometimes has that effect; causing problems with the telegraph cables. It may be better to wait until later in the day, try again then”, the clerk advised. “In the meantime, would you like anything else?” Stunned into silence, Jonathan just stood, staring at the clerk, as if he had just been informed that his dilemma with the operator was not all that important.
After a few moments Jonathan moved towards the stairs, muttering as he clambered up each step. “I can’t believe this place, what the hell is going on here?” he thought, his blood beginning to boil over. Deciding to do a little bit of finding out for himself he made up his mind to have a word or two with his friend Henry. “He may be able to provide me with some answers” mused Jonathan. On reaching the door of Henry’s room he knocked loudly. “Hello!” a voice called from within.
“It’s Jonathan Harper. I would like to have a word with you about something if I may?”
The same jovial, ruddy-faced gentleman opened the door to him. “Can I help you?” he asked. Once again, Jonathan’s friend appeared oblivious as to who he was. “We met yesterday, in the bar area, don’t you remember me?” cried Jonathan, desperate to find some familiarity. “You talked about your days as a pilot in the reconnaissance corps: The parachute drop over Arnhem? What about the bombing raids in Germany? Please tell me you remember all of that?” he pleaded, his voice progressively rising in a fit of pique, almost screaming at the bewildered gentleman standing before him.
“My dear fellow, I have neither been to Arnhem nor do I know anything about a parachute drop you refer to”, said a stern faced Henry. “And even if I had I couldn’t possibly tell you about it, could I? Now, if you don’t mind, I have a lot of things to do and I would appreciate the time to get on with it. I have to be at camp for 1600 hundred hours” he added impatiently.
An uncontrollable Jonathan forced his way into the room, grabbed at the lapels of Henry’s jacket, held the man firmly in his grasp for a few moments whilst staring into his eyes before turning his attention to the jacket that his friend was wearing: A blue surge, Royal Air Force jacket of the type worn during the Second World War. It was adorned with various badges, each representing something or other. Jonathan had a limited knowledge of military awards, having himself served his time in the draft a few years previously but the one thing he didn’t recognise was anything resembling a DFC.
“I thought you were awarded a DFC?” he asked, releasing his victim for a moment. “I distinctly remember you referring to yourself as Pilot Officer Henry Clement, DFC. Where is your DFC?” Jonathan said, accusingly.
“You have to earn one before you can attach it to your uniform and as yet, I have not received such an honour,” replied Henry, attempting to reassure Jonathan of his status. Unconvinced, Jonathan again asked about Arnhem. How would he know so much about Arnhem and the landings if they had not taken place? How would he know about the parachute drop? Operation ‘Market Garden’? The hundreds of troops flown over for the offensive? The bombing raids on Germany? How could he possibly know of Henry’s involvement if none of this had taken place? He wanted answers and he wanted them now! “Tell me what is going on and what all this has to do with the Wayfarer’s!” he demanded.
“Listen to me”, said Henry, confronting Jonathan. “Whatever it is that is causing you to be alarmed has little to do with me. I don’t know how you know of any planned military action and I don’t care how you came by this information but for the sake of national security, please keep it to yourself and don’t talk about it again. I’ll tell you what you need to know and nothing more if you will just calm down and have a drink with me”. With that, Henry moved over to his chest-of-drawers and retrieved a bottle of malt from a drawer and two drinking glasses. Pouring a measure into each he returned to an armchair ushering Jonathan to be seated and began relaying the events to which Jonathan had referred.
A couple of hours past before Henry, looking at his watch, decided to wrap up the conversation. “Now you promise that this information will remain between the two of us? Nobody outside of Whitehall knows of these events and they wish to keep it quiet until they know how things play out. Any leak and you could jeopardise tonight’s flight”, he warned. Jonathan said nothing for a few moments before responding to his friend. “It’s almost as if you believe this happened recently”, he replied, questioningly. “That was all over 26 years ago”. Rising from his chair, he began to back out of the room, still staring at Henry, occasionally nodding his head from side to side in defiance of what he had heard and was expected to believe. “26 years ago, Henry!” he cried out once more, as he exited.
Needing to have a lie down in order to get his head together Jonathan made his way to his own room, still musing over what he had just heard. “The poor fellow is living in the past. Maybe that’s why he’s here, recuperating from some delusion” he thought to himself.
It was long into the night when Jonathan awoke. Realising that he must have drunk too much whiskey whilst listening to Henry and his strange tale earlier that afternoon, he looked at his watch - It was 1.50 am. He’d slept way too long for comfort and his poor wife would be at home in Kensington, fretting about why her husband had not yet returned home safely to her and the children. Strangely, there was a noise; a droning noise emanating from above. It was a similar droning noise to the noise that he had heard the previous night; only on this occasion he could hear screeching too. It sounded like nothing Jonathan had heard before. Leaping from his bed he ran towards the window and pulled at the curtains. Nothing could be seen except a faint ball of light, something on fire perhaps and it was getting brighter by the second, its angle of elevation dipping downwards.
Suddenly Jonathan was aware something was happening; somehow he knew this mystery object was going to crash into the Wayfarer’s and he had to get out and quickly. Grabbing at his coat and suitcase lying by the side of his bed he hurriedly made his way for the door. There was little light in the hallway but Jonathan was un-perturbed as he felt his way to the stairwell, dropping his coat as he stumbled down the corridor. The droning noise was getting louder and the building had now started to shake. He had to get out fast and stopping for his coat was not a priority, or it wouldn’t have been if his car keys weren’t in the pocket. Jonathan had to turn back and pick them up. As he felt his way along the ground for the overcoat the noise from above became almost deafening. The walls were vibrating rapidly and pictures began falling from their hooks to the floor. Jonathan realised there was little time, if he didn’t make his escape now he would surely be caught in the middle of it all. The glass from the picture frames crunched beneath his shoes but he knew that unless he could get outside to safety, small cuts to his feet would be the least of his worries.
Jonathan tripped over each step as ran down the staircase, stumbling over objects that had fallen from the walls, catching his feet in the ill-fitting carpet. He eventually found the reception area. The droning was unbearable and now it appeared to be joined by a high pitch screaming or whining noise, like that of engines in high revs. He knew he had only seconds to find the exit and get outside. A clock in the reception area began the chiming of the hour as he found the doorway leading outside into the car park. Looking into the night sky Jonathan could see swirls of fog parting under the pressure of heat and flame as suddenly, the cockpit of an aircraft loomed clear through the mist. There was little time to recognise anything about the plane heading straight for the building he had just escaped from, except that it was big. Within seconds all around had became a huge ball of flame as the two objects, aircraft and building, met in a flurry of hurling brick, metal and burning debris. Diving onto the grass below his feet Jonathan covered his head with his hands and began praying. Praying for those still inside, the pilot and his crew and most of all, for his own safety.
The searing heat caused by the blast proved too much for Jonathan as he drifted in and out of consciousness. In the moments when he was aware he could just make out people running, some with buckets in hand, others with blankets, each one trying to douse the flames as they attempted to take control of the building. One whole side of the Wayfarer’s appeared to be gone, or was it just the smoke and fog? Jonathan tried rubbing his eyes in order to get a better view. No! It was indeed gone.
Wearily standing to his feet Jonathan surveyed the wreckage. What looked like a bomber aircraft was lying in flames at the rear of the Inn, its wing and engine on the right side missing from the main fuselage. It became apparent that the wing had parted company with the rest of the aircraft and collided with the back of the building causing a wall to fall away. He was lucky; if he had remained in his room he would surely have been dead by now. Gathering his thoughts he was alert enough now to realise that people inside must need help.
In the lobby Jonathan saw utter chaos as people were running in all directions trying to help each other or assist in some way with the clearing away of debris. Nobody had time for the full affects of the situation to get the better of him or her, they all co-operated fully with the desk clerk as he gave polite but firm orders. He had assembled the remaining guests in the lobby whilst he completed a thorough search of the building.
When all had calmed down inside and out people began to relax and take in the situation. Nerves gradually began to creep in with some of the female residents as they sought solace with their partners or other friendly guests. The clerk returned, grim faced as he recounted the damage to the back of his Inn. “Two rooms have completely gone; seven and nine. I’m sorry but there is no sign of any survivors at all” he said mournfully. Jonathan immediately recognised room nine as being his room. “I’m here”, he called out, “Room nine, that’s my room. I believe room seven was Mr. Henry Clement”, Jonathan added. Strangely, nobody responded to him. Again he informed the clerk. Again nobody responded to him. Jonathan manoeuvred himself in to a better position in font of the desk clerk in case, over all of the noise, he couldn’t be heard. “I am in room nine and Henry Clement is room seven”, he shouted once more. The clerk stood unresponsive, blankly looking straight through Jonathan. “I think Mr. Clement was in room seven but room nine was empty, I’m sure of it”, said the clerk working through his memory of the register of his guests. “Though Mr. Clement would have been due at camp this afternoon so I presume he’s safe”. he continued.
“This is absurd!” cried Jonathan, “I’m here, Jonathan Harper, standing right in front of you. I’ve been in room nine since I arrived, the day before yesterday. What the hell’s going on?” Still the response he was looking for didn’t come. He looked around the lobby at the rest of the guests; they too appeared not to notice him standing in front of them.
Suddenly, Jonathan was overcome by fear. If nobody saw him that meant he wasn’t there. If he wasn’t there, in front of them, he must be… dead! “But I can’t be!” he screamed. “I got out! I got away! I was outside when the plane hit the building I tell you!” His normal self-control had departed him as he ran furiously around each of the guests trying to attract their attention, as if in defiance of his slowly evolving conclusions.
“Harper?” a voice called out from behind. “Harper, you’re here”. Jonathan turned sharply to see his friend, Henry Clement standing in the doorway of the inn. “You made it then?” he added.
“Henry, you can see me? Then I’m here? Alive?” Jonathan queried. “Tell them all that I’m here, they can see me”, he pleaded. He turned his attention back to the other residents and the desk clerk. “You see! I am here. What the hell is the matter with you all?” Still, his ranting went unobserved by his fellow guests.
“They won’t hear you Harper. They won’t see or hear either of us”. Said a woeful Henry. “I’m afraid that we both went down with the plane. I managed to hold on for a minute or two in an attempt to steer her clear but you’d already gone”.
“What the hell are you talking about? I wasn’t in that plane. I couldn’t have been, I was outside the building when I saw it crash”. Said Jonathan, imploring his friend to see sense.
“You were thrown clear by the impact, Harper”, replied Henry, “That’s how you ended up outside”
Jonathan continued to argue his corner. “I am a travelling sales representative and I arrived here on the 23rd. I have nothing to do with you except that I met you in the bar” Henry immediately responded. “Harper, you didn’t have a room here. You remained at the station with the crew. I only came here on the 23rd to get some rest while my billet was being repaired. You were never here!”
Gradually, Jonathan ran through the events of the evening of the 23rd in his head: He hadn’t received a room key on arrival at the Wayfarer’s, as the room was not ready for him. All of the furniture and décor was not contemporary to 1969, neither were the clothes the guests were in, especially Henry. The operator hadn’t been able locate his address or telephone number the previous morning. She didn’t even recognise his name. Henry didn’t recall the conversation they had over drinks at the fireside or even, that he knew him at all. All of these anomalies started to fix themselves clearly in his mind. But wait. There was something! Something had actually happened to him that could not be explained. During the business with the telephone the desk clerk actually spoke to him. “No he didn’t. He spoke to someone but it wasn’t you, Harper”. Said Henry.
The stark realisation of what had occurred steadily seeped through into Jonathan’s head. He was never going to see his wife and children again. How could he, as they had never happened? He wasn’t a travelling sales representative; he was apparently a co-pilot in the RAF under the command of Henry Clement, DFC as yet to be.
“But how did I end up here, at the Wayfarer’s?” Jonathan asked Henry.
“Quite simple, my dear friend. This is our main flight corridor for Germany. Something must have caught us off guard and we were hit. This particular corridor avoids all of the towns and villages in the area and was deemed the safest path over to Europe”, Henry informed his colleague. “As to how you are involved? Well, let me tell you. A driver, in a hurry to return home to his family at Christmas time finds himself in a thick fog; so thick that it becomes an unbearable nightmare trying to continue onward. Suddenly, from out of the mist, a light looms. It appears to be a safe haven for the weary motorist, the Wayfarer’s Inn. Not listed on any map for over 26 years, it was destroyed by a returning bomber crashing into it, yet here it was. A cheery welcome is accorded the traveller and the promise of a comfortable night. Naturally, the traveller accepts this luxury of avoiding possible peril in such horrendous conditions. Snugly relaxing in an armchair by the side of an open fire, the gentleman begins to reflect upon Christmas with his family. Was it, after all, going to be an enjoyable time spent with the children? They always find time to fight over something, don’t they? Perhaps the thought of the relatives dropping in caused the gentleman concern - either way, he wasn’t really looking forward to getting home, was he?”
“A welcoming face appears offering warm, friendly conversation. The traveller gratefully accepts the opportunity to converse with someone who is not part of his family. He has, by now, already made a subconscious decision to remain here. All that was left for him was to have the desire to find a resolution to the strange events that were unfolding before him. He began to doubt his reality and started to accept another. Once you make the decision to peep into an alternate reality it slowly becomes your reality and what is becomes what was. The events of the 23rd of December were very genuine but you looked a little too deep and for you and myself, and all of the guests here tonight, let this be a warning to other voyeurs of the past”.
The light gradually began to fade on both Jonathan and Henry as they continued their conversation. In the distance the sound of a radio could be heard. The interference was strong at first but became clearer as the light faded.
“Sierra one, seven. We’re at the scene. Abandoned vehicle. It looks like the driver lost the car in the fog and came off the road. Can we have a recovery team?” the voice on the radio said. “Incident call-out time logged as 2 am on Wayfarer Road. No sign of the driver, may have wandered into the fog for assistance”.
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