Foreword
Two hundred years ago, some of the greatest writers of the age were on holiday
in Italy. To entertain themselves, they decided to tell each other stories,
daring one another to make them more frightening, more chilling and more
unsettling. Out of this arose Mary Shelley’s creature and, later, her great novel
“Frankenstein.”
We love stories. We tell them because they help us to frame the world and
to impose some meaning on to an otherwise unfathomable existence. We
tell them because they offer gateways to understanding; metaphor, allegory
and symbolism allow us to discuss ideas and concepts that can be difficult to
comprehend. It has been well documented that Shelley’s great story is itself not
actually a story about monsters, but one about far reaching concerns that she
had of the nineteenth century world.
Once again, the students of Kingswood School have produced stories rich
and varied in their make up. They were, quite simply, asked to write about
monsters, inspired by that holiday of two hundred years ago. However, like
Shelley, these stories are not about monsters; they are about identity, fear,
society and, crucially, what it is to be human. Children have a wonderful ability
to articulate experience in a way that adults cannot, and nowhere is this more
apparent than in this collection of words. We have been frightened, scared,
relieved and deeply moved by the stories collected here, and hope that you will
be too.
The stories appear in an unedited form: who are we to filter the voices of the
young? After all, they are fearless, and therefore powerful.
Kingswood School, 2016
Contents
Foreword
i.
Take Him from Me by Max Lister. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
ii.
Monsters under the Bed by Alexandra Forbes-Cable. . 4
iii.
Where Men Grow Orchids by Roisin Tapponi . . . . . . 6
iv.
Extended Coffee Break by Natasha Thornton . . . . . . . . 10
v.
Writing on the Wall by Susanna Sealy . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
vi.
First Impressions by Archie Smith . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
vii.
I Saw All This by Francesca Padget. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
viii. A Monster’s Monster by Abigail Wylie . . . . . . . . . . . . 23
ix.
Be Careful Whom You Trust by Natalie Parobek. . . . . 27
x.
Ghost Girl by Rhiannon Knowles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30
xi.Unlucky by Lizzie Wylie. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
xii.
A Worse Fate? by Eva Hudson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
xiii. The Cruelest Monster of All by Jasper Davis. . . . . . 38
xiv. A Land for the Dead by Josh Nicholson. . . . . . . . . . . . 41
xv.
I Miss You by Abigail Vaid. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45
xvi.Swing by Thea Bailey. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47
xvii.1967 by Hannah Whitehead. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51
xviii. See It through My Eyes by Emma Rouffiac. . . . . . . . . 53
xix.Waltshangla by Matty Wylie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55
xx.
Monsters Aren’t Real by Rose Buxton . . . . . . . . . . . . 59
xxi. Neil’s Bridge by Rufus Dakin. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62
xxii. The Teeth of Beelzebub by Cameron McFadyen . . . . . 64
xxiii. Nowhere Is Safe by Sid Brunt. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67
xxiv. The Evil Presence by Rex Evans. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69
xxv. The Boy Who Dreamed of Death by Gabriel Westcott . . 72
xxvi.Paralysed by Kate Hall. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76
xxvii.Mental by Connor Neary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78
xxviii. A Peculiar Week by Sophie Hart. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82
xxix. Uncle Boris by Henry McBraida . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85
xxx. New Beginnings by Ed Gilpin. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89
xxxi. A Shard of Glass by Meg Scott . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92
xxxii. Night Becomes Day by Madi Sayce. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96
xxxiii.Different by Freya Morris . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
xxxiv. The Power in a Name by Naomi Waheed . . . . . . . . . . . 103
xxxv. Like Tears in the Rain by Sarah Rawle . . . . . . . . . . . . 106
xxxvi. One More Mirror by Polina Kuprish. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108
xxxvii.When the Bodies Rise by Eloise Weinberger. . . . . . . . . 111
xxxviii.Untold Depths by Zoë Birch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113
xxxix. Haunted by Annabel Davis. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116
xxxx. The Ghost Soldier by Holly Guy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 120
xxxxi. Phase 2 by Ritika Shrestha. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 122
xxxxii.Everything Looked Different Today by Bella Bird. . . 125
xxxxiii.The Scientist by Florence Burns . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 128
xxxxiv.The Thing in the Shed by Gabriel Vita . . . . . . . . . . . . 131
xxxxv. Cologne: December 31st 2015 by Isabel Calvert. . . . . . . 134
xxxxvi.The Train Tracks by Leo Osipovs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136
xxxxvii.Ghost Writer by Madeleine Attwood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138
Take Him from Me
by Max Lister
Dear Dr Greywood,
It is with the utmost fear and urgency that I am forced to inform you of my
deep concerns about Adam, who, as you know, graduates tomorrow.
Although the boy has been excelling in the fields of both sport and academia,
I cannot help but notice that he possesses qualities, aside from the obvious
alterations you have made to the boy, that are profoundly disturbing and
potentially dangerous. You must understand that I am by no means holding
you responsible, I have seen generations of your family go through the gates
of Blackthorn Boarding School and each one leave an honourable and noble
gentleman. Therefore, I am sure you had absolutely no intention for this to
happen when you altered the boy, and I am sure you send your condolences to
the family of that poor child after yesterday’s tragic events.
Naturally, of course we were delighted when you first informed us that your
boy would be attending the school; imagine our reaction when we learned that
Blackthorn would play its own, however partial, role in your great scientific
breakthrough. We were elated. And of course the boy’s alterations perfectly
matched our school’s motto, taken from Mary Shelley herself: “I am fearless
and therefore powerful”.
by Joseph Bruce
From the moment I saw him, I knew he had been modified. I remember
watching him from my window, walking amongst the other first years as they
entered through the iron gates of the school. Every face amongst that crowd
was ashen with fear, except Adam’s, who strode up to the main doors with
confidence and pride. He did not fear the locked doors and twisting empty
corridors of this school, or hide his face beneath the sheets at night like so
many of his peers and, many years before, I recall, yourself. The boy could
dive fearlessly into bottomless lochs and tackle on the rugby field without
the slightest care for self-preservation. But what more would one expect,
considering his modifications?
1
At first I was joyous. Through all my years as Headmaster of this school, I had
taught my boys to live a life without fear, and here was a boy who seemed to
have achieved my ultimate goal for a Blackthorn student. Yet, as I watched this
child, I began to doubt what throughout my life I had held to be true. The boy
had a disturbing lack of humanity. Of course we celebrate our bold sportsmen,
yet when the boy tackled an opponent to the ground on the rugby pitch, he
hadn’t the slightest care for his wellbeing, for he did not fear consequences or
guilt. When a student in the older years insulted him, he would not think twice
about hitting him for he did not fear pain. I was shocked and outraged when,
later, Adam constantly denied Christianity, yet I soon realised he did not need
comfort or reassurance in his life.
Of course, yesterday’s violent events confirmed my suspicions, forcing me to
come to the conclusion that although fear may hold a man back, it is a necessary
part of being human. Fear of consequences, guilt, pain or even death act as a
barrier, disabling humans from reaching their darker potential. It strikes me
that animals do not fear consequences, guilt or pain. Thus, if a man ceases to
feel fear, does he cease to be a man? Could it be that the emotion of fear is one
of the essential corner stones of our humanity?
I want you to come and claim the boy as your own, to take him from me and
let me wash yesterday’s blood from my hands, yet I know it will not be so, for
the boy has never truly belonged to anyone, not even his creator. I will be glad
of my imminent retirement for my beliefs and I no longer belong in this world
of scientific discovery. I fear the boy’s actions when he reaches the wider world
as, though fear is like an anchor, weighing us down, without it, we may well fly
too close to the sun. Therefore, let me issue this to you as a terrible warning, to
never try to be the Modern Prometheus again.
Noli Timere,
R. G. Smith
Headmaster
I am writing to you in my study, where I have wished so many boys well, yet
now in the hearth the fire is grey, and the branches of the leafless oak trees
tap on my window, whispering to the rhythm of the wind: “He cannot be
changed”. I have a sleepless and restive soul, tomorrow Adam graduates and
I will have sent something into the world I never meant to create. For all my
career I have tried to fashion a fearless child, yet having achieved my goal I am
now more fearful than ever.
Is there any way we could change him? I should think not, and now I doubt I
will ever be able to sleep peacefully again.
You may have created his condition, but I mentored and moulded the boy into
what he is today, a boy who is fearless, yet deeply inhuman. I find it strange
that you have not recently visited, and that you have sent Adam to this school
despite your miserable time here as I child. I cannot help but wonder whether
I am just an unknowing catalyst in your experiment. Your absence has made
me feel responsible for the boy. Perhaps you foresaw this occurring, and fled
from your creation, handing the guilt to your childhood tormentor? Or could
it be you never even stopped for thought?
2
3
Harry gazed at me with his bright blue eyes as he leaned close and whispered
into my ear, “Daddy, can you check for monsters under the bed first?” So, with
a nod and a smile I crouched down, my back aching with the movement.
Monsters under the Bed
by Alexandra Forbes-Cable
The dim light gleamed through the cracks of the door as I pressed my ear
against the rough wooden panels. I could hear him playing with the train set I
had bought him for Christmas and I couldn’t help but smile as he chatted away
in his own imaginary world. I waited there, on the other side of the door, for
just a few minutes longer, not wanting to put an end to his fantasy.
But as the minutes ticked away I knew it was time to put him to bed.
I was faced with the cluttered outline of toys cast over by the shadow of the
bed. I looked to the left and saw one of Harry’s beloved and supposedly ‘lost’
teddies that had been the result of weeks of moaning. Just beyond that I saw
one of his old train books. The spine was broken and it had a thick coat of dust
on it. My gaze continued across the clutter until I settled upon a pair of bright
blue eyes. I nearly jumped out of my skin as I saw the faint outline of my little
boy’s crumpled body. His trembling finger was over his mouth begging me to
stay quiet, but he didn’t have to tell me, I could see the fear in his eyes.
I couldn’t help but notice a tear run down his pale rounded face as he whispered,
“Daddy, there’s someone in my bed.”
“Harry! Bedtime!” I called, as I innocently opened the door. A barricade of
light hit me as I walked in. It was as if his room were punishing me for not
letting him play longer and I had to blink a few times to let my eyes adjust. As
the strong light faded, so did Harry.
“Where is Harry I wonder? Is he behind the chair? No!” I joked in a whimsical
voice as I peeked behind the chair. “Is he behind the curtains?” I checked
and drew them shut. Suddenly, I heard the muffled sound of breathing and
the scraping of knees across the well-worn carpet under the bed. I had caught
him out, I thought to myself, but I didn’t let on. “Or is he in the cupboard?” I
said quizzically, stepping away from the bed. Yet as I reached for the handle to
make an overly comical gesture the cupboard door swung open.
Groaning with age, the hinges held on for dear life and the hangers and
crumpled clothes crashed back together with a loud clanging noise. Out
jumped Harry. “Harry?” I muttered.
“Did I scare you?!” He giggled, his pale rounded face looking so innocent as he
clambered into bed.
“Yes...yes you just...caught me by surprise that’s all,” I stammered, not looking
at him, but instead under the bed. I returned my focus to Harry as I said,
“Right, well, which story should we read tonight?”
4
5
Where Men Grow Orchids
by Roisin Tapponi
I rocked steadily on the seat one-two-three until I had it imprinted on me like
a foul hickey: objectivist. In the shade, Emma, dark and breezy, impaled, with,
heat, so, hot, we, stuck. We stuck there sipping Coca Cola. Shielded from
pretty boys by Baroque sticking plaster Paris on the hallucinogenic sky; in a
square we were sat: cherry pi. The shiny metal burnt our arm-hair; behind the
hair Lolita peeked: a stone fountain gurgled, neat palm trees caressing nothing;
like love. We were surrounded; pretty baby paradise lapping up Coca Cola
under surveillance. The glass bottles so nice to stick one hot tongue on, turning
cherry-stained lips glacé to top the tart, giggling. Icy tongue, warm body, long
lashed - camels! No-one to ride. (Giggling).
Screen me, colours implementing air which sang the blues - light black shiny
rich; hazy warm breath, gypsy blouse olé. Camels to chameleons, copying
the palace square’s pastel pink wink to cigarettes on marble balconies. The
white, lit circular butts wanted a triangle; we were in a square, and we were
chameleons; charming Carmen wouldn’t have a problem. “Lying to herself
because her liquor’s top shelf.” There was no Time, oh bliss! only Capoeira
life; men dancing for us. I thrust coins into his sparkly red hat, red-hot. Too
hot, man. Only copper pays for a whistle and wink. (Giggling, nudge.) Red,
hot. Tempestuous temper. Pastel buildings cool me, pretty little rich girl. Na,
na, na….
Love. I loved Emma, the camel.
Now Emma is dead. Poor Emma; the human soul too hot to be holy. 37
degrees celsius was the heat of her red blood, the holy spirit probably raised it
to 42 degrees and the dancing would have pumped it up to 57 degrees. Glory
be to God. It is only 5 degrees in a church. She died because she had too much
spirit. He killed her with spirit because she danced too much when she drank
too much spirit. Amen.
“STOP”, HE SAID, and scribbled it all down. He screwed the pen lid
6
shut and chewed it, looked at the carpet. I stopped talking, but I did not
stop thinking. He stopped thinking and started talking. He takes me and my
stories. He had me wound up nice and tight, so I could only infer his sudden
movement from the sound of his twill trousers rubbing together on the inside
legs as he walked. He was wearing socks, so I couldn’t hear his feet, only his
gracilis’ rub rub rubbing. He went over to his darling orchids. He grows white
dove orchids; he is an orchid grower in his own home. I made the smart deal
with him whereby if the detainee cannot leave neither can the detainer. So
there: amen. The room temperature is very hot and it is very dark and the
lighting is very red. This red light makes his blonde beard look purple, which
I secretly inspect when he Does The Rounds. Today, I told him about Emma
and he wrote it with his red pen on on the red wall. It made me blush. Pretty
as a midsummer morn. He stood there now, watering his orchids. He shot one
yesterday, and the petals fell with the ceremony of something static loosing
friction, something which stopped searching for energy and slowly became a
part of the great silence. We are only really silent when.
“I want it, to add, to subtract, to multiply my own satisfaction.” I looked up,
so he wanted to speak.
“What? Why, when?”
“Your canine, the canine inside your mouth. You have two, I want the right
one. I’m always right, it keeps me sane. White and shiny, delicious.”
“When?” (BEAT. I beat my leg.) “You want my tooth, when do you want it?”
“Whenever you feel comfortable.”
“I don’t think I can feel comfortable around you. You took my heart.”
“I don’t think I hold the back of your head, tilt it up slightly and gently ease
your canine into my two index-”
“I guess not.”
“What?”
“I guess I can’t let you near me.”
“You could do it to yourself.”
“Pardon?”
“Pull your tooth out yourself, for me. You want to, I can see that you want to.”
“Fine, I will. And I will not ask “why?”” (He’s how I pray.)
“Why?”
“Why you want my tooth.”
“Oh.” (He sighed, left his orchids and knelt in front of me.)
My stomach is hurting because he forgot to water me. He feeds me from the
soil, ashes to ashes; no dust. He doesn’t like dust. Shame he can’t multiply the
bread like Jesus can. My small intestine contains 20-25 feet, and probably a lot
7
of goose fat. The geese are now skinny and I am now fat. He doesn’t like dust.
The intestine is small so it can curl up in a coil like a cat in my abdomen, and
my abdomen is hiding behind the right crescent of my belly button, because
my abdomen is important so God put it on the same side he puts Jesus. But
who is on my left? I asked him and he said that Daniel Day-Lewis is by My
Left Foot, but that can’t be right because I don’t have a left foot. Only a right
foot. He took the other one yesterday morning.
I am not always right, but most of the time I am because my granddad had a
vision from Mary (not sure if she’s still a Virgin) when he visited, Knock saying
so. And I can’t be anything other than right, because I can’t turn left unless I
hop to the left with my right foot, which cancels out the leftness and makes
me right again.
I told him this and he laughed. Maybe if he unties me, we will walk together
once again.
In the meantime I dream of frosted orchids
inspected by him in tweed;
as I stare through my rose-tinted bifocals
at him, on his knees
before the orchids and me
and me,
bowing down before me,
serene.
I’m losing
you now.
by Pili Wilson
8
9
Extended Coffee Break
by Natasha Thornton
Two or three years into the war, a new wave of soldiers arrived. After our
illustrious leader had cycled through our volunteer troops, he deployed the
conscript army. It was then when soldiers who had barely started their teen
years began to show up on my wards. They weren’t men, they were just boys,
sent out to die with ‘honour’. It was at this point I knew we would never win
the war, not with malnourished children fighting on our front lines.
I was right, the war did not last long after that.
Dust coats the room, leaving no surface clean. Making it appear unused. I
suppose it is now, but it did not used to be. Like the rest of the building, this
room is now unrecognisable from what it once was. It was a place of life, where
we used to sit and make jokes to pass the time. Well, I’m still sitting here,
passing the time, even as my contemporaries have moved on.
We used to come here in an attempt to forget about the pain and suffering
we were constantly exposed to. To immerse ourselves in the comfort of each
other’s vitality. To extricate ourselves from a world of death and to remind
ourselves that light and life continue to exist. To drink coffee: if only for a
short while, before setting off again on ward rounds and rotations. The life of
a doctor; the life I lived.
The chair groans and shudders at the slightest draught flowing through a
hairline crack in the ancient windows, reminding me of the moans of the
patients I once treated. I am transported back in time, reliving my first day at
the hospital, over a century ago. I remember the assault mounted on my senses
as I first entered the ward: the sounds, the smells, the colours. I had barely
been trained, and was drastically unprepared, but the war had just started, and
everyone was needed. I was ready enough to help. My entire life had been
leading up to this moment and I finally had a chance to make a difference. I
had a chance to change the world. How naïve I had been, that very first day.
At the start of the war, the amount of patients we saw was relatively low;
we were not on the front line, so any casualties who made it to us tended to
be rehabilitation patients. Patients who were too severely injured to return
to combat, but healed enough to be transported from the field hospitals. In
particular, we received a lot of amputees. Career Officers whose lives had been
ruined by bad cases of infection. Many were unsure about how to continue
living outside of the forces: they were depressed. Others were angry, at the
government or the enemy, I was never entirely sure. Many took their anger out
on us, but I preferred them to the patients who were yet to come.
10
It’s odd, how much you can tell about the state of a country from one of its
hospitals. I did not have to read a newspaper or listen to the radio. Just from
wandering around my wards, I learned of the chaos that ensued after the end
of the war. I heard how my country repaired itself. I watched as we braced
ourselves for another one. I witnessed the aftermath as our proud country
crumbled under a second great defeat. I beheld the foreign occupation and
viewed my people rise up from under oppression and unite. I saw so much
without ever leaving my hospital and I looked on as my hospital fell. Until I
reached the point that I am at today. The point at which I am sitting in a room
coated with dust.
Dust is mostly made up of dead skin cells: I wonder if the percentage is higher
here? It is a hospital after all, well, ex-hospital. Hundreds of people lived here,
some for months on end, all eventually ascending that golden stairway. A
healthy person can expect to shed between thirty to forty thousand skin cells
per hour; I wonder if the dying lose more? I look around me and imagine each
speck of dust as a part of one of my patients or colleagues, people who were
such a large part of my life. And they say immortality isn’t possible. This entire
building is a monument immortalising them, filled with memories locked in
microscopic cells. Relics of men who have long since abandoned me to this
lonely existence. Wishing for the chaos I once used to dread and missing the
presence of the living. A century on, I alone remain, on my extended coffee
break, praying that it is not eternal.
11
politicians that ran the country, and discussions on their favourite sports teams’
latest triumphs. These debates would often occupy them for hours. However,
suddenly their voices stopped.
Writing on the Wall
by Susanna Sealy
“Tea, Charlie?” No answer as usual. After sixty years she was used to this. She
wasn’t sure why she expected an answer now but for some reason she found it
hard when she heard nothing. She poured the hot, steaming tea, added a big
splash of milk, and finished with two lumps of sugar before turning round
ready to take it in to the sitting room.
“Oh you’re right behind me!” Her heart raced a little at the sight of him
standing there. “Well take it then!”
The initial sound of the crash pierced her ears. The carpet had stained, and
there was nothing she could do to prevent it. Much of the tea splashed on her
brittle legs, but due to her slow decline, she could now no longer feel what
once would have stung. She winced as she stared into the open space of her
kitchen. She desperately tried to recall her last use of the dust-pan and brush,
but as she reached to search the top cupboards, her back began to give way.
She felt Charlie appear behind her again, offering her a seat. Startled by his
appearance she lurched her way on to the chair. Despite her desperately trying
to find comfort in it, Charlie’s presence scared her.
“Oh thank you, dear. I’ll sit down for a minute”
As she readjusted the cushion on the chair, for some added comfort, she realised
Charlie had gone again. Slowly, she hauled herself up, and remembered she’d
left the dust-pan and brush upstairs.
She began her ascent up the uneven, spiral staircase that everyone had
originally told her would become an issue; however, she chose to ignore that
thought. Half way up, her heart rate increased as she began to wheeze, and
despite not knowing if she would be able to get back up again, she sat down
trying to catch her breath. She was about to ask Charlie for help, when she
randomly heard him talking to their daughter-in-law. Their voices seemed
quiet. The conversation seemed to vary between a mixture of diverse composers
during the centuries, followed by political debates on the number of useless
12
Soon after, Charlie appeared at the foot of the stairs, as if to offer his hand in
order to help her up.
“Oh no, dear, I’m quite all right thank you.” Grabbing the hand rail, she pulled
her fragile frame up and continued to climb the stairs, eventually succeeding
on reaching the top.
The abrupt sound of laughter coming from downstairs eventually woke her.
She fumbled out of bed reaching to shut and lock the door. Why was Charlie
here? What was he going to do to her? A shiver went down her spine. She
climbed back into bed, trying to protect herself from the man she had called
her husband. As she lay in bed, brooding over what Charlie might try and
do, she jerked at the sight of creatures that seemed to fly across her ceiling.
The stretched, black, furry legs following somewhere behind the monstrous,
sprawled-out bodies began to frighten her as she envisaged them falling down
onto her bed. She yanked the duvet over her head as if to shield herself from
the falling animals, but nothing could hide the grey, looming letters RIP that
were sprawled across the ceiling. She didn’t even have her glasses on and yet
the writing was so large. She shut her eyes tightly, uncertain for a moment of
where she was and why she was crying.
Reappearing from her covers, she was aware of a small damp patch as she
slowly engineered herself out of bed. Taking hold of the bannister, she lowered
herself step by step until her diminishing figure appeared back in the kitchen.
Filling up the kettle, she noticed darker patches on the decaying, peppery
carpet amidst scattered pieces of china. How this mess ended up on the floor,
she had no idea, but automatically bent down to open the cupboard beneath
the sink to take out the dustpan and brush. She felt Charlie’s grey, blurred
figure behind her again, almost making her heart jump out of her skin.
“I don’t have enough food for both of us. You’ll have to give me time to sort
out breakfast for two.”
The sentence came trembling out of her mouth, as she knew something wasn’t
right. She gently began to make her way out of the room, unsure of where
Charlie had gone again. Picking up a cardigan from the hall chair, she wrapped
herself up, in vain, trying to keep warm. She locked herself in the sitting room,
picked up the phone and called her son.
13
“Peter? Charlie’s here. What shall I make him for breakfast? Oh dear, what
will he do? But I only have the cereal I like. He doesn’t like Special K. Peter,
what shall I get him?”
“Mum, Dad’s been dead twelve years. What are you talking about?”
“Yes, yes I know but he’s here. He’s been talking to people. I can hear his voice
all the time and sometimes he’s standing behind me, but I can’t give him any
breakfast. I don’t know what he wants.”
“I’m sorry, Mum, I can’t hear you. Have you left the radio on again?”
The old lady hobbled over to the radio and, after stumbling over several
buttons, the voices eventually stopped. Returning to the phone, she noticed
the abundant pills overflowing the surface of her side table.
“Mum. Mum? Are you there? Good. Now why don’t you go back to bed? It’s
two o’clock in the morning.”
by Libby Taylor
14
15
First Impressions
by Archie Smith
The thing I miss most about the city is probably the noise. Ever since I left
for the country, the lack of stuttering cars, muffled voices and distant music
permeating the silence of every waking second has been abruptly removed
and replaced with a sinister quietness. Except, of course, the occasional cry of
some creature far off in the distance. It is curious how the constant hum had
come to comfort me and I feel strangely exposed without its presence in the
background of my life.
Around three weeks ago, the family I work for purchased a new house. One
away from my metropolitan apartment and in the heart of the country. As the
maid of their establishment, I have been sent along a week in advance to clean
and prepare for their arrival. Unfortunately, any help is not to arrive until three
days from now, leaving me entirely alone in a dusty, decaying, dump of a house
until then.
Nevertheless, the impressive expanse of rural scenery speeding past me as I
navigate the roads towards my destination is undoubtedly attractive. I have
never been away from the city, not this far at any rate, leading me to acquire
a groundless distaste for anything not paved in concrete or built smaller than
four storeys. My assumption was always that the country is backwards. Oldfashioned people thinking old-fashioned things in old-fashioned homes with
old-fashioned neighbours. Blindly disregarding industrial progress as they
blindly stumble around their own homes.
However, now I’m here, I like it. Not for the fresh smells hinted at in the
air, nor for the people, though they boast a sweetness unseen from similar
strangers in the city. Just the stillness. The calm, the lack of movement. The
unyielding rush of life there had engulfed me in a mindless trance, moving
from one task to the next without hesitation or acknowledgement of stopping.
I had been so caught in this inexhaustible impulse that I had forgotten what it
was like to savour a moment of stillness.
16
I arrive at my destination. Westbrook Manor. Although perfectly exuberant in
its decoration, there were little signs of things that may hold my enjoyment in
the moments I have away from cleaning. God, these three days are going to be
boring. Grabbing my suitcase and invaluable box of various cleaning items, I
venture inside.
I step into a hall. A mosaic of black and white dust-stained tiles about a foot
wide pave the floor, and a glistening glass chandelier dangles precariously above
my head. Though draped in cobwebs, the light let in from the door refracts
through it, projecting small shimmers of colour across the monochrome room.
Two grand arched doorways direct further into the house and a staircase
sweeps down in front of me, leading to more rooms on the level above. Every
inch meticulously designed and crafted. It is nice. A little fancy perhaps. The
one thing out of place is a bicycle, propped up against a wall in the corner of
the hall. That and what looks like some amateur still life paintings. I guess they
must have belonged to the original owners.
Before I had a moment to settle or even make it once around the house, a
distant sound pricked the attention of my ears. It was music. Faint, in the
distance, but definitely music, muffled through the layers of floors and ceilings.
Curious, I followed the sound, setting off up the staircase and deeper into the
heart of the building. This place was like a labyrinth, criss-crossing corridors,
dead-end passageways; I became worried I would not find my way back. As I
grew closer I realised something. I recognised the song. It was one of the old
records my grandad used to play. Finally, my intrigue piqued, I came to the
door. I pressed my ear up against it. The music was coming from within there.
I suddenly felt a shot of fear unexpectedly course through me. Slowly, I turned
the handle and heard the door click open.
...
The thing I miss most about being alive is without a doubt the food. If my word
is anything to you, enjoy it while you can. This and the sensation of sleeping
have both left my afterlife, leaving me with a horrendous craving for cheese
and an awful amount of spare hours. From my experience so far, the conclusion
I have reached on my situation is that I am in some kind of “purgatory”, and
God, or whichever spiritual figurehead presides over this place, is waiting for a
moment in his or hers or its busy schedule to oversee my passage into Heaven
or Hell or Cheddar Gorge. On the other hand there’s the possibility that I’ve
been forgotten and am cursed to wonder these lonely rooms until the end of
17
time. Either way, boredom is the greatest threat to my sanity. Though I don’t
really know if it’s possible to go insane whilst dead.
Around fifty years ago, I died. Thrust prematurely into the world of the dead,
with no company of any kind to help pass the time, I have remained in the
house of my family ever since. With this came the boredom and subduing it
has become a task I face daily. If I could impart any advice I have gathered
through my extensive experience as an apparition, it would be to find
something constructive to do. I’ve been stuck here a long time, and the promise
of heaven is one remote and absurd. The promise of loneliness, however, is
certain, and keeping your mind occupied is essential. Ideas such as reading,
painting, building things, sliding down banisters (if you have banisters), playing
tennis against a wall, riding a bike (inside or outside) and learning to play an
instrument are all good for passing the time.
of records. I see the gramophone at the back, in front of a large translucent
window that smears the afternoon sunlight as it filters through, filling the
room with a warm fuzzy glow. I wander slowly to the spinning record. The
song ends abruptly with a dishevelled squeak upon lifting the needle. As I do
another sound stirs me. This time though, it is the sound of a voice.
...
“Excuse me, Miss, would you mind putting that back on?” I said cautiously,
not wanting to ruin my first impression. After all, she is the first living thing to
have graced my presence in fifty years.
Another activity I have come to appreciate greatly is listening to music. Within
the library is my father’s gramophone, and along with it, his record collection.
Though not one for music in life, now the art has thoroughly taken to me. I
have lost hours, maybe even days at a time to this room. I sit with a book,
reading silently as the music plays, enjoying the sound and words. Just the
company of another human voice is enough to ensnare me for hours, as I am
in the midst of today.
Now and again the loneliness does strike. However, to compensate for the lack
of an individual to make conversation with, I talk to myself. And sometimes
the stuffed owl that sits along with me. His name is Wilson. This has had no
dramatic effect on my sanity, as some may think it a trait of an individual of
tenuous mental stability. However, the only outcome I have arrived at from
this is I am exceedingly good company. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen
another human being in over half a century. Perhaps I’m already insane.
Just at this moment, some slight movement catches my eye. I glance across the
room to see where it is coming from. Suddenly, I become rooted to my chair
in fear. The door handle. Slowly, I see it slide down. There is a quiet click and
gradually, the door glides open.
...
It’s a library. Beautifully built, with deep mahogany bookshelves lining the
walls and a spiral staircase ascending upwards to what looks like a collection
18
19
I Saw All This
by Francesca Padget
I looked out from the curling shadows of the cave, peering out towards the
foreign, grey world that lay beneath me. I didn’t see colour, only terror and
solitude, crying in the silence. The trees that had once been so vibrant, so
full of life, now lay in white ash that danced in the air like the snow that had
once fallen on this land, covering everything in a muffled blanket, with only
dragging footprints breaking the cover. The streams and rivers that had once
carried such vitality now only knew death and disease, plagued with bodies
of the dead and dying. The proud creations of humans that had stood tall,
piercing through the sky, now lay defeated and broken, tossed away by a child.
I remember a time when the land was white, and humans walked in fear of
being hunted and flinched at every sound. I remember watching the rise of
empires built upon stone and blood crumble into dust and tears. I remember
when the land was rife with war, and liquid ran through the streets in blazing
agony. I remember the union of countries to create a society that oppressed and
destroyed the hopes of its members. I remember the inequality that survived
throughout the ages, and the power that humans once had being swept away
by greed and perfection, the murder of billions of lives in every war and conflict.
I remember watching from my cave as humanity fell, and it screamed.
I saw all this. Watched as humans grew and learnt and improved, until they
grew too much, stretched their roots out too far, only to have the prevalent
winds topple them over and show them to their reward. Emptiness.
by Evie Vaid
So, so many years ago, they called me the monster and drove me from my
home. And for what? Being what I am. Unable to die, only able to live
and watch as the ones around me destroy themselves in their search for more.
They said they were scared of me, yet I had done nothing to frighten them.
They said I wasn’t human, but I had never acted anything but. They said I was
dangerous, although I’d never harmed anyone. I was only a mindless creature
to them, all because I was different. They were the ones who threw me out.
20
21
They were the ones who bloodied their hands with their relatives, and killed
innocents in their lust for power, and grew drunk and high on euphoria gained
from the ‘freedom’ of winning. They were the ones who reached higher and
higher, pushing and pushing, considering everyone but themselves expandable.
That is what humanity had become. A creature whose selfish desires ruled the
mind, and sought only to ‘better’ themselves.
A Monster’s Monster
by Abigail Wylie
They destroyed themselves.
Many died. Those who didn’t can no longer be considered human. Crawling
around on white limbs too long and thin to support them, like a spider,
incapable of speech or comprehension, only a hunger for themselves. And still,
a bloodlust prevailed, driving them on, and controlling them, making their
eyes rabid and wild, and the care and love they had once shown for each other
diminish and vanish into the ashes that surrounded them.
I had watched humanity grow to this form from my little cave where they
could not find me, tucked away in mountains feared and dangerous like me.
And yet, I could not find it in myself to pity them. They were the ones to
blame for this; they ended their own future. Or rather, created one that only
led into back into the past. I played no part in this, only a silent observer to the
fate of mankind, hated by society for immortality, the thing they wanted most.
And now they had it, the creatures that they were could never die, yet they
were not happy. They were not even aware. They where just simple, mindless
animals, too scared and in envy of what they didn’t have, that they didn’t stop
to think about what they did have. In their craving for ‘happiness’ they forgot
what it meant to be human.
Fear. An unpleasant emotion caused by the threat of danger, pain, or harm.
‘Unpleasant’ is an almost unbelievable word for it. When you’re truly afraid, do
you think it’s ‘unpleasant’? A stranger leaving dog mess on a path is unpleasant.
Putting wet socks on warm feet is unpleasant. Fear is something that cuts deep
inside of you and stays even when the trigger stops, like an icy knife leaving
a wound after it has been removed. I recently discovered fears have different
names, given to them by people. People who surely must understand what it’s
like to be terrified, and yet they plaster a label on it like it can be contained or
conquered. The things we’re scared of, the things that make us truly afraid, can
never be boxed into a category: they’re uncontrollable and wild and the worst
part of all is that they do not exist outside our own minds. They are us, and
much of the time they define who we are, our actions, our beliefs.
And there’s rarely a thing we can do to stop them from changing our lives.
The most common fear on earth is that of spiders. It’s been labelled
‘arachnophobia’ as though categorising it could make everything all right. I read
about them years ago, the most common fears, and while spiders have never
been something that has particularly frightened me, just imagine it. Thousands
of miniscule, sickly white arachnids skittering towards you. There are so many
that you don’t know what to do, you crush some and hundreds fill their place,
piling, climbing, rising towards you like an unstoppable tide. They lay eggs in
your skin and swarm into your eyes, filling your mouth so that you can’t scream,
writhe into every orifice of your body until you’re suffocating, but the worst part
is the terrible crawling, itching feeling inside that you know you can’t stop.
Yet spiders are not something that has ever caused me to fear for my own or
anyone else’s safety. My truest horror is barely recognised for what it is, and
it surprised me when I discovered it is not as normal as I expected. But then,
neither am I.
22
23
Second to spiders is ophidiophobia, the fear of snakes. The fears of everyone
worldwide, laid out before me in one long, emotionless list. Heights, open or
crowded spaces, dogs, small spaces, germs, flying, holes, and so many more that
I’ve never spared a second thought for. But I do understand. My fear isn’t on
the list. Some refer to it as panphobia, fear of the unknown. Imagine seeing
a cave, with only blackness within, and having no idea what could come out
of it or if something lies inside. Waking in unfamiliar surroundings unable to
see or hear, not knowing what could happen. The terror of watching someone
you love die in front of you, without knowing how to stop it – a scenario that
holds particular significance for me, I think. My most prominent fear of the
unknown, however, is the sea. Especially when hidden beneath ice. The sea is
deep and a mystery and a terrible construction of all the things that suck the
breath from my lungs and render me speechless. And this terrible unknown
was given a name, given to it by people who couldn’t possibly understand, no
more than they could your fears or anyone else’s.
same, if my work ever came to fruition. The dull metal in my palms was like
a deadweight dragging me under, despite the rods being the only things that
could possibly pull me back to the surface of what I’ve been drowning in.
I moved closer, raising the wires, the tinge of yellow-green on the outer layer I
so carefully fixed reflecting my fear back into my eyes. But slimy preservative
also showed something else. The thing that has been killing and suffocating
me for so long but not letting me die. Around my stiches and bolts, the dead
parts of me holding the living bits together, you could see the loss and guilt
in my eyes. I knew it because I had seen it in the eyes of the man on the table
before me when I took everyone he loved. And maybe now we could get them
back. Together.
Which is why I think not everyone will understand how I feel now. People like
me will, I know, but in so many ways there are no people like me. Not yet. Here,
now, I have no idea what is going to happen.
As I grip the cold metal in my hands tighter, I realise that I don’t know what lies
before me, nor could I possibly know why that makes me so terrified. I know
what I want to happen, I have my doubts and hopes, but in the reality outside
my mind there could be any number of consequences and disappointments,
both huge chances to take considering the years of my strange life I’ve put into
this endeavour.
The body lies before me on the rotting table like a half remembered face - not
quite as it should be, but recognisable to those, like me, who knew it before. It
is somehow beautiful to my eyes, as I must have been to him all those years ago.
I suppose it could be because now there is someone like me, albeit not how or
who I expected. Some parts were from his father, his friend, a few even from
his wife, I can’t remember which now. It’s been so long, but those that he lost
came back to him to heal him.
Whether he wanted it or not.
At first I didn’t want to repeat the mistakes that created me: it would have
meant breaking my vow and living. But I wanted to keep to my word even
less. Maybe this way I’d be forgiven, if he remembered, if his mind was the
24
25
Be Careful Whom You Trust
by Natalie Parobek
My weary eyes slowly, yet surely, opened, but instantly shut tight again. I
strained all my muscles just to get a glimpse of the world around me. As I
looked up, an unwelcome bright light enveloped my eyes. Blinking every now
and then, the light started to drive me crazy.
Glancing at the chair by my bedside, relief flooded over me. His familiar
breathing reminded me of the wind moving gracefully through the trees. His
face was tanned; his face was calm; his eyelids were closed. His mere presence
made me feel safe in this strange place. Quiet, but just loud enough, someone’s
gentle snores broke the unbearable silence within the whitewash walls. Strange
and lumpy, a mattress supported my frail, dying body. Surrounded by the
silence, I was reminded of the dark forest from which I had escaped.
It all came back to me now.
A snap of a twig. A sharp rustle. Silence. I carefully peered behind my back in
an attempt to catch the person who encroached on my silence. Nothing, no
one. Cautiously, I kept moving before the scarlet setting sun would envelop me
in darkness. Amidst the greenery, feeling as alone as I would ever be, I inhaled
all the scents around me. A sweet smell of pine drifted across my body. Subtle,
strong, and wet, a mutt smell suddenly overwhelmed my senses.
by Aaron Wright
26
In the hospital, I woke to find I was surrounded by a group of sterile, doll-like
nurses, all pointing at the strange device I seemed to be plugged into. My heart
rate slowed down to its resting rate. Suddenly, one of the nurses bent down and
reached out to me. Too straight. Too perfect. A pale manicured hand touched
my shoulder. Just strong enough to keep me down, but I felt no pain. Her
mouth moved but no sounds came out. All I heard was a loud, buzzing white
noise. I felt the wires more intensely than before, burning into my brain. Then
the all-too-sterile odours suddenly deserted me.
27
Wet, strong, a mutt smell overwhelmed my senses. A snap of a twig. A sharp
rustle. I had the distinct feeling that someone was watching me. Turning
slowly around, I felt the long fingers of the dark tree tickle my hair. Suddenly
I was faced with eerie yellow eyes. Bright, they seemed to be winking at me,
yet unblinking. The crimson sun reflected in the animal’s shallow, hungry
eyes. My already tender, sore feet moved by themselves. Turning, I ran, my
breathing hurting, my chest painful. My head was light and stars began to
appear in front of my tired eyes. I was begging for all the hurt to stop. I now
heard the sound of running human feet. I turned around to see the merciless
hunter still chasing after me.
I wake up in the hospital to hear a casual murmur from a room next door. I
look and now notice patients either side of me. The bright lights are now a
warm yellow. The nurses are no longer faultless and robotic, but tired and
kind. Glancing through the window, I notice a pair of yellow unblinking eyes.
Closing my eyes, they are gone. Walking through the door, a man with the
same yellow orbs strolls calmly towards me and says:
“Darling, are you all right? I thought you were going to die.”
I scream.
Back in the hospital, the smell of sickness and a stone-cold surface against
my cheek woke me up this time. I found myself leaning against a wall in an
unknown part of the hospital. The walls here had faded to a sickly grey. Mould
was growing around the ceiling and floor. Perfect, the nurses here looked
almost out of place. A slight drip, drip, drip, drip could be heard. In their
light blue uniforms, the nurses moved in precise, robotic movements. Never
failing, their smile flashed sets of pearl white teeth. Their eyes were colourless,
deathlike. No emotion seen, no emotion conveyed. A stench of bloods and
open wounds made me remember what the forest felt like.
There were pine needles fighting to break my skin as I fell backwards. Snarling,
sharp, the animal’s jaw moved to bite. It was only now that I registered the
beast’s full size. Massive, towering over my frail, tired body. The smell of its
fur suddenly relaxed me as a wave of familiarity washed over my body. Putting
my hands up to stop the creature from hitting its bullseye, I felt warm blood
trickling down my arm. However, the brute missed by millimetres. I felt my
whole body screaming against the repeated bites. I felt a pain in my shoulder.
A shot in the leg. Darkness.
Sheets wrapped around me. Dozens of nurses.
Looking into its eyes, I saw something almost human. I gave him all my silent
prayers. But then he struck.
My heart racing, I sat bolt upright in the creaky bed. A sharp pain developed
and enveloped me in a sheet of black.
All I could see was darkness amongst the trees. All I could smell was blood.
Then nothing.
28
29
Ghost Girl
by Rhiannon Knowles
Evelyn strains her eyes under the woollen scarf that is tied tightly around her
head. She shrieks with laughter as she steps onto the first creaking stair. It
smells damp. She ponders over their whereabouts. Blindly questioning George,
she continues up the stairs. A harsh wind hits her face as he opens a rusty
trapdoor to the roof. Gingerly, she clings to the creaking ladder. He takes her
hand to guide her. Evelyn’s pulse quickens as they step out onto the edge of
the roof.
He whips the blindfold off, revealing a deadly drop to the paving stones
peering up from down below.
“What are you doing?” She croaks, her voice dry and coarse from the sudden
realisation. She twists her neck to look at his face, the face of her killer. Her
cheek slaps back onto his hand leaving a burning red mark. He grabs a chunk
of her blonde curls, roughly tugging until tears form in her eyes from the pain
and she obeys, looking forward to the winding London streets. He places his
cool hand on her lace-covered back. She shivers, fingering the pale lace on her
trailing skirts, the skirts of her wedding dress that are now dishevelled and
stained.
Then he shoves her. Floundering in the air she grabs at the red brick, scuffing
her dainty hands with blood. He looks down at her with a hard stare and,
turning his back, walks stiffly away.
Sirens, white lace, red blood, limp limbs, flashing cameras.
“To my family
Maybe now you’ll listen…
Evelyn Holloway.”
with tears; William puts his arm around Irene’s shoulder, looking down gravely
at the body. The train of Evelyn’s dress is fanned around her like an angel. Her
pearly white skin is dotted with tears of rain and her heavy eyeliner is smudged
and running. Dark blood stains her bleached hair, her prominent collar bone is
jutting out, distraught shadows play in the hollows. Her mother’s pearls glisten
in the sunlight of the early morning dawn seeping from the horizon.
It is two weeks after the sober funeral and the heels of Irene’s pumps click on
the polished wooden floor as she paces down the corridor. Portraits of relatives
glare down at her, clashing with the ornate wallpaper of the hallway. When
she reaches the end there is one portrait that lights up the room. It’s Evelyn,
painted when she was only nine. Golden ringlets frame her plump rosy cheeks,
her mouth is stretched out in a childish grin, there’s one small gap in her
perfect row of teeth.
Irene twists the dial of her music box and a gentle trickle of music begins to
play. She leans down and lifts the wooden lid to reveal the valleys of rings and
tangle of necklaces below. A string of pearls lies on the top. Evelyn wore those
pearls the night she died. The temperature seems to cool around Irene; she
hugs her arms tightly around herself. She clasps her clammy hands together.
Then she walks over to the curtain and drapes the thick fabric over the window,
drops her frilled dress to the floor, and pulls back the heavy bed covers.
“What are you doing?” Evelyn repeats in panic. Then without hesitation he
shoves her.
Irene awakes drenched in sweat, every muscle in her body tense with fear.
Light illuminates the carpet from the under crack of the door.
“William,” wails Irene and he rushes to her side. Evelyn is sitting in the
room with them, on the wooden stool tucked up by the dressing table. She is
dressed in her stunning wedding gown, serenely brushing her cascading tresses.
Troubles are hiding beneath her eyes. She has no reflection in the mirror
behind her but a wave of negative energy is reflected from her pastel skin. She
lifts her hand to beckon to her mother. Willingly, she arises.
“Where are you going Irene?” inquires William.
Calmly, Irene replies, “I’m going with her.”
The note is quick and brief, just like her death. Her mother is catatonic, shaking
30
31
Unlucky
by Lizzie Wylie
As soon as you are born, the chase begins. It can come early. Parts of you can
give up and let it get you. Some really wicked people move the finish line closer.
Some people even stand still. Your brain fights it. You fight it. But it catches
up anyway.
Hospitals make me nervous. That is where I got the Lurgy.
‘Lurgy’ is my less confusing name for the disease I got. I will never visit a
hospital again, I thought. As soon as I get out of this one. Usually, I was staring
at the ceiling. It was a very boring ceiling. If I turned my head round I could
see the rest of the patients. If I turned my head round the other way I could
see the wall. Yay. It must have been Christmas. I didn’t talk to the bed-ridden
around me. I couldn’t. Most of them didn’t speak much. There wasn’t much to
talk about really.
The nurses said I could go home soon. Freedom! Hallelujah! Although I had
to pass the time till then. Hum-de-dum…. I supposed I could imagine. I like
to imagine from time to time.
“Any what, dear?”
I hesitated. I probably shouldn’t tell her.
“Any sugar?” I asked. Oh no. I had turned into my parents.
“No, dear.”
And that was that. Pathetic, I know. She looked less than convinced as well.
The cold fingers of fear had arrived.
Over the next few days, the apparition came and went, and each time it
looked a little different. More … human, somehow. I went on thinking and
recognising the face that was under the layers of skin. And the same message
each time: “You ... will … submit…”
Then, one day, the face was revealed. And it was someone I hoped to never
see again.
“Kira Kensington? Back to bully me more? Weren’t happy with your coffin?” I
said coolly, pretending I wasn’t terrified out of my wits. My childhood bully –
who died in a car crash, and came to MY coffin fitting company – here now?
And then the nurse came. I screamed.
“What’s the matter, dear?” said the nurse.
“That!” I yelled.
“There’s nothing there, dear,” she assured me. What? Was she insane? Oh, no.
Hang on. I understood now. It was me. She was telling me that I needed to
submit … to insanity.
Death is making one last sprint now he knows I won’t reach the finish line.
I even missed work. Normal? Not when I tell you I make a living as a coffin
fitter. Dead bodies every day.
I was getting desperate now. And then I saw it.
The aura of terror around that movie-monster type creature was unimaginable.
Stop, I told myself. It can probably smell fear. It lifted a bony finger.
“You ... will … submit …” it rasped. And just like that … gone.
“All right, dear?” said the jolly, plump old nurse.
“Erm … yes. I feel tippity-top. Fab. Yeah.” I was gabbling now.
“Good.”
“Erm … you haven’t seen any … any…”
32
33
eyebrows raised, irises glistening with hopeless promise.
A Worse Fate?
by Eva Hudson
“This is the boy we raised,” pleads my mother, extending a copy of the photo
which I have seen too many times before, arm outstretched in offering. I comply
and let her place the image between my two palms; the paper feels smooth against
my calloused hands.
I feel nothing for this photograph: nothing but detachment. The boy within it
might as well have died, for it would seem easier for me to contact him then,
believe what you will of the ‘other side’.
When the answers rest within yourself, when the maze of your mind is the
greatest mystery there is to solve, there is little you can do to escape your reality.
There’s no hiding under the duvets, your past –or lack thereof- has the startling
ability to penetrate even your subconscious, even your dreams.
I gaze up at my mother and inadvertently catch her eye; I quickly divert my own
two back down to the photo. I have to at least try: convince her that I still care. It
strikes me that we have the same eyes: the same shade of lucid green, weak in hue
yet rich in thought. It’s our biggest weakness, she’s told me many a time, for we
share the burden of overthinking.
The boy who stares up at me ought to be me, his pearly white smile plastered
across his even face: a smile which I can no longer replicate. He’s carefree, radiant
and oozes a long since shattered confidence, the kind that on the surface could be
mistaken for arrogance, sure, but by all accounts is not an indication of such a flaw.
“You were so happy.” My mother sighs, as if on cue; her voice is deceptively
even, despite her wavering knee, which gives her away as it’s protruding into my
peripheral vision. There’s no point in lying. It would be unfair to give her false
hope- it is kinder for me to be truthful, or as close as I can bring myself to being so.
“This was the day you found out about the football scholarship,” she prompts,
34
The burning logs on the fire make a sudden, contorted cry, but I do not mind as
the warmth provided by the fire is almost comforting. My vision of the hearth
blurs as my eyes well up, the flames transitioning into an auburn mass of light,
partially illuminating the photograph which still lies, flaccid, in my hands.
A growing, raft-less silence stretches between my mother and I. I look back
down at the photograph once more, praying for the meandering tears to subside,
for each one betrays my cause.
I was happy, that is clear. How could I not be? I was loved by my parents, they
loved me for me. And yet the one letter ‘I’ still stands tall to mock me; I feel
as though by referring to George as myself, I am participating in something
fraudulent: something inherently wrong. We are in essence different people,
with two very different realities.
I am suddenly aware of my mother’s hand pressed softly over the photograph,
her fingertips cold against my own.
I flinch at the whisper of my name. I am monstrous to enjoy the comfort of
her touch, to seek refuge in the clasp of her arms. But I feel safe, protected; yet
I know so clearly that she does not love me, she loves George. And I am not
George, I have found home in his shell and eat his food, take comfort in his
family and mourn his loss- but I can never be George.
Maybe one day, he will return, and my shadow will no longer engulf his own.
But the photographs, the blank walls and the condescending looks of pity must
be pushed into the past.
It dawns on me that I feel as though I need to form a past that I can take
ownership of: I can no longer live in his shadow.
Only now in its home that I have no connection to the memories which they try
in vain to conjure from my mind: the photographs, the stories will not fix me. I
am beyond repair.
I kiss my mother’s gaunt cheek and tell her that I am going to bed, her lips are
pursed as though to stop her from crying herself; I know what my leaving will
do to her. But to see your son become less your son every day must surely be a
35
worse fate? I try to convince myself that on some level I am doing her a favour,
whereas in truth I am selfish despite not having a ‘self ’ to claim.
It is not long before the sun has set, and I too am set in my decision. This choice
that I have made to flee is perhaps the most cowardly conclusion upon which I
could rest, yet I feel the strongest I can remember feeling.
by Oliver Ellis
36
37
writhe in agony. I fail to discern the source as water gushes in at an alarming
rate. It comes from all directions, freezing and violent, rising uncontrollably.
The Cruellest Monster of All
by Jasper Davis
A roaring sea breeze deceives my ears, concealing a quiet crunch. I step forward,
unaware that beneath me the crunch grows to a crack. One more step, then
snap. My foot punches through the brittle crust into a hollow below. Before I
can react, my surroundings collapse into the hole and I am dragged down with
them. I plummet at least eight metres to hit the ground with an ungracious
thud. Behind me the soil and rubble still cascade in, stealing the light and
barring escape.
I scramble towards the rapidly disappearing opening, only to be washed back
by a wave of earth. The debris settles, leaving a narrow beam of light above me.
An illuminated exit taunts me, an unreachable fantasy from down here. I’m
trapped. When I try to stand, my right leg gives way and I fall backwards hard.
With nothing to hold onto, I slide and tumble down the mound of rubble.
Like a ragdoll I am battered by boulders and ravaged by rocks, until the beating
finally ceases at the bottom.
I wearily open my eyes to look for another way out. To my horror, nothing
happens. I rub my eyes until they sting but still I cannot see. Blinded by the
blackness, I sit perplexed; it all happened so fast. Now my attention is diverted
by a stabbing pain in my ankle. I reach down to feel my bone splintered and
my foot twisted at some gruesome angle. With mobility in my lower right leg
lost, I haul myself upon the rocky bank. Even though disorientated, I realise I
must explore these unfamiliar surroundings.
As the water swells to my waist, I scrunch my eyes up and concentrate on a
practical solution. Instead, my mind drifts to an image burned into the deepest
recesses of my memory. Four lifeless figures sinking into the depths. How
fitting that as the only survivor of the shipwreck I would meet my end in water.
This time no driftwood or fisherman are here to save me. It dawns on me, I am
alone and I am going to drown down here.
My mind is forced to focus back into the present by the current dragging me
under. I defiantly kick to the surface and gasp for air. I am soaked to the skin
and freezing cold. My chest is repeatedly pounded by the colossal torrent that
comes thundering into the cave. Swept off my feet, at the full mercy of the
current, opposition to such force is futile and exhausting. I feel my stamina
ebbing, my will almost spent, I cannot envisage a more pathetic demise than to
wither here alone, yet cruelly fate does twist again.
Bubbles pop ominously from beneath the cold liquid. I recoil as a slimy
appendage slithers across my hand. Something bites deep into my wound,
inflicting excruciating pain. Accosted by unfamiliar senses and fears, my
imagination runs riot. What foul monster lurks in these depths? I lash out
aggressively, thrashing the water in panicked desperation. Splashing and
kicking, I endeavour to extricate myself from the incisors clamped around
my ankle. However, flagging from fatigue is incomparable to the wound that
screams pain and pours blood. My body is broken and my mind follows closely.
Even though I am petrified by whatever slithers around me and I fear bleeding
to death, the thought of drowning scares me the most. The current propels
me forward and then violently left. A wave like an alpine avalanche descends
upon my head. Just before I am buried by the torrent, a tiny flicker of sunlight
illuminates a glimpse to the outside world.
...
Breathing deeply and mustering all my strength, like an infant I crawl through
the dark. Limited to touch, I feel my way through the rocks: dusty chalk and
jagged flint. My tactile comprehension of these materials is meaningless to
my escape. A blind cripple flailing helplessly in the dark, I feel isolated, which
terrifies me. I think my panic may be quelled momentarily, as I hear the faint
sound of sloshing water. On closer inspection, this is no gift. The sound
intensifies and I feel the cold liquid reach my feet. As it reaches my wound, I
I am getting too old for fishing and, aching, pull up on the beachside for a
break. My reverie is shattered by the sight of a child’s dead body washed out of
the caves. At the entrance, a boy cloaked in seaweed and caked in sand lies pale
as bone. His right leg broken and torn, it seems the pikes have got to him too.
A dead eel rots in a puddle nearby, as bloody and battered as the boy. Peeling
back the seaweed from his face, recognition hits, as his eyes frozen wide stare
38
39
up at me. What a pity, I recall so vividly plucking him from his makeshift
driftwood raft so recently. The cruellest fate is not visited upon its victims, by
the monsters which lurk beneath the waves, but by the unintended nature of
the sea.
A Land for the Dead
by Joshua Nicholson
He was skipping around on the unbroken surface in the early spring light; his
feet had found wings; his voice floated, turned, then dived in the still, clean
air. Occasionally, it reverberated back across the tranquil ice lake. His fur was
a perfect, deep, pure russet, warming in the light in this barren land. Towering
over him, a barren ridge rose sharply above his frail limbs. From this came the
luscious song of birds, sounding shrilly around the caldera; their song twisted
before turning and turned before twisting into a melody heard nowhere else,
enrapturing him, capturing him, throwing him into despair then happiness.
All at once, a wave of flying colour rose over the ridge, dancing in the blustery
gale; he tried to call out, but they drowned him out as they headed for the
mountain on which they were born – the mountain of life, but also death.
Racing to its majestic slopes, to replenish their dwindling numbers, were these
colourful, gracefully winged birds. Intermingling with this beautiful sound was
an incessant tip, pause, tap, pause, tip, pause, getting gradually faster and faster
before sharply fading away into the oblivious void of clouds, which engulfed
the caldera as a blanket would an ant. The sun was gone; the music was gone;
silence pervaded, sneaking into every nook and cranny, filling up its frustration
and dumping it here, the volcanic island migrating across the Alaskan sea.
A land of mourning; a land for the dead.
Suddenly his sharp ears heard a sound: a figure slowly moving across the snow.
He froze. His head swivelled from side to side. His legs heaved, his muscles
pumped; he fled, his russet tail behind him, the wind around him. Blood in his
ears, he charged on, scarcely making a sound, striving for warmth, striving for
comfort. He flew with the clouds on his shoulders, away from the noise, away
from fear. When he stopped, a face was born onto every rock.
He turned and fled again as the snow churned from under his paws. All around
him, floating images of his ancestors were inscribed on every molecule. Most
40
41
were blurred, others distorted, but one was distinct. Its russet fur had thinned
and patches of grey had appeared. It was softly muttering as it paced up and
down in his vision, roaring loudly and pitilessly, speaking incomprehensibly
whilst motioning with its head towards the turbid waters outside the caldera.
He wondered why his ancestors were gesturing west, when to the east the
water was placid and tranquil. He crept away southwards towards his den
and the mysterious spirits followed; when he quickened they quickened, the
distinct silhouette in the lead ploughing on in his tracks. Creeping, crunching,
cautiously, they followed him into a hole the colour of ebony, rimmed with
pure white snow, at the foot of a wiry tree withered with age, grey in the cold,
unfeeling, unmoving wind and air. Desolate, alone, it stood far from its own
kind, clinging to the hope of life for all its worth. Down between its gnarled
roots he sat, surrounded – imprisoned by the fear of those around him.
it was inaudible over the lava flow. He pounded on north-westward, seeking
safety; seeking shelter he ran on, blood pounding in his ears. Fear made his feet
feel like lead. It was a relief to him when finally he flopped down, exhausted,
at the foot of Anvil Peak, and inched himself slowly but surely up the steep
mountainside. The lava rumbled on.
Above him, calling an alarm shrilly, a multitude of colour rose into the air and
flew off over the turbid sea to the west, leaving danger behind them.
Silently they stared; silently they listened. Cowering in the crumbling corner
of a (once extensive) den, shivering in the darkness which was freezing.
The crumbling soil reinforced the aged tunnels, enshrouded with age and
decapitated glory.
As he lay there, he recalled his happy childhood, playing with his sisters in
the snow. He recalled the soft reassuring presence of his mother beside him,
the way she protected him. Her fur was warm and comforting; she caught
lemmings then tossed them into the air before her teeth told the telling blow.
Ferociously, she protected her cubs from every danger. He relaxed; the spirits
gradually faded, then vanished.
A rumbling awoke him; the ground was shuddering beneath him. He howled a
warning, before scrambling up the soiled slope towards the snow. Snow to him
meant safety. The wind rushed through his russet fur. He howled thrice more.
The mountain was alive, spouting its giant quantities of lava over the vicinity.
The red wall of fire silently rolled down the treacherous slopes, creeping closer
and closer to his den. As it rolled across the vast lake of ice, slowing, battling
against the frozen land, it inched its way on, destroying everything in its path.
This destructive force of nature flowed from the three giant peaks of Mount
Cerbrus like a cascading torrent, rumbling, tumbling, rumbling, tumbling
across the caldera towards him, towards him; he froze, he shook with fear, yet
he could not move. His hackles rose.
He turned and fled.
His soft paws made not a sound on the crisp, crunchy snow. He barked, yet
42
43
I Miss You
by Abigail Vaid
My darling Arctic,
Can I still call you that? I suppose everyone knows who you are now but I like
the code name. It reminds me of happier times, with dancing and laughter and
secret kisses when nobody was around. I know it’s been a long time since I last
wrote to you, and for that I’m sorry.
There’s just been so much going on, so much confusion. I still don’t know
where I am or why I’m here. I ask every day - it’s been a year and nobody’s
explained what’s happened. Perhaps I should just stop asking. But then you
always said I had a question for everything.
Do you miss that? Do you miss anything about me? I miss you. Everything
I see reminds me of the way you were; the way we were. The window in my
room - barred and locked for some reason - looks out onto a garden just like
the one in which we met. Do you remember that? You came out of nowhere
and stopped me from falling into the pond. It was the first time you saved me.
Somebody’s screaming again. They’re always screaming in here. Whenever I
hear it I think of you, but why? Sometimes I feel like there’s a memory, just
waiting to resurface and make everything clear, but then I take another orange
pill and it’s gone again. Just in case you’re worried, the pills are just for my
headaches. I don’t do drugs anymore - but you know that, you were the one
who stopped me.
Last week the wailing just wouldn’t stop, going on and on and on and on, then
all these people came into my room and forced me to take the pink pill. It was
silent after that, so whoever was upset must have been comforted or taken away.
by Medha Chhetri
Where did you go? You promised you would never leave me, but where are you
now? The doctors told me you were dead. I don’t believe them. If you were
44
45
dead, would I still hear your voice, see your face, feel your touch? No, you’re
alive. If I can just work out where, then we can be together again.
They’re late with my orange pill. Very late. Little pictures keep flashing in my brain.
It’s you, standing in a room. All I feel is anger, all I see is red. The screaming
has started again - which one of us is it? I’m holding something. It’s cold but
I’m so hot, burning with fury. Why am I so angry?
You tell me to calm down. Am I still holding something? Yes, I can feel the
weight of it in my trembling hand. I can’t see it though, the mist is in the way.
It’s blocking everything but my ears, so I can still hear the screams. They’re
different this time though. They’re not angry, they’re despairing. Somebody
is being hurt, Arctic, but I can’t see who.
I want to turn the movie off now, it’s scaring me. Why won’t it just stop?
There’s more shrieking but I don’t know if it’s inside the film or not.
The screaming stops and instantly the haze clears. I can still see red all around
me, but it’s glossier than before, like paint. There’s a body on the floor and I
feel myself step forward to look at it. Who is it? It’s - it’s you. There’s a crimson
slash where your mouth should be, your face swimming in blood, but I know
it’s you.
How did this happen? Who hurt you? There’s only one cry now, and it’s mine.
Please don’t be gone, this isn’t fair. When I find out who did this to you I will
kill them. I know I‘m not good at keeping my promises but this time, I mean it.
I hear a clatter as something falls out of my hand. I look down, barely able to
see through the tears, and stare at my own reflection. It’s bordered by scarlet,
framing me better than any mugshot could.
I’m looking at the knife used to kill you, Arctic.
46
Swing
by Thea Bailey
I overslept. My alarm clock died at eight minutes past two in the morning.
After I washed and dressed in something of a hurry, I considered my battered
grey bedroom, thinking about how seemingly strange it looked today. Since
my dad had died three years ago and my mum was always at work, I hadn’t
decorated my room in ages – well, it actually felt like a lifetime. The walls were
flaking and shabby and everything looked dark; my exhausted, coffin-sized
bed lay in a general mess and gloom. The old-fashioned fireplace, once sturdy
and useful, peered at me with an unfamiliarly empty gaze.
Stepping closer to the ash-covered grate, the deathly cold, worn out floorboards
creaked like an old person’s knees moving up the stairs. Bits of nail poked out
of the splintered, shiny wood like Grandad’s hobnailed boots, which always
looked ancient. The solitary light flickered. All around me, I could smell decay.
My mottled beige curtains moaned in a lonely way as I pulled them apart. My
small, mucky quilt lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, like a dead body.
My phone buzzed into life. I had a text from my mum – this was strange as she
never normally texted me. Stumbling over to my tired-looking desk, I read the
message: “Charlie, I have some bad news, which I only found out this morning.
Your Grandad has died. I will see you in a couple of hours, Mum.”
I looked at my phone in disbelief. “Was this real?” I thought, in my extremely
grief-stricken head, but then I realised. Mum would never say this as a joke;
it was true. I started to feel numb. One single bead of sweat ran down my icecold face. My fingers started to tingle and the hairs on the back of my neck
stood up in horror. Dropping my phone, I grabbed my hoodie and trainers.
I ran out of the house, down to the end of my street, and then stopped. The
sun was brightly shining but I felt wet and cold inside. I felt alone and scared,
like when I went to the shopping mall with my mum and I let go of her hand
and couldn’t find it again. I looked up, seeing the single bag of rubbish that
the bin lorry didn’t collect yesterday lunchtime.
47
Since Dad had died – suddenly, and with no obvious illness – Grandad had
been like a second dad to me. My only clear memory in my confused state
was of Dad, Grandad and I all going to the park just around the corner and
down my road. Grandad had pushed me on my swing and Dad had sat on the
one next to me, swinging himself. Thinking about this, I got up and started
walking to the park.
All eighty-two of the swing’s small chains, welded together after a lifetime
of use, moved harder and faster; I could not look in fear of seeing who was
really there.
I just knew I was not alone…
The park was in sight; my stomach flipped. I felt a breeze of fresh air
run across my (already cold) face. I could almost taste the grass, like I
could when I went to the park with Dad and Grandad three years ago.
Looking in the distance, I could see the swings; running towards the park,
I could smell the mouldy leaves that lay trodden on the patched gravel.
The rustling trees swayed in the wind, while the dead leaves sailed to the
ground. Looking around me, there must have been five families in the park
already.
Remembering all the great times I had had here, I noticed it. This time
close up. I sat down on the familiar, old and rusty swing; it creaked every
time it moved, like a witch constantly cackling. I knew this because
Grandad and Dad used to take me here, when I was young and playful, and
with the sun shining.
Today really wasn’t sunny though – in fact, it was completely the opposite:
the wind was howling like a lost wolf and the cold chill began to bite.
I pulled my hood over my head and realised that I could no longer see
anybody else. It was dark and gloomy. I was breathing hard and tasted mist.
I didn’t care.
The swing next to me began to creak and out of the corner of a blurred eye,
I felt the movement as if somebody else was next to me. I looked around as
I felt something or someone run behind me, but nobody was there. I could
not see anybody else in the park now – I was alone. I froze, hearing strange
noises coming from one of the trees in the distance.
Then, “crrrreeeaaakk…” I slowly tilted my shaking head towards the noise;
the roundabout to the far left of me began to move – inexplicably, at first,
but gradually making more and more of a painful noise each time it went
around. Then I could smell something in the mist – something that I
recognised – faintly at first, but then stronger. I recognised this from when
I was younger, but I couldn’t believe that it was something so familiar.
48
49
1967
by Hannah Whitehead
There are no such things as monsters.
He had believed this unquestioningly: until now.
It all started a year ago. It had taken him decades, but he had finally been ready
to return to Atlanta, where he could retire in peace. He should have known better.
It hadn’t taken long. Within a month he had started to hear things. Just snippets,
not enough to be certain, but it brought back memories nevertheless. The
phantom drip of rain. The crunch of gravel under non-existent feet. Eventually
a gun shot that no one else could hear was echoing off the streets. It was in the
static of the television and the radio’s drone. The worst was the scream that
followed.
The noise was unmistakable. He could never forget the sound, the despair
and agony.
It was October; he was standing in the Market Square when he saw him for the
first time. Black hair, brown eyes, gun in hand. He never saw the other man.
But in truth he never could, it was a face he had chosen to forget. Instead he
saw himself, how he had been all those years ago.
1967. Fall had just arrived, and he had only been awarded his badge and gun
that summer. Eager to impress, he had volunteered to work the night shifts that
month. He had been on the street patrolling when, on the radio, a call came
through from the station: a 10-32 down on George Street, man with gun. He
arrived on the scene, but the street was empty. He listened; above the rain he
could hear the splash of feet in puddles. He followed. He went weaving through
side streets until he found him.
by Elie Gould
They stood for a moment, staring at one another, two young men out of breath.
50
51
He had seen his face then, in the orange glow of the whirring streetlights above
their heads. It only took that one moment for him to decide. He can’t recall
exactly what happened next or why. Three shots echoed. One cry.
That was it. They told him the next day. They told him what he had done. But
it was too late. The wrong man was already dead.
He carried the blame with him everywhere. It overwhelmed him, and so that
winter he joined the army. He wanted to escape and to him the sweltering jungle
seemed as good a place as any. The war gave him numbness, to the pain he saw
there and the guilt he felt inside. But it had to end, and over the years that sense
of detachment had left him.
Now, however, he saw himself everywhere, every day. Sometimes it was just
glimpses, in shop windows and bath water, but other times he saw him, plain as
day in side streets and bars. His past had finally caught up with him, he couldn’t
take it anymore. There was no escaping.
The old man stood before the covered mirror in the empty house. His
discoloured skin stretched too thin over his shaking hand as he reached out to
remove the sheet. Grasping it firmly between his thumb and forefinger before
tugging, releasing an avalanche of dust into the dark room.
They hung in the air, suspended in silence by something in the silver moonlight
that poured through the open window. The man’s face was still obscured by
shadow, so he exhaled sharply and took a single step.
He stared. Stared long and hard at the reflection before him. His reflection.
In the mirror his thinning white hair was once again a black tangled mess and
the fear in his own dull eyes was replaced by a courage and determination that
seemed to glint in the moonlight, cold as steel. His strong fingers, much like his
arthritic ones, still clutched the trigger.
He looked into the mirror and, sighing, he knew the truth. He could say without
a doubt: monsters do exist. He was one. He had been a monster all along, ever
since that night. Now it was time for him to end this the only way he knew how.
Lift the gun.
Pull the trigger.
52
See It through My Eyes
by Emma Rouffiac
Imagine yourself on a busy street, normal day, normal people, nothing
threatening about it. Well, for you, that is. I’m trapped inside my mind, a mind
full of hate and mistrust – full of myself.
Whilst you see a mother and a child walking down the street, I see two demons
ready to take me away. Whilst you hear someone talking to their friends, I
hear them plotting against me. Whilst you smell smoke from a bonfire, I smell
their smoke trying to herd me. Whilst you feel your shopping bags in your
hands, I feel my fists clenched ready to defend myself, ready to attack them,
ready to fight back. Whilst you can relax, I never can; they will get me if I let
myself relax. Whilst you can go out without gloves, I never can; what if they
get my fingerprints? I could never risk that. Whilst you can go on the internet
whenever you want, I never can; what if they try to contact me and I fall for
their tricks?
Everyone is against me and I hate it; I can’t escape, I can’t ever get away, it never
stops – the fear, the worry, and the pain. The rest of the world is oblivious to
it – they say, “stop being so stupid”, “stop pretending”, or “you have a wild
imagination”. But I know I’m right, I know I am. One day the monsters will
get me, then they’ll wish they had listened to me, they will be sorry … They’re
getting closer. And closer. And closer.
“Henri, Henri!” was the last thing I heard before the darkness lured me to a
macabre slumber.
After what seemed like a dreamy eternity, my eyes blinked open. Where was I?
Had they caught me? What had happened? I gripped onto the pendant around
my neck as if it was my only tether to reality, for it was the only thing keeping
me sane in this lurid place.
53
“Hello, Henri, we have been watching you for a long time. For you are
special. You are the boy no-one would believe, the boy with ‘a wild imagination’,
the boy who woke up.” A voice filtered through the speaker hanging ominously
above my head.
“You mean I was right all this time, about you – about what you plan to do?”
I spoke in a voice that seemed foreign to me, praying that this was all some
twisted prank. But I knew it wasn’t.
“Yes, isn’t this what you wanted?” His voice seemed to bind me more than
the ropes incarcerating my body. Using the words to his own devices, he shaped
them – changed them into something he could use for his own malevolent
intentions. I had never understood the phrase “words hold a power we can only
dream of ”, but now as I battled against chains only I could feel, I understood.
“Do you really think I wanted all that pain and suffering to come to the world
just to prove to everyone else I’m not crazy? No, this isn’t what I wanted; I didn’t
want to be kidnapped, I didn’t want to hear the voice of a man who has plagued
my nightmares, and no, I didn’t want to be right.” A degree of confidence laced
my words even though on the inside I was on the brink of tears.
“You’re living in denial, Henri, it’s a dangerous place to be,” warned the
voice, in a way that suggested he still had an ounce of humanity left inside him.
But I knew better – I knew the monster he really was.
“Anyway, we have wasted enough time here, Henri; you must decide
whether you will join us or you will be dealt with…” Dealt with? What did he
mean by that? Oh that. So I either joined him in his reign of tyranny or I died.
I knew what I had to do, but I was no hero; I was not brave; I could not fight; I
was not special; I had simply awoken from the lie that everyone else was living.
Waltshangla
by Matty Wylie
Let me tell you a story of long ago, when I was a young and carefree boy.
The story of an ancient legend, a tale of the demon Waltshangla. A killer,
an immortal horror, whom no one could speak of without either running
off to their home to make a cup of tea and hiding under the bed covers, or
simply screaming “AAAARRGGHHHHH!” and not speaking for the rest
of the day. Luckily, I’m writing this down, or I would probably be doing both.
Waltshangla was rumoured to live in an old abandoned church. Sounds just
like your favourite horror film, right? But it’s true. And this place was on my
street. Thank my luck.
I was sadly caught up in a game of Truth or Dare, with my friends Max,
Alfie, Judith and Harry. We were all scared of the bully, Winston, who would
give people horrible dares. He had once forced six poor Year 5 kids to go to
Waltshangla’s church home, and they were never seen again (probably dead).
On Winston’s turn, he said, “I dare Josh to go to the church of Waltshangla
and return alive.” Everybody froze. I was shocked and scared. What went on
in this boy’s mind, making poor children technically commit suicide? It’s like
saying, “Go and jump off a high place! Don’t be scared, it can’t hurt you!”
“No,” I simply said. I wasn’t facing Waltshangla if he was there – out being
slaughtered by a demon.
“What are you? Scared? Come on, you coward. Don’t be a chicken!” Then his
friends (no, servants) began chanting, “Chicken! Chicken!”
I finally gave in. I wasn’t up to this abuse. But then my friends chipped in.
“If he’s going, we’re coming with him!” they said. Oh dear.
“All right,” said Winston. “All five of you must go tonight at the stroke of
midnight, or face the consequences!”
That night, we all met outside the school. It was dark, but fortunately Harry
brought his head torch, casting a beam of light into the darkness. We set off
towards the church, the place where so many had lost their lives.
54
55
The church was a horrible place. Its lights were off, the paintings on the
windows barely visible. The graveyard was one of the biggest I had ever seen.
It seemed fitting that a demon who had killed so many people lived there, his
spirit haunting the place forevermore.
“Harry! Turn off your torch!” I whispered. There was no need for it here, with
the street lamps – plus it would give away our position. We ducked behind
some trees in the church courtyard. A ball of fear formed inside me, with the
excitement and anxiety rolled up into a great big mergence of it all.
“Hello,” a voice said. Our heads whipped round to see Winston! I think we all
expected it though. He did it before with the Year 5s.
“Just coming to check that you were actually going to do it, that’s all,” he said in
a put-on sweet voice. “Now, get in that thing!” in his normal horrible tone.
We all stood there, not quite knowing what he was going to do. He then pushed
us all towards the church. We didn’t budge though, and he pulled something
from his belt. Something shiny. Something we hadn’t noticed before. A knife.
“Get in there now!” and tried to prod me, which I closely avoided. That certainly
gave us the incentive to go in. The door loomed above us, almost inviting us
in. Death was inevitable here. But when we turned back, Winston was gone.
What a coward.
Harry’s eyes rolled upwards and he collapsed and vanished. I was next. But I
wasn’t dying like the others.
“Waltshangla! Stop that!” Not the greatest, I know, but I felt better after that,
as if I had a say in things as well. Then I got one of the worst headaches ever.
My body tingled, like a really bad case of pins and needles. Then I think I must
have died, because the next thing I knew I was at a funeral. My own funeral.
I was a bird, flying high over my coffin, dead to the world. My parents were
sobbing. And Winston was there, smiling a cruel smile.
Waltshangla. He was in front of me now. He was red, with horns on the sides
of his oval head. He had wings on his back, although it looked like they hadn’t
been used in so long that they didn’t work for him anymore.
“You successfully passed my trials, now you must work for me!” Waltshangla
boomed. “Your first task: kill Mr and Mrs Helminal.”
Helminal. My last name. I had to kill my parents.
Waltshangla, I hate you.
The door was conveniently unlocked (also like a horror film) and Alfie pushed
it open. We all crept inside and the old hinges creaked as it shut. Max looked
unconvinced.
“Well, there’s nothing here. Let’s go.” But when he tried to open the door
again, it wouldn’t open. It had locked behind us. Then we heard breathing.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. “No! It’s one of you!” No, dear reader, this
was inhumane breathing, too loud for one of us schoolchildren. This was the
breathing of Waltshangla.
“Who dares to come to my lair?” Waltshangla said. He was nowhere to be seen.
Then there was a bump, as if someone’s body was falling. Judith was gone. No
corpse though. What was going on?
“Judith?” I called out. Nothing. Max suddenly went white. No blood was in
his face. Then he stumbled, and toppled over. But as soon as his body hit the
ground, it vanished. Just like that. I thought I must be next. I was wrong. Alfie
then just fell backwards and disappeared. Just me and Harry alive.
56
57
Monsters Aren’t Real
by Rose Buxton
“Monsters aren’t real,” whispers the young mother to the tiny toddler. Her
daughter looks back at her through wide, scared eyes. The mother pulls her
closer. “Silly thing. All those things your brother tries to scare you with? They
don’t exist. He just wants to wind you up.” Her child still doesn’t seem to
believe her. She tries again: “Look, even if you meet something scary, it won’t
come at you. It’ll be too scared of this,” she says as she rubs the little blue
pendant around the girl’s neck. But by this point, she knows nothing she says
will reassure her daughter. The mother sighs. “Come on,” she says, getting to
her feet, “I’ll find you something to eat.”
“Monsters aren’t real,” thinks the little girl. Her town lies devastated. Houses
becoming bricks, people reduced to charred skeletons lying in the burnt-out
ruins of their homes. She doesn’t quite understand what happened, or why
people keep telling her not to blame the monsters. Clearly it was monsters.
Or demons. After all, she saw one. At least, she thinks she did. It looked
like a man. But it couldn’t have been. The thing was dressed head to toe in
black and carried a strange stick, that she knew was a ‘gun’. It hadn’t seen her,
but she’d seen it and she’d heard it. She wasn’t sure what it had said, but the
savagery in its voice had terrified her. Without warning, her father pulled
her back. He hauled her up into his arms and together they ran. Away from
the flames, away from the scorched rubble, away from the monsters with the
guns. Now, she clings onto her mother’s arm as they walk, the thing that
was supposed to protect her bouncing on her neck. Where they’re going, she
doesn’t know. She just prays that it will be safe.
by James Button
“Monsters aren’t real,” repeats the young girl to herself as the explosions start.
Yellow and orange flash in front of her as she turns to her brother. He’s not
there. She freezes, for a moment forgetting the danger. Then hands grab her
and she is pulled along with the tide of terrified civilians. “They’re not real,”
pants her adrenaline-filled mind. But those bangs can’t be human? Why
would anything human want to do this? The girl can barely keep up with the
58
59
crowd, her legs struggling to keep up. Inevitably, she trips. Her fragile body
plummets to the floor. The stampede ignores her. She’s just another body in
the street. Her necklace catches on a crack and pulls tight round her neck. She
screams. She screams and screams as the rest of the blasts get closer. To her,
it sounds like a dragon. “Not real, not real,” she chants. Suddenly, there are
hands on her, pulling her away from the noise and smoke. She looks up into
a pair of dark brown eyes. The girl can’t hear the women’s exact words, but
the message is clear: run. And so, the girl runs. Away from the black smoke,
away from the fire only dragons could have caused. She’s convinced that the
creatures of her nightmares are real.
“Monsters aren’t real,” recites the weary teenage girl. It’s become second
nature to her. She’s still not sure if she believes it. Suddenly, she feels a huge
jolt and grabs on to her pendant for ‘protection’, even though she knows now
that it’s just a painted rock. The sea is getting rough. Fear begins to fill her as
people start screaming.
“No,” she says, “Monsters aren’t real. And even if they are, they won’t hurt
you. You’re too brave.” The little girl still doesn’t seem satisfied. So the young
woman tries again “It’s OK. I was scared of them too, you know. And to be
honest, I think I met them. But look,” she holds her hand out, “I’m still here.”
The little girl hesitates for a moment then takes her hand. “Come on,” says the
woman, “Let’s go find your mum.”
Monsters are only real if we let them be. We create them, through our wars,
through our intolerance and through our grotesque hatred. We allow them to
breed. So no, monsters don’t exist. Not the ones you hear about in fairy tales.
Those monsters aren’t real. There are only men with guns.
A rough voice yells something: “Hold on!”
She scrambles away from the edge. Blood pounds in her ears as she remembers
the stories she heard from the men back on the shore about tiny children
being washed overboard and boatloads of people consumed in a heartbeat by
the supernatural power of the sea. Her heart thuds against her ribcage as yet
another wave of salt water hits, the tiny droplets stinging her face. She’s sure
she’s grown out of the whole ‘scared of monsters’ thing, but a little part of
her still trembles at the thought of what lies under the boat. But she’s stuck.
There’s no getting off. All she can do is cling on and pray, that maybe, across
the ocean, she could be free from the demons that shattered her childhood.
“Monsters aren’t real.” Opposite the young woman stands a scared little girl.
The woman smiles quietly, a strange feeling of familiarity washing over her.
She pulls the child closer, feeling the comforting coldness of the pendant
between them. How did something so small and delicate end up here? A
little girl is one face in a million in this sea of tents. This girl’s short life has
known nothing but brutality, fighting and cruelty. It will get worse as she
grows up. But this girl has looked the depths of human depravity in the eye
and somehow survived. And yet, her biggest fear is that there’s something
under her bed. Maybe the woman’s faith in humanity is broken, but this child
is still hopeful. She doesn’t yet understand how depraved humanity can be.
The woman slowly bends down to her eye level.
60
61
Neil’s Bridge
by Rufus Dakin
Neil’s Bridge neighboured the great Forest of Neil, and under it flowed the
beautiful River Silk, from which the Village of Silk collected water. The bridge
was many miles long, and at each end there was a bank underneath the bridge,
and beings went there to end their lives, leading to the rise of many ghost
stories surrounding the bridge.
One day, a group of boys decided that they would themselves go to the bridge
and tell their ghost stories to each other, so as to create a more appropriate
atmosphere to back their ghost tales. They set out at 9pm, and made sure that
no one knew where they were going. They met at the bridge and sat down,
ready to begin.
A boy named Luca went first, and told his friends about a time when a man
explored a mysterious place, from which he never returned. John was next – he
told also of a man, this time getting trapped, and never getting rescued. After
John came Frederic, telling a classic tale of ghosts, and creaking floorboards,
and all the textbook horror scenes imaginable. And then it was Joshua’s turn,
and he said, “Aah. This has been great, hasn’t it? Tales of mysterious places,
locked rooms, and lovely stories of ghosts and abominations, but really, ghoststorytelling is just so dull! Come, my friends, and have a real adventure. Let’s
find a real ghost!”
Not a noise sounded, which made the adventure even more exciting, but the
boys were disappointed: but a minute’s search for something, anything, assured
that there was nothing to find on the bank underneath the bridge. Nothing.
No thing. Maybe not a thing, but what about ...?
“This whole adventure seems rather familiar,” said Joshua, getting everyone’s
attention. “Hey, Luca. Didn’t your story go that a man went and explored a
mysterious place?”
“It did,” replied Luca, curious.
“And isn’t that exactly what’s happened to us?” the boys thought.
At length, John said, “So? What are you implying? That that wasn’t simply a
common coincidence, but something more ... ghostlike?”
“I dunno. I’m just trying to make this failure of an expedition a bit more
satisfying.”
“Pah!” scoffed John, and went to leave when ... he couldn’t. He tried, he really
did. He tried grabbing the planks of bridge above him, but he was simply
unable to reach.
“Blast!” he cried. “How the hell ...?”
“Wait a minute,” said Joshua. “John?”
“What?”
“I was just thinking. Didn’t your story go that a man got trapped?”
“It did. And he never got rescued.” There was a long silence, and in that silence
the boys became aware of something. They had gone in search of a ghost, but
the ghost would find them first.
DRIP! One noise in the dense quietness underneath the bridge. DRIP!
Another sound breaking the unbearable silence. The boys had decided to go
on an adventure, but there were few places to explore on the bridge; in fact,
there was one. The bank. And so that was where the boys went. The bank was
dark, for the bridge blocked out any light from reaching the mysterious place.
CREAK! Josh went pale. “Oh no. Frederic, your story was one of ghosts, doors
slamming on their own, and of course, creaking floorboards. Although, in this
instance, that’s creaking bridge boards!”
“But that’s it!” exclaimed a boy named Charred. “Only you three told stories.
What’s going to happen now that there’s nothing else for this ghost to mimic?”
“Oh, but you’re wrong, Charred. I wish you were right, but I’m afraid you’re
not. Answer me this: what was my ghost story? And don’t say that there was
none. What did I say when it was my turn to tell a story?”
“Um. You said that we should go in search of a real ghost.”
“Exactly! But this version is slightly twisted, for we didn’t find the ghost ...”
CREAK! “... it found us!”
Nothing. No thing. Not a thing, but what about ... a ghost?
62
63
...
The Teeth of Beelzebub
by Cameron McFadyen
“Stray far not at night, the gate can opened be from the side of man.”
Underfoot, brittle twigs snapped; the sound of thin leather on dead foliage.
He should have refused Muriel’s request. The Priest had warned him of the
ways of women; a temptress could take many forms, even one as pretty as
Muriel. Nevertheless, against the wise advice of the elders, he had journeyed
to the Black Pit to bring back a trophy as a symbol of his affection for the
woman he desired. The stories that surrounded the place were horrific; the
dark, jagged rocks that lined the sides of the pit were said to be the teeth
of Beelzebub himself, frozen until a sinner fell upon them and their blood
dripped to the bottom, awakening the hell mouth’s insatiable appetite for flesh.
He tried to put such notions out of his mind, instead picturing himself as the
valiant knight on a quest to win the heart of the fair lady; this was opposed
to the somewhat more unpleasant idea of a fool tempted to his death and
damnation by Jezebel.
The first stone step was as cold as a fireless hearth on a dark winter’s night;
his cheap leather foot wraps seemed to go cold at the first touch. He began
his descent, spiralling down to the bottom of the chasm, the muffled sound
of his feet carrying him downwards, somehow audible through the deafening
silence of nothing. The steps were completely identical to one another, fitting
the walls of the pit perfectly as if they had been carved by a master stonemason
from a renowned artisans’ guild: the jagged fangs that erupted from the sides of
the pit were unruly, without any form of order or symmetry. Two worlds met
here: the world of man and the world of another much greater power. Threequarters of the way down, light struggling to penetrate the darkness which
fought back with the ferocity of a primeval beast, a glint caught the eye of the
humble peasant. Freezing completely still: another stony statue in the hard
rock that was the pit, he peered into the veil of darkness that concealed danger,
but also his quarry. Unable to detect movement of any kind, he ventured
further down towards doom.
64
The bottom of the pit was reached; a light layer of vapour flowed around the
grand stone monoliths and the piles of cracked skulls. The pit had recently
been filled on account of a pogrom: the anger of the peasants in the village had
boiled over. It was in this way that the pit was never short of bodies; a good
thing, some of the elders said, for, if the Black Pit was not satisfied with the
souls of the sinful it would reach out for more, devouring all in its path. The
boy crouched low, began to search around for the trophy that he had set out
for. Stumbling over the mountains of remains, he failed to notice the imposing
figure wearing a shroud of darkness, who readily took up the opportunity
to stalk him; to hunt the boy as the boy hunted himself. He fell, tumbling
down the pile. Cursing, he took out a candle, and, with great difficulty, struck
alight the wick. Light guiding his path, he found what he was looking for:
the golden idol. The priests had cast it down, proclaiming “heresy,” “idolatry,”
“blasphemy.” Now it delighted in finding its way into the hands of another.
Placing the shining statuette into a satchel, he was eager to leave this accursed
place. Holding the candle in front as a guide, the shroud was lifted. Fangs;
stained red and yellow, jutting out, reeking of decay. Animalistic eyes; slits
for pupils stood out from the dark complexion of the flesh surrounding the
cavernous maw. A surge of adrenaline jolted the peasant into action; darting
between the stone pillars inscribed with Demonic symbols as he strained in
the black to catch sight of the bottom of the stairs. The beast surged forward,
thundering across the floor of smashed skulls, pulverising all in the way.
However, the beast made sure to not crash into the monoliths that dominated
the depths, seemingly fearful of damaging them. This slightly slowing the
monster down; the boy managed to reach the cold stone steps - except they
were no longer cold, the pit was becoming rapidly hotter. His feet were
scorched as he leaped up the steps, the air burning in the lungs, his muscles
screaming for the relief of death. The creature would be loathe to not comply.
Round and round, higher and higher, his heart bursting out of his chest, he
neared the top. His terrified face was bathed in the silver moonlight. A leap,
and he was clear of the Black Pit; he did not turn around to see if the beast was
still following him, but he did drop the idol down onto the forest floor behind
him. The peasant boy ran straight to the church seeking shelter. Upon being
let in he dropped to the floor exhausted, vowing to never go near the dammed
chasm ever again; never to be tempted by a pretty face to go against his better
judgement. Treasure was not worth the horror that greed could bring.
65
Nowhere Is Safe
by Sid Brunt
The tinkling of broken glass tore her from the safe haven of her dreams. The
noise seemed to have come from downstairs, so she had a few minutes to leave
before they killed her. Grabbing nothing but her keys, gun and money she
slowly crept to the bedroom door. Their almost robotic minds would force
them to search every room downstairs before moving to the second floor, so for
now she could move around. She stuck to the shadows, her socked feet gliding
along the oak floor.
Slipping out of the bathroom window and shimmying down the drainpipe,
she crawled painstakingly slowly across her lawn to reach the tarmacked drive.
Gently, she eased open the door and, sitting in the driver’s seat, her body finally
relaxed for the briefest of seconds. Then, the engine purred into life, and she
was away. In the rear view mirror, she caught a glimpse of their faces, turned
at the noise, and even from her safe distance she could feel those glinting red
eyes boring into her.
Nowhere was safe forever; here, it had never been.
Now she would just move on as she always did, and live in peace for a few
months before they found her again, like a terrible game of cat and mouse.
She reached inside the glove compartment and withdrew a pack of Marlboros,
drawing hard on one to quell her trembling nerves. Her hands slowly stopped
shaking, and she planned her next move. It was strange, how recently they had
been finding her faster and faster. At first it had taken them eight years. She
still remembered having to leave her family’s corpses all those years ago. But
now it was happening faster and faster. It had only been a few weeks since
she settled into the house in Potsbridge. She’d liked the desolate plains of
Dartmoor all around her and, at first, she thought that they would protect her.
They always found her though, and this had been no exception.
by Charlotte Bendray
The dark road wound on ahead of her, through the flat marshland. From here
she would drive to Plymouth, ditch the car and then catch a ferry to Western
66
67
France. Then it was on to Germany, and then hopefully into some obscure
region in Eastern Europe, perhaps some rural Russian settlement. For the first
time that evening a smile crept across her lips, brought on by the excitement
of going to a new place. Many other people would have found the constant
travel hard and strenuous, but she had always loved the excitement of moving,
experiencing a new culture and seeing new views.
The Evil Presence
by Rex Evans
She was so caught up in her plans that she didn’t notice the black van hurtling
towards her.
Anything reflective on it had been blacked out, and its headlights remained
dull. The same set of red glinting eyes were set on their quarry in its small blue
Nissan, and this time it wasn’t going to escape.
The creature floored the accelerator and switched into the opposite lane.
The impact threw her and the Nissan far off the road. Only as she was rolling
into the layby, with the airbags pressing her up against the seat, did it cross her
mind that not all of them had been in the house. The car finally stopped rolling
and, somehow, drawing on some deep well of determination, she managed to
pull herself from the wreckage. Limping as fast as she could into the treeline,
she began to assess the damage: two broken ribs, a fractured wrist and most
likely plenty of internal damage. As well as that her foot was bleeding profusely,
and she was losing her strength. However, she limped on, aware that if they
caught her it would be the end. The Royal Forest stretched out before her, and
she kept on going as fast as she could. Already she could hear the demented
sounds of it near her.
Burying herself in a bush, she waited for it to come by. Its otherworldly snuffling
and clicking instilled a wave of fear in her, the crescendo coursing through her
damaged body. The adrenaline helped to focus her. It was seemingly unscathed
by the encounter, bar an uncharacteristic hole in the pelt on its thigh. Knowing
this was her only chance, she eased the knife from her sock and waited for it
to get closer. Like a flash of lightning, she tore out of the bush with her last
reserves of strength. Her knife found its target, but at the same time its savage
claws raked across her chest. Giving one last cry of anguish the beast fell to
its knees, then slowly turned back into dust. She fell back into the grass, and
closed her eyes as the remainder of her blood seeped away. The smile returned,
as she thought of how her last moments had played out.
They had won, but at what cost?
68
Joe and Laura had never lived in the countryside before. After three weeks
in their new home they were just getting used to the pitch-black nights and
the unearthly screams of foxes at dawn, but they just couldn’t understand
why none of the villagers went out after dark. At their new school the other
children were sullen, unfriendly and seemed almost frightened of their own
shadows. Luckily for Joe, a new boy had joined his class just a few weeks before
he arrived and they soon became friends.
“Hey, Sam. I’ve just realised why no-one goes out after dark – there just isn’t
anything to do!” joked Joe.
Grabbing Joe’s arm, Sam breathed heavily in his ear and rolled his eyes.
“Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?” replied Joe, pulling his arm away.
“There’s this weird old tale about some crazy, mysterious bloke who moved to
the village and lived in what’s now the Post Office. You know Mrs Taylor - the
Ancient History teacher? She said that he had a collection of dolls with pale
chalk-like faces, rosy pink lips and black beady eyes that seemed to follow you
round the room.”
“What, a man with dolls, yeah really scary,” laughed Joe.
“Stop it,” Sam hissed. “You don’t know what you are talking about. These dolls
had some kind of power – the children became obsessed about playing with
them and over time, one by one, the children disappeared.” Joe thought that
Sam was winding him up and didn’t give his story a second thought.
It was only when Laura and Joe missed the last bus home that Joe remembered
the myth about the strange dolls. Stumbling down the dark, unlit lanes, Laura
and Joe froze at the same time – they felt themselves being pulled by a strong
invisible force towards the deserted and rickety-looking Post Office. Laura
wondered if her heart could climb out of her mouth and sprint as fast as it
could away from the place. Joe’s eyes gazed up at it with fear and excitement
as he slowly reached his shaking hand towards the rusted and alien-shaped
69
doorknob, his heart beating louder than a drill on a construction site.
Without even being touched, the splintered and burnt wooden door flung
open like a feather being struck by a tornado. Laura dashed over to her brother
to stop him from going further, but when she gazed at her surroundings, it was
like she was frozen in time. They edged forward to where there were bottles
spilt and smashed, letters scattered on the floor, and blood-red handprints on
the cracked and bruised wall. Beads of sweat fell like the Niagara Falls from
Laura’s forehead. They could feel each other’s spines shake and curve.
The eerie silence was broken when BANG, the door slammed shut like a stone
through glass. Suddenly, from around the corner came a faint glowing red
light; scratching, murmurs and whispering arose like the dead from the grave
... and that was when all hell broke loose!
They looked up and painted on the ceiling in red was a sign that would send a
shiver down the spine of anyone who saw it.
“Joe, let’s go back now, this i ... i … isn’t safe here!” Laura squeaked through
her quivering mouth. Like he was blind and deaf to the whole world around
him, Joe slowly crept forward until his foot landed on an old floorboard – it
groaned and everything stopped…
“BWA HAHAHA HA HAAA!” An ear-piercing cackle broke the dreaded
silence … the faint red light flickered twice and then the room went as dark
as a block of coal. Laura felt a faint gust of wind on her face as she shivered
from head to toe. When the faint red light gently whirred back into life, Laura
suddenly realised something was wrong … where was Joe?
was so empty of breath. The doll slowly got up onto its feet, looked around,
and put its feet forward in a fake walking position and tottered towards Laura.
Feeling so helpless and defenceless, Laura desperately searched for some sort
of protection.
“Where is my brother, you evil creature?” she quivered. The little wooden
doll slowly walked towards her as if it understood what she was asking. Just
before it got right in front of Laura, the doll stopped suddenly and extended
its arm out and pointed at the table it was standing on. Swallowing the stonelike lump in her throat, she stepped forward and looked down at the dusty
and worn out table. She slowly removed the dust with one hand and peered
down. Surprisingly, she saw her reflection – it was a mirror. Then behind the
reflection of her face, stuck to the ceiling, was a familiar person: Joe. His
motionless body was strapped to the ceiling. Laura looked up as the doll was
now grinning an evil smile at her. Frantically, she backed away, with her breath
heavy and full of dust. She ran to the door of the Post Office screaming, cursing
and shouting for help, but she knew it was hopeless; it was getting closer with
every step, the end was coming…
“Goodnight, little girl. Sweet dreams!”
Completely forgetting everything, Laura let out an ear-piercing scream. “Joe,
Joe, Joe!!” She dashed round the corner and into the glowing red room. Her
heart stopped beating; her lungs stopped breathing; her stare was paralysed
onto a small wooden doll.
The doll’s head was cocked to one side, its broken legs were swinging over the
edge of the table, and with piercing jet-black eyes it stared straight at Laura.
Without taking her eyes off the doll, Laura stumbled backwards. Feeling for
the doorknob with her shaky hands, her brain screamed at her to run. She was
trapped: there was no doorknob. The doll turned the rest of its body so it was
fully facing her. This wasn’t a Post Office – it was a road to hell.
“W … w ... what do you want from me?” she practically whispered as her body
70
71
The Boy Who Dreamed of Death
by Gabriel Westcott
As I lay in my bed, sleep slowly wrapped its soft, dark and welcoming arms
around me. Suddenly, I was standing outside of my house. I knew at once
that it was dream. I saw my best friend and ran over to him, but before either
of us could say anything, a huge black shape shot in front of my eyes. I was so
taken aback, I didn’t register what was going on; however, after a few seconds I
came back to my senses. I looked to my left and saw a creature that resembled
a great jet-black leopard. But this was different: it looked like a demon of sorts.
Its eyes were red and its great gaping mouth contained four gigantic razor
sharp teeth. Its face looked like it had been torn apart then put back together
by a child. Its claws were like machetes and stained red. Black, frothing saliva
dripped from its mouth. That was when I noticed the trail of black ash that
the creature seemed to have dropped. Then it spoke.
looked grim. I didn’t need them to tell me anything. I could see from their
faces what had happened. My friend was gone…
My eyes filled with tears and I ran back to my house. My mum was standing
outside the house. She asked me if I wanted to go into town with her, but I refused.
She asked me what was wrong. I just shook my head and stumbled inside.
Three hours later, my mum was still not back and I was getting worried. I was
alone in the house, watching TV when I heard a rustling outside. I turned off
the TV and walked to the glass door. I opened it and stood alone, vulnerable
and afraid in the centre of the back garden. My heart skipped a beat. Two great
red eyes stared intently at me from the bushes; so much hate and disgust was
conveyed in that stare, it made the hairs on the back of my neck stick up.
I tried to run but my feet seemed to be glued to the grass. Finally, my legs
moved, and I ran inside the house. From the ‘safety’ of my room I peered out
at the bushes; the creature had vanished.
“Beware of the monsters in your head, be careful where you tread…” it said in
a deep, rasping voice that sounded like it had not been used for years.
When my mum came back from town, I tried to tell her everything, but she
didn’t believe me. She sent me right up to bed. I lay there in bed trying to stay
awake, for I did not want to return to my dreams. But the inevitable happened.
For the second time in two days, I was standing outside my house. And again,
I could tell by the same strange feeling in my stomach that it was a dream. But
this time, instead of my friend on the other side of the road, it was my next
door neighbour Greg. I knew what was about to happen.
Then I blinked and it was gone.
“Run!” I screamed at him, but it was too late.
It was then that I woke. The sweat that had broken out on my brow was icy
cold. It took a minute for me to remember it was just a dream. I looked down
at my T-shirt, and then I started: a single black hair lay on my chest. Still
telling myself it was a dream, I got up and went to the window. I looked out
on the same scene I had been in only minutes ago, minus my best friend. It
was then that I saw it – a trail of black ash. My mind went back to the dream,
the monster and … the trail of ash! I felt sick; the horrific face of the monster
crept back into my head.
A black shape flitted across my vision, but this time the beast didn’t stop to
talk, it just went for Greg. Within a few moments, they both had disappeared
with a flurry of ash.
It was the weekend, so I went outside to investigate the trail of ash. I followed
it down an alley. When I reached the end of the alley, I looked up. It was then
that I saw the police cars parked outside a house. Then, with a horrible jolt, I
realised whose house it was. The policemen outside my best friend’s house
I spent the rest of the day running the events of the last few days through my
head. The evening came much too fast, and before I knew it, it was nine thirty
and time for bed. I begged my mum to let me stay up, but nonetheless she sent
me up to bed.
72
I awoke and took in a huge gulp of air. I leapt up and ran to the window. A trail
of black ash led right to the house of my neighbour. Cold hard fear set into me.
I dashed downstairs and out to the house of my neighbour, but I already knew
what had happened. I went back inside and sat down, trying to work it all out.
73
Again I lay in my bed, waiting for sleep to take me, wondering who I would see
next in my dreams. A thought popped into my head: what if it was my mum!?
My eyes opened on a scene I knew well. But the sky and even the houses were
black and white. I looked around and walked over to the place where my friend
and Greg had stood in my other dreams. Then a mirror appeared, and then it
hit me.
“It’s me!” I cried.
Then I woke to pain and then … nothing.
by Katie Butterworth
74
75
Paralysed
by Kate Hall
I gasp suddenly and sit up from my bed. Panting. Sweat trickles down my
forehead and the hair on my arms and neck are pricked. My body is numbed
with pins and needles all over. I open my eyes. They adjust to the still darkness
of my room, and the orange streetlamp light leaking through the curtains; I am
safe. I swing my legs over the side of my bed, sit upright and shake my head to
clear away the foggy nightmare.
This isn’t the first night I have woken up like this. This distinct dream has
abruptly disturbed my slumber numerous times. I remember every detail.
It starts with the anonymous yet familiar sinuous black shadow. It knocks
on my door three times with a low growl and creeps into my room, then it
scratches on the wooden floorboards and calls my name in its deep voice,
‘Elias’. However, I am immune to the creature’s false allure. I hold my breath,
praying that it cannot hear and sense my dread. The silhouette continues to
move closer and I press against the wall, but it’s no use. A scream escapes my
lips as the obscurity creeps closer towards me.
Then I wake up.
I walk into my bathroom and turn on the tap to wash my clouded thoughts
away; a groaning sound echoes in the pipes, but nothing flows out of the faucet.
I try the shower; useless. I walk out of my room, and my run-down apartment
and I greet, once again. I see the faded, peeling, mustard yellow walls, filled
with brown, sulking furniture and a stained, beige carpet. The kitchen is filled
with stacked-up plates, bottles, cans and unwashed dishes. In the corner sits
a lonely, one-seated dining table with brown, rotten fruit sitting upon it, with
flies buzzing overhead. An old television flickers silently in the background,
while loose sheets of endless paperwork lie around. Paintings and artwork
hang on the wall, slanted and discoloured. I immediately acknowledge the
stale, mouldy damp smell that lingers throughout the entirety. Although there
76
is the morning half-light, the only source is the plane of frosted glass set at the
back of the living room, crusted with the grime of who knows what. I switch
on the lights. With a flicker, they slowly raise to a dim yellow, illuminating the
room. Evidence of my laziness is very apparent. Truthfully, I don’t care, it is
the only thing I can afford. They say a man’s house is his castle: well then, this
is a damn grimy castle. Actually not a castle, it is more of a dungeon, my own
personal prison.
I peer out of the frosted window; a shower of rain leaves a grey, dreary, grieving
mood across the city, and accompanies the misty air of London. I check
the time, of course, the same as my other awakenings. An ominous, strange
silence has overcome my apartment. I unlock my front door and look out. My
flatmates are all still asleep. I shut the front door and turn to get back into bed.
However, something doesn’t feel right. A feeling of uncertainty makes me
want to turn round. I look over my shoulder. My front door is open.
I crawl into bed and wrap myself in my duvet. For some reason I feel anxious.
I stay sat upright. I don’t lie down. My anxiety is due to the feeling of an
unknown presence, something lurking in the darkness. My room is as silent as
a catacomb. It feels like the silence that falls right before you get stabbed in the
back. My room is empty; however something unsettling and discomforting is
with me, and I don’t know what. I gulp. My hands are clammy and my heart
is beating at the pace of a steam train. It is pitch black and my body is too
paralysed to reach for the light.
A subtle shift of the blackness catches my eye. My body tenses, my toes curls
and my knuckles clench. Three knocks, a low growl, and my door slowly opens.
There is a soft pitter-patter on the wooden floor. I blink away a tear from
my eye. My fright has taken over me. I am frozen. The dark shadow from
my unconscious mind looms in front of my face and I can see every feature.
It has hunched shoulders and long menacing arms with dirty, clasping, evil
hands. Its head tilts and its vacant, white eyes glare into the back of my head.
A sinister, wide grin spreads across its face and I can smell its warm, demonic,
venomous breath: bitter and fiery. In a low growl it says, ‘Elias’. My nightmare
has morphed into reality. I am no longer asleep.
77
Mental
by Connor Neary
The night was dark. It was about 22:30 and John was driving his black Chevrolet
Colorado – listening to the Yankees baseball game – along a desolate road in
the middle of nowhere.
John was a journalist – he had just come from a job reporting on another dull,
out-of-state story. Not what he imagined when he signed up for the job.
He carried on driving; oddly, there were no other cars on the road. It was just
him. About fifty minutes later John noticed his gas was running low: he only had
about fifteen miles left in the tank. Suddenly, his car stopped to a grinding halt.
“Damn – I wish I’d fixed that dodgy fuel gauge.”
He pulled out his phone to call his friend when his phone powered off. It was
out of battery. “Lousy piece of junk,” he muttered to himself. He looked up:
in the distance, a gate was visible, and it looked as if there were lights coming
from behind the gates. He made his way towards them in hope of finding help.
As he got closer, he could see it was an old building, quite run down, with
scaffolding on one side.
He walked on.
The gates were open and behind them was a long path heading to the building,
surrounded by tall and menacing-looking pine trees. As he approached the
building, John made out part of a sign with the words ‘ntal Hospita’. He felt
anxious, but, determined to get home, and, knowing that this was the only
place to get help for miles, he walked towards the grand wooden door. He rang
the doorbell.
Nobody came to the door.
78
He surveyed the scaffolding and decided he would climb up and see if there
was a way in. He found an open window and climbed through it. He was in a
dark room. He pulled out his torch (part of the essential journalist toolkit) and
shone it around. Among paint pots and tools, he saw a stack of old wooden
signs saying ‘beware’ and ‘keep out’. “This must be the storeroom,” he thought,
to reassure himself.
John walked out of the room, into a hallway. It had one flickering light hanging
from the ceiling. He walked towards it; he could just make out the sound of a
radio, coming from behind a door with a plaque on saying ‘Doctor Hensley’.
The radio was playing a commentary of the baseball game he was listening to
earlier. “At least the Yankees are still winning,” he thought, to ease his nerves.
He knocked, but after no reply, he entered.
Hanging from hooks on the ceiling were a dozen doctors’ coats. He thought
he saw dark red patches on them. John walked further into the room and, to
his horror, he saw a foot coming from the bottom of one of the coats. In the
dim light, he suddenly realised that all of the coats had arms dangling from
the sleeves. John panicked; he was scared, terrified, mortified. Desperately, he
scrambled to the exit but the door had shut behind him. He tried the handle,
but it was locked.
He was trapped.
He heard a voice coming from a speaker that was hanging from a wall. The
voice said, “Thank God you’re here … did they send you to me?”
John stuttered, “H ... e ... llo. Who ... who are you? What the hell is going on?”
“Who am I?” the voice replied. “I think the real question is who are you, and
are you here to help me?”
“I … I’m John,” John replied. “Wait, me help you? I’m the one stranded in this
God-forsaken place!”
John was cut off.
“No, we’re both stranded – stranded because of the incident.”
The voice sounded distressed.
“The incident?”
79
John was feeling confused but, bizarrely, inquisitive.
“You don’t know?” the voice continued. “The inmates here rioted two days ago
and killed all the doctors, except me. I have been hiding here in the security
room ever since.”
John was panicked, startled. He was alone and the doctor needed help … more
than he could provide. “Oh my God, stay in there. I’ll get help. I can’t help you
alone. I’ll get out and get the police. How do I get out? The door is locked!”
John screamed.
“You can’t get out,” said the voice.
“What? There must be a way!”
“Can you make it to me?” was the question that came back.
“How do I get to you?”
“CCCHHHHH” the voice started to crackle, then silence.
John waited for the voice to come back. Nothing. He decided to find the
doctor on his own. He noticed a vent and thought it would be the safest option,
knowing he was in a hospital full of psychotic murderers.
He had been crawling through the vent shaft for a few minutes when, through
a grille, he saw a massive brute of a man, if it could even be called that. It was
about 2.3 metres tall. It was in a room full of bodies on the floor with bags over
their heads. Not wanting to be spotted, John, quickly but quietly, crawled on
through the vent.
Eventually, he found the end of the vent and cautiously dropped down into a
room. He could just make out the words painted on the wall with blood: ‘kill or
be killed’. He was petrified, but pushed on. He walked into the main hallway
and heard a grunt coming from behind him. It was that freak from earlier.
Immediately, his fight or flight instincts kicked in. He darted away from the
freak, but it followed him, bashing into things as it ran. Despite its massive size,
it was surprisingly quick.
John took a turn to the left into a room. He speedily slammed the door behind
him and locked it. The brute tried to get in but he couldn’t. John turned around
and saw a man in a doctor’s coat.
“Please, I beg you, don’t hurt me.”
“Hello, John. I am the man you were talking to earlier,” he said. “Now then,
let’s get to business.” He picked up a knife.
“What is that for?” John asked, while his heart pounded in his chest.
“I’m going to get you out the easy way, just like I did with all of the
other doctors.”
80
by Dominic Wallis
81
A Peculiar Week
by Sophie Hart
Dear Diary,
This week has been a peculiar week. On Saturday, after Mum and Dad had left,
I started to rummage around all the old boxes that had been begging me to
open them. Frustratingly, the first box was filled with rubbish, the baby clothes
(which are going to be put into use soon), and obsolete vinyl records, most of
which were broken. I started to wonder if it was really necessary to actually see
the contents or whether I could just chuck some of them away, but I was sure
that this would be beneficial.
Then Granny came in and handed me bourbon biscuits and some squash. I
told her that I hadn’t found anything interesting yet, but I was certain I would.
And she told me something: that the stork might fly tomorrow. As she left the
room, her eyes flickered towards a box that I hadn’t noticed before.
Half an hour later, I found an old chest with a lot of dust on it. It was in the
box that Granny’s eyes had briefly looked at. I blew off the dust and put it
aside for later.
Monday (New Year’s Eve) was one of the most important days of my life so
far. My little sister was born! She is really small and cries way too much, but
she is so cute. She has blonde hair, a big cheesy smile, and chubby arms too! I
wanted to call her Scarlett because of her red face, but Mum and Dad ‘needed
more time and couldn’t make such important decisions so quickly’, which is
really annoying. She is just about worth moving house to fit her in.
I was so annoyed when Mum told me that I had to move schools. I thought
my first day was going quite well, at least until I met Reckliff. Everyone was
friendly and all the lessons were really easy: I’d learnt it all last year. I was in a
mundane Maths lesson and the teacher asked if anyone knew how to construct
a regular octagon using only a compass and a straight edge. Petulant Reckliff
82
put her hand up, but got it wrong (she did an equilateral triangle by mistake),
and as I was the only other person in the class with their hand up, he chose me.
I told the teacher how to do it step by step and I received kudos because of it.
For the rest of the day, Reckliff scowled at me and so did everyone around her.
This led to there being a dearth of people who wouldn’t even speak to me (I
can’t believe that they all kowtow to her). Apparently, it was known that she
has jurisdiction in the school. A ‘know-it-all-nerd’ was the kindest comment
she gave me. If she wasn’t such an ignoramus, and knew basic maths, then
there wouldn’t have been a problem.
Reckliff has long, flowing red hair and freckles speckled on her face. She wears
a high ponytail and a short, black school skirt. She has a minute scar on the
inside of her neck and I can’t stop myself from coming up with horrible reasons
as to how it happened. I feel so bad, yet rebellious. Gorgeous pink nails stand
out even though it is against the rules for girls to paint their nails. How come
she is so perfect (on the outside at least)?
I found that chest thing again and rubbed it to find some Latin words. I kept
rubbing, trying to see clearer, and, in a moment of aberration, some spectre
came out. It wasn’t a typical, haunting disembodied spirit of a dead person as
a ghost is defined in the dictionary. It was more of a translucent, but somehow
soft shape that you almost wanted to hug. I was enamoured. The ghost shape
shifted into words telling me about itself. Its brevity meant I had to decode
what it was trying to lead me to after it had finished. It was nebulous, but I
thought it said something along the lines of: do what I could to help, be friends
with everyone, and that I got a wish.
I decided to sleep on it (if I was ever going to get to sleep, that was). I couldn’t
stop my mind from wondering about the ghost. Who gets to meet a ghost?
It turned out that in my dream that night, I was so happy – I was in a room
with Reckliff, with a maths paper in front of her, and she got one hundred per
cent in a test. She came up to me and hugged me and shouted, “Thank you.” In
my dream, she wasn’t even embarrassed to hug a boy! I wasn’t sure if my dream
implied anything like I should’ve tried to be a tutor to those who needed help,
that she could secretly be a professional, or that I was simply being stupid.
Today I signed up to tutor people so I can understand how Reckliff feels with
not getting everything right the whole time. It was a last-minute decision, but
something inside me forced me to. I have just been told that I am going to help
someone for a fortnight, but secretly, because they feel a little abashed. I don’t
83
mind, because that is what I would do if I needed tutoring.
I have also worked out that whoever finds the chest gets a wish, so, I am going
to pass it down to Scarlett when she needs it most.
Uncle Boris
by Henry McBraida
Silvia stopped her car at the top of the driveway: a large, scaly, dark tree lay
across the road, preventing further movement. While she travelled, night had
superseded day, and a cloudy veil smothered the stars; furthermore, a deep chill
had cast over the air. She set her gaze to the tree. There was a moderate gap
between its base and the ground, so she decided it to be more efficient to go
under it. What she didn’t see were vines tucked into the top of the tree, which
escaped, whipping her in the face, producing both outcry and cuts.
As she walked down the winding, granite pathway, cursing herself, approaching
the manor Silvia reminded herself why she was there, for she was excellent
at forgetting even the most obtuse facts. Her uncle, Boris, had had no
communication with her family for months, failing to attend the Christmas
party, neglecting to answer emails, not answering phone calls: they all knew
that something was wrong, and thus Silvia had been sent to look for him.
Even before this incident, though, Boris always was secluded, only speaking to
others when necessary, preferring to avoid rather than join them.
Finally, she reached the door. Above her, on the wall, a pack of gargoyles
stared, standing watch over the entrance with cold glares of contempt. The
wooden door before her was rotten; the bolts and hinges rusted. It was missing
a knocker, so she rapped on it with her knuckles a few times. After a few
minutes, it became clear that nobody was to answer it. She pushed it open and
called out: “Uncle Boris!” There was no reply.
She crept up the stairs, and entered the first room before her. It appeared to be
some kind of study.
The most prominent feature, for a reason that she could not fathom, was
a thick book sitting upon the table. Its shadows danced, slowly, in the dim
torchlight and a magnetic, dark quality was emitted, drawing her closer. All
she wanted now was to open the book. Although she was alarmed by this, and
84
85
attempted to resist the temptation at first, the curiosity quickly won over. She
opened the book to the first page, but her torch immediately gave in, plunging
her into helpless darkness. Of course, something stranger proceeded to occur.
not look like her uncle. He was shaking and bedraggled, curled into a ball. She
attempted to greet him, but it seemed that she was not allowed to affect sound
in this odd reality either.
It took only a few moments for her to realise that she was no longer standing in
the same room. Her new location, wherever that may be, looked brand new; the
furniture, as if it was bought the same day. There were, however, two important
changes. The first was that this room had a switch on the wall, which, upon
being activated, illuminated the room with light: creeping, dim, flickering light,
but light nevertheless. The second was brought about by the first. Whether it
was more significant is debatable. The lack of the book, however, was certainly
more alarming.
“You must leave,” he said. “I cannot, though. I am bound by the evil spirit
that led me here, which disguised itself as curiosity. Soon, it will completely
overpower me. To leave, you must close your eyes, imagining the room
wherefrom you entered.”
Fear took a hold of Silvia, as she realised that escape might now become
impossible. But before the fear had taken control, she managed to perceive a
torn piece of paper on the floor. Although it was essentially illegible, apparently
due to the haste in which it was written, she could make out the words “peril”,
“danger” and, better yet: “inescapable”. If she had still maintained some reason
before, it was now gone, lost to terror.
Silvia peered out of the room and heard voices. At first she was hesitant: these
people would probably be displeased with someone intruding in their house.
But, there being no book whereby to escape, she decided that attempting to
creep out of the door would be the optimal plan. Fortunately for her, nobody
was near it, so she opened it and stepped out. Or so she would have, but the
handle completely failed to move. This could be put down to a lock, but that
was definitely not the case; the door was essentially frozen.
Silvia, who had decided to stop considering the situation and do as he said,
closed her eyes and imagined the room with the book, as well as possible.
Nothing happened. She looked back to Boris, but didn’t see him: only a dark
mist slowly making its way towards her. An icy feeling spread across her,
perhaps from fear, or perhaps from the spirit in front of her. She hastily ran to
the other side of the room and attempted escape again, with the same failure.
The sensation of ice returned, and she fell over in shock – onto a broken piece
of glass. But she was too scared even to scream, and with a last effort, she
imagined the room again.
Suddenly, the feeling disappeared, and she saw the room before her when she
opened her eyes. As she ran from the house, dread and guilt replaced the ice,
and, like the glass-cut she had just received, remained there forever.
A man suddenly began to approach Silvia. She gulped and prepared her story,
so that she might explain herself. But his eyes went straight through her. She
was perplexed and astonished. But that, as it turned out, was not all.
“Silvia,” said a voice. She jumped, having not heard somebody call her name
for several hours.
“Silvia,” it said again. She recognised the sound: it was the voice of Uncle
Boris!
“Come here, Silvia,” the voice said, and she finally pursued it, eventually
finding the source; as she expected, her uncle was before her. Except he did
86
87
New Beginnings
by Ed Gilpin
Kurt loved Christmas: it was his favourite holiday. He loved the smells, foods,
playing with his brother and, of course, the presents. But most of all he loved
the magical snow that brought silence to the busy bustle of the city.
This year would be the first in his new house. It was more than 1,500 km away
from his old house in Oslo. Now they would live a solitary life, at the bottom of
Helvete Valley. Kurt, his dad and his younger brother, Max, had had to move
when their grandfather grew ill. They were to live a five minute drive from
Nuorgam, where their grandfather lived.
They arrived three days before Christmas. Driving for over forty hours in
an ancient VW van, Kurt and his brother had slept for the duration of the
journey. At least, his brother had. Kurt had struggled to sleep: the van wasn’t
the quietest. They had carried most of their belongings in a trailer hooked up
to the back. Anything else was stuffed in beside the boys.
As soon as they reached their new home, Kurt leapt out, eager to explore. But
he tumbled after a few shaky steps, limbs weak from hours of confinement. He
shivered: the snow had crept down the back of his jacket. But Kurt was used to
the cold, and struggled back to his feet.
Reaching the front door, he glanced back towards the van, looking for his dad,
who had the keys. But the van was out of sight.
“Max? Dad!” His voice was swallowed by the soft blanket of snow; there was
no reply. Kurt spun back round to the front door. He twisted the large door
knob and pushed. The door edged open, then jammed: it was stuck on the
latch. Nonetheless, Kurt peeked through the gap he had made.
by Maddy Swann
He could glimpse a living room through a door off to the left, and straining his
eyes hard he could see more doors opening off a long corridor beyond. One led
88
89
to a grand kitchen, with a large oven. Another lead to a utility room. The house
was amazing and his eyes began to well up. Thoughts of his mum engulfed
him. Even though his mother had died when he was only four, he felt like he
knew her so well. He failed to remember a day when his dad hadn’t mentioned
her. Kurt knew that this was the house his mother had wanted to move to. She
had hated the congestion of the city. She would have loved it here.
Kurt pulled his head back out, rubbing his aching neck. His dad still hadn’t
arrived. He trudged round through fresh drifts to the back door. It was locked
too. Kurt carried on. After a couple of paces, he tripped, sinking into the snow.
A wave of pain shot up through his leg. Glancing back he saw two metal rusty
handles poking out. Kurt began to kick the snow away around the handles. In
fascination, he realised that it was a trapdoor into the basement.
Kurt wrenched opened the door and gently lowered himself down onto a large
box. The room was dark, the only light coming from through the door, but he
could make out a pile of boxes beyond. He covered his nose with his hand, a
look of disgust spreading across his face. There was a grim smell coming from
the box he was standing on. He swayed backwards as he struggled hard not
to retch and felt something brush his neck. Trying hard to suppress the urge
to scream, Kurt slowly reached his hand up behind his head. Kurt could hear
his heart thumping in his head as his fingers flailed in the air until they found
something. His eyes whirled round and he saw that his sweaty fingers were
clutching a long piece of string. Kurt exhaled. He snatched at it and a small
downlight flickered on. Warily, Kurt sank onto the box and, as his eyes grew
accustomed to the dim light, he realised that he was perched on a battered old
washing machine. Snow was starting to gather on its surface so Kurt pulled the
trapdoor closed. He hopped down, scanning his surroundings. The basement
was crammed full of old junk. He squinted at the square sewer of a machine,
trying to find out what was making the smell. But it seemed to be stuck on a
cycle. Kurt examined the nearest box; it was taped shut. He dug his fingernail
along the tape and ripped the lid open. It was empty. Kurt pushed through to
the box behind and the ones behind that.
the boxes to the decrepit washing machine. It had been moved. The washing
machine was five feet away.
Five feet away from the trap door.
A wave of fear surged through Kurt.
He screamed out for his dad. “Kurt?” came the reply. His dad’s voice was shaky,
panicky – it was coming from behind him. Kurt spun round.
‘Ding’, the washing machine door pinged open.
Head pounding, Kurt edged forward. He sank to his knees, eyes drawn in
terror towards the machine. The stench was almost unbearable. Kurt’s face
turned white in realisation.
The light began to flicker.
On.
Off.
On.
“Welcome home, Kurt.”
Off.
Empty. Empty. Empty.
Why would you seal an empty box?
Kurt heard muffled sounds of a door opening above. His dad had arrived.
Kurt’s growing paranoia disappeared. He glanced around for stairs into the
house, but the only way out was the trapdoor. Kurt shuffled back between
90
91
A Shard of Glass
by Meg Scott
Quietly, I stepped down the street, when out of a large door came a man, who
was in a pure white suit. His movement was irregular, like he was not complete,
and surrounding him was a grey spindly mist. However, that wasn’t all. His
suit wasn’t the dirty white you see everywhere here; it was rich white.
When I was little, my sisters and I were told stories about how evil the white
suited men were. We were told these tales to scare us in the evening, but we
denied that we were frightened. Even so, I was afraid, and so was everyone else.
I shrunk back into the shadows, wishing that I had never come to this place. I
could hear huge weights scraping in my ears, and I could feel fear crawling over
my back like a convulsing spider. Noise scratched around my head clawing for
a way out, causing my senses to lie helplessly immobile.
Suddenly, the man looked around, but didn’t seem to see me. I was so relieved
that I let my shoulders slump back, but this small movement brought the
metallic silver eyes to settle on me. The small eyes, which looked unreal and
almost deformed, pierced me. Like an arrow the grey mist seeped towards
me, rolling freely without a trouble in the world. Slowly, the mangled spiders
stopped, but it felt like they had melted into me. With the mere pulling of their
silky threads they controlled me. Steadily, the man started to walk towards me,
but the spiders made a web over my feet. No amount of screaming from my
dizzy mind could make me move. Words from the man were blocked from
my mind because the spiders had crawled into my ears and were chanting and
screaming to themselves.
Out of the large door came a woman in a black spidery lace dress. The woman
slowly sauntered towards me, and laid a hand upon my shoulder. Then she
talked to me, but I couldn’t hear, and I was led away through the door.
The inside of the building was different to the angular grey outside, it had
92
whitewashed walls, with blood red doors. Un-polished black and white tiles
covered the floor in a mesmerizing pattern. We went through one door and
inside was a low table and several chairs with plush red cushions on. The
spiders had finally writhed out of my ears, and I was told where I was and the
woman explained why the rich man needed me. He wanted to do some tests,
and he was willing to pay more money than my imaginative mind had ever
dreamed of owning.
The spiders crawled all over me in a frenzy, making my toes tingle, but
somehow the spiders did not stop there. They spun and searched until they
found my mind. One by one they crawled inside. I couldn’t control myself.
I was standing in a glass cylinder which I pressed my fingers to and a carpet of
cold wrapped them up like mittens. All I could hear was my delicate breathing,
but through the thick glass I saw machines vibrating and flashing. Three
people scurried around the room like goblins looking for their lost treasure.
In the glass I saw a thin child with hair cascading down her back like an
ebony waterfall, looking much like all of her sisters. With dark brown eyes
my reflection stared back at me without a smile on its face. I looked up and I
saw a tunnel which was connected to another cylinder just like my own. Blue
liquids flowed in tubes all around me, and twisted their way through the tunnel.
The strange man in the white suit slithered into the room and proceeded to
the other cylinder. In it he put a shard of glass and then he went to one of the
many machines in the room and flicked a few switches. Quickly, he jumped
back and went to the opposite side of the room while he was putting on a pair
of glasses over his silvery hair.
A blinding light dug its way into my eyes. My eyes were forced shut, but
around me I still felt the hurricane wind spiraling around. The wind gouged
at my flesh, but I felt colder in my blood than on my skin, like something
was making ice in my veins. Suddenly, my body felt like it had been struck
by lightning and my eyes were being stabbed with swords. Streaks of frost
climbed up my back and slashes of pain opened on my back. The feeling
gradually died away, until I only felt numb.
The glass slid open. Rasping, I toppled out on to the floor; everyone in the
room was staring at me. I looked down at my hands. My nails were no longer
there. They had been replaced with clear-silver shards of glass. I looked at my
wrist. I saw a deep vein of blue glass, which wound up my pale brown arm, like
93
a snake ready to strangle me. Scared, I spun round so I could see my reflection
in the glass cylinder. Before me I stared at a girl who looked the same as me,
with the same hair, ears, and mouth, but her eyes were not dark brown. They
were silver-grey, like shards of glass.
by Cal Levitt
94
95
Night Becomes Day
by Madi Sayce
“Course you do,” said his uncle. He fidgeted and looked uncomfortable.
That night Callum went up to bed as usual, the Dark Knight on his bedside
cabinet. “Maybe you can help me. Can make a happy ending?” asked Callum.
He fell asleep with Bingo on his shoulder. The wind started and the storm,
which had been brewing in the hills, began to break. The trees swayed, the
curtains flapped.
The dog barked, and Callum opened his sleepy eyes.
Callum opened a small gift. It was an action figure of the ghost of the Dark
Knight from Callum’s favourite comic strip. He was thrilled. “Never have I had
a present like it!” he said.
He took it up to his room that night and placed it on his bedside table. His
dog, a Jack Russell called Bingo, went with him. He had a strange dream. He
dreamt he was alone and very, very scared. He woke to hear Bingo growling
quietly at the Dark Knight by his bed. “What’s the matter, Bingo?” said Callum,
now sure that figure looked a little different, though he couldn’t explain why.
Two days later, tragedy struck. Callum’s parents were both killed in an
unexplained car accident on their way home from a party. There were no other
cars, nothing that looked slippery or dangerous on the road, and neither of his
parents had been unwell. It was a mystery.
CRASH!
The lightning was very close – Callum saw it out of his bedroom window.
CRASH!
This time the lightning slammed open the window. Callum got up immediately,
the dog by his side. He tried to push the window closed but the force of the
wind was so strong, it wouldn’t budge.
CRASH!
The lightning shot through the window and struck the action figure, zoom
bang! Callum pushed with all his strength and the window shut.
Callum was devastated. His father’s brother and his wife offered to take him
to their house.
He leant against the window, puffing with relief. Bingo went back to his bed
and lay down. Callum pulled back his curtains and got back into his bed; he
lay down and slept again.
He packed his clothes and his precious “Dark Knight”. He and Bingo left his
family home for mid Wales, up in the hills. His aunt tried to make him feel
welcome, even though their life was mostly different to Callum’s. Their cottage
was messy and full of old books and no-one ever did the cleaning. His aunt’s
cooking was very strange; they didn’t know how to speak to him.
An hour later (2am), a figure rose from the action figure. It leant over the bed
and loomed over the sleeping boy. Bingo woke instantly; hackles rose on the
back of his neck; his low growl started ominously. He didn’t take his eyes off
the figure.
“So, Callum,” said his uncle one night, “did your Dad ever tell you what would
happen if he died?”
“No, though he did once say that I didn’t need to worry, even if they weren’t
always there.”
“Quite right,” said his uncle. “You’re a rich young man now, you know. Lucky
for some.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Callum. “I just want things back to how they
were.”
96
As the boy slept, the figure leant towards him and whispered in his ear:
“Take care ... you are in grave danger. You must leave this cottage at first light.
I warn you…!”
Callum woke with a start. Looking at the figure of the Dark Knight, he could
have sworn he saw it move. “It’s not right here, Bingo,” said Callum.
“Something’s not right. We have to go home…”
“You’ll be going nowhere,” said a low quiet voice of a man leaning against
97
his door. As the storm raged around the cottage, Callum saw the figure of his
uncle watching him from his doorway. His heart started to race.
“Don’t you understand; boy? You are the heir to a large fortune and we must
protect you.” And with that he slammed the door shut, the key turned fast in
its lock.
Different
by Freya Morris
Then Callum realised what grave danger he was in. As the rain slashed against
the window, he desperately tried to think of a way to escape.
He spent all of the rest of that day feeling confused and worried up in the
bedroom.
As darkness came, Callum fell asleep, exhausted. So much so, he didn’t hear
the handle of the door open or his uncle slip into the room with a bundle of
cloth. Bingo began to growl aggressively, baring his teeth and snarling loudly.
The Dark Knight moved an arm. Bingo was now barking loudly and Callum
awoke with a start. His uncle had the cloth out ready to suffocate him!
Callum leapt out of bed and the Dark Knight ran towards the boy. Bingo bit
Callum’s uncle, causing him to clutch his leg and let go of the cloth.
“Aarrrrrggghh! You stupid, stupid hound!” he yelped. Meanwhile, the Dark
Knight tugged at Callum’s trousers. Callum looked down to see the tiny figure
waving up to him and poising himself for action. The boy rubbed his eyes in
amazement. “I must be dreaming!” he thought to himself. “This is all an awful,
crazy dream!” But he soon gathered himself as he saw his uncle reaching again
for the cloth. The Dark Knight was grabbing the cloth with all his might,
pulling it away from Callum’s uncle. His uncle then clasped the Dark Knight
with both his hands and tried to squeeze the power out of him. Just as the
brave Knight was about to die, he lifted his hands and gathered all of the
strength he had left.
Lightning shot out of his hand and struck the tree outside. Bingo and Callum
turned their heads away from the dazzling light, but the uncle’s eyes were fixed
and the light blinded him. He fell to the floor in pain. The lightning had split
the large tree outside; half the trunk fell heavily against the side of the house –
just high enough for Callum and Bingo to make their escape.
In his efforts to save the boy, the Dark Knight now lay still upon the floor, a
tiny figure in a room full of chaos and the noise of the storm that had been
created raging around him.
98
Looking at me, you would never have thought I was any different to any other
boy from my small town in the north of England. I had brown hair, brown
eyes and pale skin. I was probably one of the most ordinary looking boys in the
whole country. The only thing that set me apart was my brain. I had always
been astonishingly smart, passing all my tests with A grades without having
to work at all.
I had always known I was different, for as long as I was old enough to really
understand what was happening around me. People would talk, but they
weren’t exactly subtle about it. So when family members asked my parents
what was wrong with me, they probably thought I didn’t understand at that
age, but I always did. It didn’t wash right over my head like they thought it
would. Before I started school, I ignored it. I let them go on, ignorant as to
how I really felt, and let my parents explain what was ‘wrong with me’ all on
their own.
Their excuses always varied depending on the person they were explaining
to. I’d been labelled with multiple disorders despite none being proven, all
essentially leading back to the line ‘he just has an overactive imagination: it’s
nothing to worry about’. My parents said it so often I wondered if they were
trying to convince others, or themselves.
I remember one conversation in particular that made me realize that different
wasn’t a good thing. It was the night before my first day of primary school. I
was excited, staying up after I had been sent to bed to talk to one of my many
imaginary friends about how amazing school would be tomorrow. I was midexplanation when the shouting started; my friend disappeared at the sound of
the voices. I couldn’t blame him for being scared around such loud noises, but
I remember how much worse it was listening to them on my own.
“I don’t know why you keep bringing this up! We’re fine!”
99
I remember pulling my blanket up to my eyes, surrounding myself with the
heavy duvet.
“I’ve been watching you for many months. We are the same.” My mouth had
dropped open. What was he on about?
My parents didn’t often fight, but when they did it was bad. They were always
so happy around me, so it was rare to hear them shout. I was worried about
what had started the argument; whatever it was, it was serious. Little did I
know at the time, but it was me.
“You can see them too, can’t you?” He asked me, a manic look on his face.
“You can see me too. You can see us; you can see the ghosts.”
“It’s weird!”
At this point I still had no idea what they were talking about. I grabbed my
duvet closer and scrunched my face up trying to quiet the voices. It didn’t work
though; I still heard the reply that shattered my world.
“No it’s not. Theo’s just a kid! He’s meant to have imaginary friends!”
My mother’s voice was rising in anger. They said that so often and I never
understood. My friends were real.
“Theo will make some real friends tomorrow and we can go back to being
normal.”
The first of many tears ran down my face. My friends were real, I couldn’t just
ignore them. Why did no one understand?
I was fifteen when my parents pulled me out of school. I came home every
other day with letters saying how disruptive I was and how a doctor should
check my endless talking to nobody. They would ask me who I was talking
to and, when I was younger, I would try to explain, but they would always say
that I was ‘just making things up’ or ‘looking for attention’. My parents got me
a private tutor to get me through the rest of my schooling. She would come
every day, giving me textbooks and papers to go through, the only break being
a one-hour slot at 1pm.
It was during one of these breaks that I saw him.
He was pale, almost white, with bright blue eyes and blond hair that fell over
his face. I recognized him from somewhere, but I couldn’t quite place it. He
was stood still, staring at me, his black clothes filthy and torn. He turned and
started walking quickly towards me. Intrigued, I watched him.
100
101
The Power in a Name
by Naomi Waheed
I’m warning you now. The monsters under the bed, the monsters of the night,
and the monsters of stories are all real. They are the ‘who’ when you call, ‘Who’s
there?’ They are the wind blowing through your hair. They are the shadows of
the moon at night, filling your dreams to the brim with fright.
Remember, once you read this, they will come for you. They will hunt you
down, track you, until you’re too exhausted to fight. Then they take you away,
to a place where you’ll never be heard from again.
I guess if you’ve read this far, and you’re still willing to read on, you get to know
me. My name is … Can’t tell you that. There is power in a name, as you will
find out soon. For now, I’ll call myself… Me. I like ‘Me’. If you need a title,
but not a name, ‘Me’ is something good to call yourself. So, dearest reader, I
am Me, and I found monsters and ghosts in our world. Not a mirror world.
Earth. Our home.
I guess I’d better stop delaying. It was a normal school day. I took the bus. I
got teased at school. I had boring lessons, with even more boring teachers. I
took the bus home.
It was when I got home that I noticed the difference. It was like when you
know someone’s watching you. But you don’t know who they are, or where
they are. And then there’s that paranoia that tells you that it isn’t a friend. Or
a human.
by Polina Kuprish
I fumbled for my key. I swear I heard a voice, telling me that it wasn’t a good
idea to go inside the house. I ignored it, taking it to be that small, annoying
voice that always accompanied me when I was scared. That is normal, right?
Anyway, I went inside the house. It was dark, as it was December. I started
to call out, then stopped abruptly when I saw a woman, dressed in white, her
midnight black hair, a pool of darkness, leading down her back. And her eyes
102
103
held the fierce determination of a woman who knew what she wanted. She
held up her head, before saying, “I have one job. That is to keep intruders out.
But you live here. So I guess we’ll compromise. I’ll tell three riddles then you’ll
answer them. If you get them right, I’ll let you stay.” She stood up straight, so it
looked like she was looking down on me. “Before you ask, I know everything;
that’s how I know you live here.
“Question one: I am found on the sea and on the land, but do not swim nor
walk. I travel by foot, but don’t have any toes. No matter where I go, I am close
to home. Who am I?” I wracked my brains for an answer, before finally coming
to one. “Is it … a snail?” The woman nodded and began her second riddle: “I
don’t have lungs or a chest, yet I need air; I am not alive, yet I grow; I don’t
have a mouth and I don’t like water. What am I?” Once again, I thought about
what it could be before deciding on, “Fire.” She looked at me once more. “You
are right. The final question is: who am I?” I looked at her, while wordlessly
opening my mouth and closing it. She looked at me and smiled. “All right. You
may pass. But think and question who I am.” As she said that, she was slowly
getting smaller, until all that was left was a small doll.
Isis was growing. I hastily dumped her out of my bag and watched as she grew
and grew, until she was a regular sized human. She regarded me with a cold eye
and tilted her head forward until her hair had created a slick curtain across her
face. I heard her sigh and felt her eyes narrow as she said, “The book lied about
you controlling me. I now control you. Yes, I am Isis, I just created a book to
trick foolish-minded humans into becoming my slave. You will do as I say until
I release you … or you die. Whichever comes first. Now open that door.”
As I crept towards the door, I heard her let out a pent-up breath. “Oh, and
before you do this task, I wish you to tell me your name.” As I opened my
mouth to ask why, she sighed, “A true name has power, more than any mortal
can ever guess. One more thing. If you disobey me, I will send monsters out to
destroy you. If you tell anyone about me, monsters will destroy you.” I thought
about what she had just said, before saying hesitantly, “Viola.”
I lifted my head and tried to imitate the way Isis first looked at me: fearless,
dangerous. A hero.
As I looked at her, I wondered what her name was, and how she came to be a
doll, and why she let me go when I didn’t answer all the riddles. I stepped over
her, and looked at the book next to it, the title shining, and the figure on the
front sparkling a delicate blue. Isis. The goddess of magic and life. I picked up
the book and opened it.
“A name is powerful. It can be used to bind creatures of the middle kingdom
and Du’uat alike. The most famous creature that has ever been bound was the
goddess Isis. Her usual job is to guard. However, she retains her thoughts
and can be merciful. If she is being so, she asks riddles. Every time someone
guesses her name, she becomes theirs.”
Once again I looked at the doll. I bit my lip before saying in a hushed voice,
“I think I know your name: Isis?” The doll took on a hue the same colour as
the book, before a tiny nod could be identified. I looked at the doll and then
picked her up and thrust her into my school bag. As I pondered on what to do
next, a door suddenly slammed shut above my head. I looked towards the stairs.
I crept towards the darkness, and slowly climbed into the hellhole, ignoring
the splatters of red that were certainly not there when I left this morning. I
travelled up the stairs before starting to look around, but the weight in my bag
suddenly increased.
104
105
Like Tears in the Rain
by Sarah Rawle
The more I think about it now, the less I seem to know.
When I enlisted, I was determined to do everything in my power to defend my
country, especially the loved ones I was forced to leave behind. I never could
have imagined the destruction, the terror, the torture this monster could inflict.
It was Christmas Day and my thoughts were with, you as always. The strong
odour of mustard gas which lingered for a few days after an attack, stagnant
mud and choking cigarette smoke all added to the repulsiveness of the trenches.
The worst smell of all was the dreadful stench from the dead; their bodies
rotting in shallow graves or spotted all around in no man’s land. As I watched
the ravenous vultures circling in dark clouds above, I wondered with aversion
who decided that these admirable men, who had sacrificed their own lives to
protect the lives of those at home, were not worthy of a glorious burial? Just
as I have you, so did all the dead have someone who loved them. Everybody
there was someone else before. Yet, no matter how horrendous it became out
there, I still thanked God that I was the one in danger, not you. Because if I
were to go, I know you wouldn’t be alone for long. But without you, I would be
alone forever. That was the biggest mistake of all: truly believing I could make
it through the horrors with you.
Without warning, the sky turned black like a perfect storm. Or perhaps it was
the colour of the eyes of the devil himself. Blinding balls of flame erupted from
the shell in screaming colours. Angry crimson and relentless amber engulfed
my brother, denying him another breath. The choking smoke appeared to
pervade his whole body, taunting his lungs. Fervent gas slithered its wicked
way into his unsuspecting nostrils. I was lucky – if that’s what you can call
it – that the tongue of the flame only scoured its agonising tongue up my leg
before it retired to see to the annihilation of my brother. I can still picture him
trying furiously to escape the inexorable wings of fire. Agony. I felt nothing but
unbelievable agony.
106
Despite the explosions and machine-gun fire that must have continued all
around me, I only noticed the dim and feeble flame of my lantern, mocking me
that life is merely a fragile little flame; it could so easily burn out. I realise that
the mortal cannot shine on like the sun and the moon and the stars do. How
dare they! It became a day of overwhelming anger and despair. I hung my head,
clenched my hands into fists of rage, and all the hope of escaping this hell hole
suddenly turned to dust. Given all the death and destruction I had seen, I was
left with no choice but to take my broken heart and hide it away. If this war
has taught me one thing, it’s that we were built to fall apart. The greed of our
damned human race, our thirst for power, will inevitably bring about our selfdestruction. For it is only when the power of love is greater than the love of
power that the world will know peace.
Ever since that day, I have been living with ghosts. This monster has taught
me not to feel, now real life has no appeal and my blood runs cold. If this war
ever reaches its bitter end, the thought that terrifies me is that the world will
have to move on because time will heal … but my memories won’t. And I
wonder whether it was all worth it in the end? After all, there are no winners
in war, only survivors. I realise now that we were nothing more than machines.
We were not trained to protect our country, instead we were programmed to
destroy the enemy. Yet our enemy is not the real monster, that title belongs to
the despicable beast we call war. Worst of all, I had to make myself immune to
emotion if I was to survive that dreadful war. Foolish.
I know I promised you that I would never give up, no matter how hopeless, but
I can feel it now that the end is near. So I just ask you for one thing. Say you’ll
remember me. Say you’ll see me again, even if it’s just in your dreams. Tell me
when it’s over if the high of loving me was worth the pain of losing me. The
only thing all of us can hope for now is that the world will never see such a
devastating eruption of insanity again. If nothing else can convince us that war
will destroy us all, I hope these words will possess that power, because those
who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it. I want to see this
monster to its eternal grave. Forever.
107
One More Mirror
by Polina Kuprish
Once upon a time there was a castle with lots of mirrors in it. No one knew
whose castle it was. The castle was in the middle of a huge forest. One day, the
king and his army found this castle and made it like their house. They were
shocked about the amount of the mirrors in this castle.
One year later, after living in this castle, the king met a beautiful woman and
married her. Her name was Adrianna.
One morning, when Adrianna went to the bathroom, in the mirror she saw a
woman – she was all in white and she had dark hair and blue skin. She touched
Adrianna’s hand. Adrianna turned around, but the woman wasn’t there. She
turned back to the mirror and she saw this woman again. Adrianna felt a hand
on her arm. She screamed, but the strange woman was gone.
“What’s wrong, my darling? Why are you crying?”
“Don’t talk with me! My mummy can kill you as well!”
“Why? What are you talking about?” Adrianna tried to pick the girl up, but
her body went through this girl.
“Yes, someone killed me in the past. Someone pushed me from the top of the
tower in this castle. It was a monster from the mirror.”
“So the woman is the monster, or what?”
“Oh, no! That’s my mum! She kills everyone who lives in this castle! She is
protecting me this way.” After she said that, she just disappeared.
Adrianna turned around and she saw one more mirror with woman coming
from it.
“Do you want to know who killed my daughter? That was me! I’ve got two
lives and two bodies! And now I’m going to kill you!”
“Why did you kill your daughter? Are you mad, or what?”
“Hmm ... Yes, I am! My mum killed me in the past, I killed my daughter, and
now I’m going to kill you.”
And the woman pushed Adrianna into the mirror! Adrianna turned around
and saw the same room, but the other way around. Someone called her behind
her back. She turned around and...
The king ran into the bathroom and he saw blue lines on Adrianna’s arm.
“What’s wrong?” asked the king.
“Nothing ... I probably just fell asleep ... but ...”
“But what?”
“Can we put something on all the mirrors, so we can’t see anything on them?”
“Why?”
“Because I think someone wants me from the other side of mirror … And
please … Don’t think that I’m mad.”
The king sent some soldiers to cover all the mirrors in the castle. The soldiers
thought that they had covered all of the mirrors, but it wasn’t true...
The next night, Adrianna heard a voice from one of the rooms. She found
this room, but it was closed. She had never seen this room before. All that she
could hear was a baby’s crying. Finally, Adrianna broke the door and she saw a
little girl sitting on the floor, but she had really white skin.
108
109
When the Bodies Rise
by Eloise Weinberger
Gecko turned. Her eyes were drifting. Body to body. Blood dripped from
their rotting mouths. Their smooth, bald heads glinted in the moonlight.
She screamed. Her hands were dripping with blood. She could feel her body
starting to let go…
She woke up.
She found herself lying on blood-covered grass. She examined herself –
nothing? Some bloodstained cuts and black bruises, but then that was normal
for Gecko. She thought that she had died when the bodies had risen. Gecko
couldn’t bring herself to tell her Astra that she was different – how, on All
Hallows’ Night, she saw the bodies rise – but she was safe for another year,
until the dreaded night came again.
Every night she would lock her bedroom door and strap herself to the bed to
stop herself from wandering off, but on All Hallows’ Night she still managed
to do it.
One year passed, and Gecko’s nightmare was about to come alive, but not in the
way she would imagine. That night, her dreaded sleep began. She saw herself
walking through Fagonfire woods, the thin, spindly branches hanging limply
off the dark trees. She reached the cemetery. As she watched the bloody, rotting
bodies rise she felt a weird tingling inside her. She felt she would never leave.
She screamed and squirmed as the manky bodies smothered her in blood and
flesh. She felt herself letting go again, but this time she could wake up. She
wailed as the bodies dragged her into a fresh grave. Gecko caught a glimpse of
the gravestone, which said: “Gecko Moon, 16, RIP”.
by Kiana Portman
110
111
Then it struck her: she was being dragged into her own grave, alive! She
squirmed, trying to hold on to something but the bodies were stronger. As she
lay there, unable to move, earth tumbled onto her limp body. Then she realised
that she was never going to come back…
Untold Depths
Her family looked everywhere for Gecko, but they never thought to look in
the cemetery until Astra thought, “Where did Gecko hate the most?” That’s
when Astra bolted from their house, through the creepy woods, and to the
cemetery, where she found poor Gecko’s grave.
by Zoë Birch
A loud crackle broke through the receiver, along with two beeps and a
disembodied voice. The noise was guttural, quavering from siren to whisper.
“Mayday… May-.”
An undulating quilt of blue surrounded him, soon to become a darker blanket
of black. He had never before been recruited so far into the night, especially
without the rest of his crew. He sat on the edge of the boat, staring at the
swollen ocean. The blackout occurring offshore only supplemented the great
shadow, losing everything into the darkness of thick mist. The mist crawled
towards him, up the cold, steel ground. It tugged at the red trim anchored to
his blue trousers. This night seemed too placid for a sanguine moon. There
must be a storm brewing. The waves stood still like small hillocks, making it
seem more desert than ocean – however, it was not long before that novelty
subsided and the graceful dunes rolled into wild red dust.
He boarded the submergence vehicle as it was slowly lowered towards the fogdraped sea: at the ready, set, and waiting for the go. The moon’s mercury flush
was painted silver by lightning, emblazoning the sky and casting down shivers
of light with a ghostly glow.
His mission began.
The safety of the small metal capsule had always been reassuring. A myriad of
buttons, dials and monitors enclosed him. He was greeted by the bitter, musky
odour that was be his only companion for the duration. Muddling with the
controls, he eventually steered the machinery downward, only to travel deeper
into the black, watery abundance. It was impossible to tell whether his eyes
were open or closed. He must keep his sanity and not let the infinite trail of
gloom and isolation become too much.
112
113
The vessel’s headlights were as he remembered them to be, not far from useless.
Some, broken over the many missions they had withstood. He could just about
extract a faded, small beam; he hoped this would be enough to recover the craft.
frighten him more than the nightmare overtaking him, and the cold sweat
scrambling for the receiver. He noticed how the creature dangled the ship, like
it was a plaything, as if the beast had only the curiosity of a child.
The once golden rays from above were only blue in these waters. He advanced
downward until he was alongside the plain; here and there it was broken by
fissures and caves. Everywhere was festooned with vegetation. The rocks were
soon silhouettes in the dimness. The suspended present only familiarized him
with the past, and the former fear he held of these untold depths.
In a flash of darkness, all was gone. His heart stopped. Was it the headlights
again? He banged and slapped at the controls. Still nothing in sight. He
travelled forward until his vehicle stopped abruptly.
What aborted missions lay wasting at the sea bed? A neighborhood of sunken
vessels painted green by moss and decay, with their broken parts sticking out
like teeth. They begged to be rescued from the deep. He shook his head, all
he wanted was to escape this delusion, which, after time, he knew would drive
him mad. He proceeded downward, through the cloudy cape of darkness.
His fear distracted him for a while, until he had entered the midnight zone;
the eeriness awoke him from his transfixed state. This unearthly place struck
a deep sense of longing and fear in him; down here, he is so far away from
home - the place where he feels significant, where every item is there solely
to cosset his life. Down here, in the gloom of the deep sea, he felt like the
intruder in someone else’s home. His desire to explore evaporated. Everything
had become concealed, all mysteries buried by an unknown, dark nuisance.
It all seemed invisible in the thick, blotched ink. The dim light projected by
the headlights revealed nothing. He started to wonder whether the submarine
would ever be recovered. A light flickered in his eye, not a flicker of hope, but
of a shining object. Something in the distance had caught his attention. He
smacked his hand down on the light controls. After a series of flashes, the light
intensified. He could just about make out a rudder and propeller. He steered
left to catch up to the gradually fading item.
The capsule would go no further. Something was blocking his path.
He reversed and slammed down on the lights. The headlights screamed
brightly, revealing only one thing: a rocky blockade of bumps and cracks.
From the years of experience, and many times that he had travelled by the sea
wall, he had never seen one of this burgundy colour. He questioned himself.
Then, in failure and realisation, he lowered his head in surrender.
When only metres away, he was surprised at its colossal mass. Could this be the
vessel? Had the mission finally ended? In company to the low-pitched sound
of twisting metal, it was clear that something was not right. The object was
sinking vertically, and quickly. And then there was something else, something
horrible, something that captivated him even in this turmoil.
It didn’t approach nor depart; it remained silent and still. He felt so blind
to the rest of the ocean, so oblivious to anything else that could be near him,
behind the thick veil of darkness. But then he didn’t care, nothing could
114
115
enter the door there was a loud BANG!
The door slammed shut and I heard a key in a lock turn…
Haunted
by Annabel Davis
Snow glistened like diamonds floating down from heaven. All I could see out
of the taxi window was a white wonderland. The taxi reared round a corner and
the cottage came into view.
I turned to ice. Fear slithered through me like a snake, my heart beating fast.
I took a step back. My breathing accelerated. I leaned against the wall, trying
not to faint. I did not believe in ghosts. Not even then. I invented explanations
for what it could be. A window was wide open and gusts of wind were flowing
in and circling around me, whispering in my ear. I convinced myself it must
have been the wind. I built up the courage to pull at the door.
It was locked!
“You sure you want to stay here?” the driver grunted. “Have you not heard the
rumours? This house is haunted.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts and I am staying here to write a book to prove they
don’t exist,” I replied.
I turned and made my way up the rotting staircase, encrusted with mould and
mildew. I entered the bedroom. The furniture was decaying and frayed and
velvet curtains hung limp and moth-eaten. Shafts of light burst through the
dusty window. The bed did not look very appealing but I was freezing and it
had been a long journey. I lay down.
I cowered in front of the cottage. It was a sombre, eerie building. The small
segments of the sun that rained down from the sky could not illuminate the
dark, shadowy structure. Planks stuck out all over the façade. The roof was a
shell of its former self. All that was left of the building were the malevolent
bones. Vines tiptoed up the cracks in the woodwork like they were strangling
the last breath of life from the house.
The next morning I made my way to the local library to start my book and
research the history of the cottage. I glanced up at the librarian and thanked
her for finding me the newspapers. They were newspapers from 1915 and I
could not take my eyes away from them. The cottage I was staying in was in
the headlines and there was a photograph of a man. Below it, the caption read:
‘Michael Sanes died last week and the rumour is he was murdered in his cottage.’
As I glanced down, I found myself ankle deep in snow that seemed to nudge
its way up my boots. I took a deep breath as I trudged towards the cottage.
Settling my hand on the decayed doorknob, I turned to see the taxi still roaring
in the snow.
My legs were like jelly and I felt the colour being sucked from my face. Chills
chased me up my back and my heart thundered. I fled from the library.
I entered the dwelling. A thick carpet of dust clung to every surface and
cobwebs hung above me, dangling from the rafters like great sheets of white,
tangled hair. I stepped deeper into the house, the rusty floorboards creaking
beneath me. Shafts of sunlight burst through the shattered windowpanes
and an ornate chandelier hung heavily above my head. The tiny segments of
glass enamoured me, as if trying to hypnotise me. Belongings were scattered
everywhere. It was as though the previous tenants had left in a hurry.
I eased open a decaying door. There was an overwhelmingly bad odour. A
smell of blood, death and eeriness. I took a step forward, but before I could
116
Almost unconsciously, I felt myself being drawn back to the cottage. It was as
if I could not stop myself. The curiosity was overwhelming.
I entered and locked the front door behind me. I turned around and there he
was. The lifeless figure of a man stood before me!
His appearance seemed scarcely mortal – his skin was wrapped tight around
his body like a mummy. His eyes were as large as golf balls and they were
unusually sunken in. Dark shadows circled them and they stood out from his
pale skin. His lips were tightened in a thin line as if they were sewn together.
He had no eyebrows. His face was deathly pale, and the lines of it were hard
like drawn wires; however, I could tell he was young. Bruises fogged his face
117
like dark clouds. His expression was completely blank.
Terror streamed through my veins and my legs felt as stiff as bone. I recognised
his face. It was Michael Sanes. He opened his mouth and started to speak in a
wispy voice, “Get out.” Then he was gone...
Every muscle in my body screamed at me to flee. But where? I could hear my
heart pounding in my ears like a drum. There was a taste of blood at the back
of my mouth and my breath came out in broken gasps. A tight fist clenched
in my ribcage. Balls of fear quickly formed and knotted in my stomach. Cold
sweat glued my shirt to my back. I was petrified. I tried to make sense of it all
but I couldn’t.
Streaming up the stairs, the wind tried to hold me back but I was too powerful.
I was drawn to the window. I opened my eyes and observed the view. Naked
trees were swaying and whispering to each other as if sharing secrets. The wind
howled and meandered about, chanting, looking for lost souls and blowing
through dark shadows. I could feel my muscles shrinking like severed vines in
the sun. I looked down and there it was. Written in the snow were the words,
“Leave now or die.”
I fell to the ground. I finally accepted the truth. The house was haunted. I had
seen a ghost. It was all true.
by Johnny Ma
118
119
The Ghost Soldier
by Holly Guy
He trudges on, step after step, breath after breath, in an endless caterpillar
of soldiers all moving in time. Swathed in exhaustion, he is too tired even to
notice as a blizzard of shells falls around him and the gunshots, like thunder,
start again. His comrades fall from beside him; he barely hears their piercing
shrieks as they join the ranks of the dead. He just keeps moving, on and on, in
the deafening silence that of his mind, numb to the pain that has become all
too ordinary.
They are not alive anymore, but they aren’t dead, they are simply lost. Lost
in the terror that they have sacrificed their lives for nothing more than the
greed and idiocy of other men. Their souls are wandering, searching for the
happy memories that they were clinging to in their final moments of life. They
want to live again, but they know that is impossible, so they stay in this empty
existence, hoping against hope that they will see the smiles of the people they
love once more.
The ghost soldier takes a last look at his world, one that has been scarred
and ruined by the ruthlessness of human beings. He takes a final, shuddering
breath and then collapses onto his body, glad that he isn’t a part of it anymore.
The mist closes in on them, dragging them below the surface of consciousness
and into the shadowy place beyond.
Silhouettes blur before him, of the men that were once the accursed enemy and
are now just an embodiment of all the vile images that have drawn savage scars
across his once innocent mind.
Time seems to slow as a bullet speeds into view and he knows with horrifying
clarity that this time, this time, it’s meant for him. He feels something, but it
isn’t pain. Just the simple finality that this is the end. As he falls to the ground,
his mind goes blank and he shuts his eyes as he realises the nightmare is far
from over.
Getting to his feet, he leaves his body behind him; a ghost soldier with a ghost
gun.
Around him are the men who have also fallen, their transparent forms
flickering in the reflected light of the ghost shells, mirroring the fluttering
heartbeats that have failed just moments before. Their faces are contorted with
fury, although he knows that these shadows of men cannot feel anymore. They
are wandering, empty spirits, without any being left, and he sees the madness
behind their eyes.
120
121
“He’ll die.”
“…out cold for longer than he was meant to be.”
“Phase 2.”
Phase 2
by Ritika Shrestha
Faint ringing buzzed in my ears. Slowly, but slightly, I opened my eyes. The
bright flickering light clouded up my sight. Metal straps dug into my ankles
and wrists as I lay uncomfortably on my back. My shoulder blades were
flinching in and out of their sockets as a reaction to the bitter table. A sudden
burst of electricity ran through my spine. I tilted my head to the right: all I
was met with were whitewashed walls. Scratched and dry, my throat felt like
it had a million holes in it. My eyes flinched shut as my ears twitched to the
sound of footsteps.
“He’ll be fine.”
“But, Victor –”
“No buts, Henry.”
“He’ll die: you’ve already given him so many drugs that he has been out cold
for longer than he was meant to be.”
“He’s fine.”
“Sir...?”
“No.”
I heard the ice-cold voice once again.
“Bring on Phase 2.”
A sharp pain in my temple. A sheet of inky blackness enveloped me.
I woke up, startled at first, but I gradually gained my vision back. My hands
were clammy and beads of sweat trickled down my forehead, the bridge of my
nose and my upper lip. Salt and bitterness entered my cracked lips. I strained
my neck up; my hands automatically helped me rise. A gust of wind blew
through my half-opened window, bringing a piece of yellow and black plastic
that landed on the end of my bed. With shaky legs I got up and walked across
my tiny, box-like room, finding myself by the window. I opened my red and
white curtains to spot police tape wrapped around my whole front lawn. A
shot of energy hit my head. I stumbled back. My eyes entered an alternate
universe, images flashed back.
122
My mind went blank as I tried to remember more, but my brain didn’t allow
me – as if didn’t want me to go any further. I flashed back into reality and the
world slowly stopped spinning.
“It wasn’t a dream,” a voice whispered inside my head, and I grabbed the edge
of my bedside table to stop me from falling. But, despite my efforts, my legs
gave way and I fell. It felt like I was falling through the floor, my legs melting
from underneath me. THUD. I pushed myself upwards; finally, energy rose
through my aching body. I stood up and patted myself down like I was a dog.
Suddenly, the front door banged shut. I hurled myself to my window to see
who it was. A black, haunting figure ran across my front lawn. A white folded
note was stuck to the rusty hinges by the glass. I took it out and read it:
Now you see me. Now you don’t. Meet me by the Harbour Bridge 13:00 –
before it’s too late.
I glanced at the clock. 13:01. No…
The whole world went black.
I woke up on a steel table, my arms and legs left untied this time. Heard
wailing all around me, screams of “PLEASE, PLEASE DON’T KILL ME!”
echoing in the large room.
“It’s nice to see you again, Simon.”
I catch a glimpse of a long face, concealed by the shadows. I’m just able to say,
“Who are you?”
“No one you should be concerned with. May I ask you a question, Simon?”
“I suppose…”
“Are you having any hallucinations?”
“Ye…s...s…s.”
“Well then, I guess my experiment is working.”
When everything suddenly disappeared.
A sudden sense of foreboding filled my body, as my eyes desperately searched
for a glimpse of light. I found myself in a cell. Cold and corrupted. I let my
123
wavering gaze fall to my left to see a body bag; to my right was another body
bag. With a jolt, I jerked upright and saw a figure shrouded in ebony black
towering over my shaking frame. He leant forward and whispered:
“Now you see me.”
I shut my eyes tight in an attempt to block out the voice. I heard nothing, so
I slowly peeled my eyes open. The figure was nowhere to be seen, but lying on
the floor was a single white note.
“Now you don’t.”
Everything Look Different Today
by Bella Bird
Everything looks different today. I don’t know where that bright light is
coming from. I need to do something, but I can’t remember what. Out of the
corner of my eye I see a boy standing idly in the corner. He has his mouth open
in a sloping, haunting way. It matches his eyes, with their cold emptiness.
Bring on Phase 3…
Alex couldn’t figure out who the boy was or why he was there; he attempted
to calmly ask him to leave, but the boy made no response. Alex became more
and more angry at this unmoving boy. As he began to shout, Sophie came into
the room telling Alex that everything was OK. He could hear her muttering
to herself ‘not again’.
Why was Sophie not worried about the boy? Alex asked himself. Only, when
he looked back, there was no boy there.
“Come and have some breakfast now, Alex,” Sophie said in a calm voice that
irritated him, but he didn’t understand why. She scraped the egg onto the toast
while Alex looked around for the boy he had seen upstairs: there was no sign
of him.
As Alex sat down in his quiet living room to read the Sunday newspaper, he
looked around at the dusty furniture. Outside, a few birds sang a soft song that
would’ve been calming to most people.
I like the way the birds sound, it’s sweet without being sickening. I close the
window though because there’s only so much sweetness a person can have.
Then, in the flicker of an eye, I can see the boy again. Even his posture annoys
me, the way he is hunched over with his face at a slight angle making one eye
look bigger than the other. I feel as if he is taunting me, those eyes that look
straight into mine, challenging me. How dare he? This boy needs to leave.
Slowly, I edge towards him before, all at once, taking a strong step forwards,
I grab him by the shoulders. Well, I aimed for his shoulders anyway, but my
124
125
hands seemed to go straight through him and hit the wall, causing my fingers
to crumple in on themselves. There are only a few moments to feel the pain in
my hands before I hear a slow and steady creaking outside the door. When I
get to the door I yank it open to reveal the boy, but with him is stood a girl of
the same age. She holds herself with the same drooped stance as the boy but
she has a small smile creeping up on her face.
Alarmed, Alex looked over the banister to the front door as Sophie came
through with shopping bags in hand. Alex looked at her with a pale face, as
if he had just seen a ghost, but then his face turned to one of confusion as he
looked up and down the empty hallway.
“What’s the matter, dear?” Sophie asked with little actual curiosity. Alex
looked down to Sophie then charged down the stairs towards her.
I do not know this woman. Why is she in my house? Why do people who I
don’t know keep coming into my house?
“Get out! Leave me alone! Just leave!” Alex shouted as he grabbed her arms
and pushed her out of the door. She was strange in his head, a face he felt he
should recognize but he didn’t, not at all.
He swung his arm around to move the boy out of his way, but instead he hit
the pills on the table. Those pills that controlled his condition, but that he
hadn’t taken in a while. They landed on the smashed photo that was taken at
least forty years ago, when everything was calm. In the picture he could see the
boy who had haunted him for so long and next to the boy was a girl; she faintly
resembled the woman he had just pushed out of the house.
by Madeleine Attwood
126
127
Then it occurred to me. I slumped as the truth dawned on me. I was going to
be home-schooled by my own mother.
The Scientist
by Florence Burns
We had been driving for hours. My body was confined in a space that was
almost not humanely possible for any small child to squeeze into, but I had
managed. Days and nights had rolled into each other and the sky had darkened
and lightened several times before we had finally arrived. The rest of the family
got out.
I paused, exhaled sharply, then clicked the car door open.
The gravel crunched beneath my feet and my heart throbbed. The sky was
bleak and subdued and the house protruded from the desolate landscape. It
was a lot smaller than our old house and stood alone, as if excluded. Climbing
up the walls were ivy and a small purple wallflower, which clung on the
brickwork. The roof was ash-coloured with slivery flecks, which contrasted
with the bleached exterior.
In a trance, I stumbled towards the door. I was short for my age, with a stocky
build, but even I had to crouch as I entered the door. The house smelt musty
and stale, as if it hadn’t been lived in for years. I slid a finger over a cabinet and,
as I lifted it off, it was caked in dust. My eyes began to water as the dust began
its attack with a thousand small daggers. Then I started to explore the upstairs.
My room was small and cramped with a crooked bed already inside. I slumped
down, shocked. My whole body ached with disappointment. This was all I had
been building up to. A wave of tiredness crashed over me and I lay down to
sleep, shoes, socks, clothes and all.
The day arose from its sleep and the sun slinked through my window as I pulled
myself up from my bed. My back ached, my feet ached, my head ached, and I
creaked as I trudged. Our home in London wasn’t luxurious but this was a lot
worse. I slalomed through the boxes towards the kitchen. The room was quite
bright, as the weather had improved, and the sun shone weakly through the
open window. I sat down on one of the chairs, which groaned and complained
as I shuffled around trying to get comfortable.
128
I stuffed on my clothes, yanked my chestnut hair into a tangled top knot, and
pulled on some nearby wellies whilst simultaneously calling to the others, “I’m
going out.” And before they could answer, SLAM! The door was shut.
I strode out through the hilltops, over and over. I needed to get away. Until, out
of the corner of my eye, I spotted a mist-shrouded building. I ran towards it.
My heart beat in my chest. My clothes stuck to me like glue. I stopped suddenly,
almost falling flat on my face. I steadied myself. Shivering, I stepped forward
through the mist. I put my hands in my pockets and studied the building.
Towering over, the mansion made me feel faint and dizzy. The building looked
abandoned and most of the windows were smashed – apart from one, which
was in perfect condition. My face contorted as I peered up and suddenly, out
of nowhere, a figure appeared. His faced was covered with a plain mask with
two eyeholes.
I stumbled backwards, startled. I had to get out of here – it was like I had been
put in a trance. I ran and I ran and I ran until I couldn’t see the building. The
cottage was in sight now and I began to relax marginally more. Clicking open
the front door and pulling off my mud covered wellies, I tiptoed upstairs and
didn’t make my arrival known. This had to be researched. Jumping onto the
bed, I researched forever until I finally found it. ‘Rickson University. Hasn’t
been used for thirty years, since master Aaron Simbagno died in 1984.’ This
was weird – it was definitely not abandoned. I had to explore more and I knew
just when to do it.
Checking the clock every minute. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. When finally, it
arrived.
Creeakk! The floorboard shouted out, trying to give me away to my unaware
parents. Slowly, I crept towards the front door. I was wearing my trainers now
and I had kitted myself out with all I could need. I clicked open my penknife
and immediately shut it. It was not like I thought that I was going to need it;
I just needed something to hold onto.
I had recruited my brother. His eyes were fixated on the front door and his
jaw was stiff and clenched. We got out of the house and began to speed-walk
129
through the hilltops. As we arrived at the building, I began to feel lightheaded
and dizzy again. After reaching a nearby window ledge with my fingertips, I
tightened my grip, trying to heave myself upwards. My legs dangled below and
they suddenly weighed a billion tonnes. I heaved and pulled myself up until
two hands grabbed me…
They were ice cold. The fingernails dug into my hands like a tight waistband.
I was yanked up and a tight hand clasped round my mouth; I screamed into it,
muffling it greatly. Then I saw him. His face was covered in a grinning devilish
mask and he wore a white lab coat. I gawped at him and shrunk back, scared.
He was only about my height, but he had something I didn’t – authority.
The next morning … my palms sweated as I lay on the cold, hard, metal
sideboard. I didn’t remember much about the previous evening. Except the
monster telling me his horrifying story. The top Biology university had now
got a live specimen – me.
I closed my eyes as all the pupils gathered round and the scalpel was called for.
The pain was about to start…
The Thing in the Shed
by Gabriel Vita
I fell into the garden shed, alone. The walls were as old as life itself and they
peered at me, foreshadowing what was about to happen.
No light was allowed in.
The thick blackness was incarcerated in this gloomy hut. Old, musty clutter
littered the place, and it was impossible to see anything clearly. The moment I
had arrived in there, the walls seemed to gather the darkness and throw a cloak
of shadows over the whole room, embellishing it with hidden lies.
Finally, one of those concealed secrets was released, and only then did I see it:
the monster.
Its cadaverous face jerked to look at me with those grotesque eyes. The skin
was as old as the shed it lay in and that age had carved its mark onto it. The
hands that clawed at me were like nothing I’d ever seen, the skin was dull, like
wet paper, glued to the bones. There were no nails, just oozing sores, retching
more than the thing itself. As we made eye contact I felt the urge to scream
out and run… but I couldn’t: the force of this thing held me back, but not in
a threatening way.
The voice that came out of me stumbled like a new-born lamb: “Who are you?”
“I,” it replied in a surprisingly calm tone, “am whatever you would like me to
be.”
“Wait, sorry, what are you?”
“As I said: anything.”
“But I don’t understand, why are you…”
130
131
“Don’t worry, no-one ever understands… let me, however, try to explain as
best I can: when you see me, I take whatever form you want to see; so, for a
while, I exist only to you, and only in your form. However, when I leave you,
and never come back, my existence is questionable, as no-one can see me; this
means that to those who can’t see me, I am not real, just a dream. You, however,
at the moment, can see me, and so to you, I exist. Once I am gone, you will
most certainly not quite forget, but because of everyone else you will force my
existence to a place in the back of your mind that is only for fictional things,
and so, to you, I am not real.”
“Wait, that’s really confusing, but that wasn’t what confused me in the first
place. What I want to know is how did I get here, who are you, and why are
either of us here?”
“Ah, a very good collection of questions. Before answering, let me ask you
something of my own: right now, do you think I am real?”
“Well, of course, I can see you right there in front of me.”
“Yes, but am I not a monster?”
“Well, again, yes, but that doesn’t make you unreal?”
“What does everyone else say about monsters?”
“That they are unreal.”
“So, when I have left, as I have explained, surely everyone else will make me
unreal, and I will be made fake, even by you eventually? All the monsters
that have ever haunted you will go to the same place, as you will be forced
to make them unreal, and so, when you are older, you will convince another
impressionable child that these monsters aren’t true.”
And then I woke up, and everything that I knew about the monsters became
part of a sort of fairy-tale, and they became unreal inside my head; all except
for the monster in the shed. I remember to this day everything that he said to
me, and so it is I that must tell this tale.
by Alexander Bushell
132
133
and finally fists. It’s all my fault after all. Each time the same, like a game
of Jenga. I build a tower brick by brick hoping that it will last, only for it to
inevitably come tumbling down again. Reluctantly pulling myself out of the
rubble, I repeat. My hope as precarious as it is infinite.
Cologne: December 31st 2015
by Isabel Calvert
I remember that night, as clear as day; that’s the irony of the whole thing. The
sky above was cloudless and the air still and stagnant.
One fateful turn of a darkened corner and that was it. Winded as my back hits
the wall and a hand closes around my mouth. With screaming futility, I bite
down, hard, onto his finger. This achieves nothing, as he grips my throat, a
noose of his own making, getting tighter by the second. A voice like sandpaper
hisses in my ear to be quiet or else. The ambiguous threat hangs in the air as,
in my semi-conscious state, I cannot fathom a fate worse than this. His paws
roam over his prey, squeezing, prodding and probing like a butcher examining
his stock.
I’m invaded, conquered and laid to waste all with his one swift movement.
That important part of myself, whether it be social construct or no, is lost and
irretrievable. As my head knocks against the wall, he tells me how this is all my
fault after all. The dress, the makeup and the rest of the accoutrement was all
designed to provoke and this is just retribution. If you’re told anything for long
enough you start to believe it’s true.
When people ask me why I choose the men I do, I tell them of that night.
As familiar as a pantomime, with their initial sympathy, shocked expressions,
followed by feigned understanding. Then the questions. The cross examination
of the witness. ‘What were you wearing?’ ‘What time were you coming home?’
‘You didn’t think you could get back alone,, did you?’ It’s odd how quickly I
go from being the victim of the piece to the tart who should’ve known better.
With a skirt that shade too short, a top too low cut, and jeans too tight, their
sympathy gives way to cold indifference.
The female body is a hazard. A woman displays a part of herself at her own risk.
The baring of a shoulder can mean exclusion from an intellectual conversation;
a glimpse of midriff assigns me to the lowest class while cleavage labels me a
provocateur. But one thing I refuse to bare, something as personal as a name
and more intimate than sex: my soul. A commodity that no man will ever
possess, will ever take from me.
I remember that night, as I lie on the sofa, curtains drawn in my dimly lit
flat, now our flat, waiting for him to come home. I’m lying on my left side
as the bruise on my right is still fresh. The bruises develop and become vivid
like a collection of photographs. I have a tendency to equate ownership with
affection. It’s all my fault after all.
I remember how I used to be. Spontaneous and carefree with the kind of
arrogance only youth can grant. I always thought of my naivety as my most
endearing quality but now that’s gone. I’ve been initiated into the adult world
in the most violent way possible. I wash and scrub my skin until it’s raw to
try and make myself clean, whole, just as before. When I look in the mirror, I
wait for the aftermath to become visible. I try to see if the filth I feel inside of
me has reached the surface yet, his words spilling out of my pores. It’s only a
matter of time.
I embark on a series of relationships with men who treat me how I think I
deserve to be treated. First comes disdain, snide comments, the need to control
134
135
the wretched or the strongest in gods’ names. Trembling, he opens his eyes,
covered with blood that streams in the frozen air. The blood flows from his
head, and, as he looks up with his blurred vision, he sees only the lamps of the
silent steel serpents, ready to swallow him.
The Train Tracks
by Leo Osipovs
One winter morning, when fluffy flakes of snow are heavily falling in the
humid wind (as if the ancient spirit of winter, with its icy jagged teeth – which
used to scare men all over the continent and bend their will – is holding great
blots in hope to stop the endless snowfall), winter is trying to cover all land
under a white blanket. Violently, this wind is blowing under your jacket, as
if the claws of the ancient ghost of winter were tearing you apart. Your body
starts to shiver.
Standing on the pavement, which is covered with a thin layer of pure white
cream, you see an old man crossing the road near you. He looks relatively
young for his age, although his grey hair and the wrinkled skin shows you
that he is in his late seventies. Admiring him, you start to follow him, partly
through curiosity, and partly from the desire to stop facing the blizzard that is
spiralling snow around you. Then you meet him in the crowd of people, your
eyes meet, and suddenly you understand that he is the right type of person; his
watery blue eyes look young. He looks happy and his face is smiling. Perhaps
he is walking from his home to buy presents for his grandsons.
On the rails – in front of incoming crowd, in the centre of this old city – lies
the old victim of his evil intentions. He, who has aided this city in difficult
times, feels steel wheels cutting and tearing his flesh. He hears his bones
crushing and his mouth opens widely, but he can’t move anything, nor gasp.
Not only the realization of how helpless and weak he is, but also the very
idea that his beautiful grandchildren might witness this ritual killing, make
him lose hope. The fear of his treasured grandchildren seeing him like this is
entirely destroying his will to live – and his love of life, which has carried him
through even the most cruel massacres of the wars that he has fought in. His
only wish is that his dearest people – his family – don’t see his end.
The tram stops, creaking, with its wheels making a terrible, ear-piercing sound.
The man closes his eyes while his body shakes in deepest agony. His ripped
muscles and smashed bones are instinctively trembling. No more being able to
feel pain, only heavy breathing, catching air with every gasp on the frozen ground.
You have searched for him since your father died. In spite of your deep feelings,
your lips start to move, but you cannot say what you wanted to him. For a while
he gazes upon you, but soon he turns away without saying anything. “Perhaps
he recognized me” – a shadow of doubts appears in your mind – “but I was only
a teenager when it happened, fifteen years ago.” The wind again blows in your
face as you look at the old man’s straight back.
Slowly and carefully, he reaches the train tracks. As the wind hurls, raising
snow from polished rails of the tram, you see him accurately stepping from
the cobblestone roadway to between the tracks on the icy frozen ground. His
fresh eyes have been blinded by the raging blizzard; this moment he feels like
somebody has pushed him. Immediately, he falls between the rails, just before
the tram, like an offering on an ancient altar where people came to sacrifice
136
137
long enough. Really though, I’m just lazy.
I look over Maddy’s shoulder and examine the story so far. It’s a mess. We just
presume the reader will know everything going straight in—similar to how we
converse, if we converse with people.
Ghost-writer
by Madeleine Attwood
“Isn’t there too much dialogue…? They say short stories are full of description.”
I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter.”
She gives me an odd look. “I thought we weren’t afraid to cut things.”
When I say I am the ghost of my former self, I use the term loosely: as if to say,
at some point, a part of me died, and the rest of me went on.
This obviously isn’t the whole truth, although it would make for a nice story.
I get Maddy to visualize my stories for me, whether pictures or words, because
I can’t. I need her to tell the story I want.
The scene I set is this: a room with a high ceiling and white, barren walls; a
bed with a quilt and some stuffed animals; a messy rack of jackets. The only
things that give the room character are two shelves overflowing with books and
a desk with a typewriter. A temporary room. Papers filled with little thoughts
surround the typewriter, each thought casually chatting with the others; as if
they weren’t written by the same person.
Someday, I think I’ll make a poem out of those.
“Do you really think that deserves a line for itself?” Maddy speaks up from the
desk. ‘It’s pretentious.”
“I’m pretentious,” I reply.
“Fair point. Although, I think it says something about us that we leave it in
there, knowing it’s pretentious.”
“It doesn’t say anything about us, it says something about you.”
She shuts up; gets back to writing.
I briefly consider reading Paradise Lost with Maddy, but my attention span isn’t
138
“I’m afraid of a lot of things.”
“Like what?”
I don’t react well to questions, specifically personal questions. More specifically,
a lot of personal questions, all at once. Normally it makes me cry.
“…”
I’m afraid of a lot of things. Of personal questions, as aforementioned—of
spiders and failure; of Emily Dickinson and of Kingswood, of not knowing the
answers to questions and the future.
Maddy’s afraid of those things too. She’s also afraid of me, but that’s not my fault.
When the adrenaline kicks in, it sometimes, even now, lets me speak to the
world. I’m supposed to be kept on a leash, in a cage, like an animal, or at least
doped up, because I’ll say something wrong if I’m not. With a prompt of
‘ghosts and monsters’, should I change my opening line?
“For Christ’s sake! This story is a mess,” Maddy says. ‘The stupid result of a
collection of squiggles!’
“You,” she says, and points a finger at me. “Come down from your mad high
and tell me what to do!”
“… Get back to writing?”
We can’t take what we give out. She punches me. Doesn’t help with my
‘mad high’ but it’s good for her. This isn’t LA; we don’t have anyone to hug
139
or anyone to hook wires up to our cranium once a month. I know her fists are
itching in her pockets. It’s my fault.
In the end, she actually does go back to writing; I come down from my high.
I’d cry, but I keep myself busy. I calm myself down.
We love to draw. We love to write. Aren’t these the things that make us better
together? We love it because then it’s a blessing I have no filter, not a curse.
The world is my playground. The universe can flow onto my page if I want it.
I can summon a different universe altogether. It’s the flip side to the adrenaline
and everything else.
Maddy may be afraid of me, but she doesn’t hate me. When we split, she
forgave me for everything I’d done, for filling her with anger and self-pity.
After around 416 hours of therapy, though it’s not like I’m counting or
anything, we’re on good terms. I am not her monster. I’m a ghost.
I’m not stronger than her but I’m strong. I won’t ever let go because I need her.
Without her, I’m nothing; without me, she’s not something. We’re somewhat
proud of me.
Deep breath.
We stay silent for a while, but not for long. We hate silence.
Maddy breaks it.
“You know… we’re getting that re-diagnosis soon, do you remember?”
I didn’t, but I don’t remember much. It’s harsh to remember I’m something to
be worked around and suppressed.
“You know, the longer I’m alone, the harder it is for me to tell the difference
between me and you,” Maddy says.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Maddy stops writing.
140
141
Kingswood School, Bath • 2016
144