All stories

“I’ve never seen anything like this before. It’s thick as hell out there.”

She sighed wandering how she had ended up with this idiot. “Go and get some more wood for Christ’s sake Geoff.”

A cottage break in West Wales seemed like a great idea; the girls had all exclaimed how quaint it would be. She wrapped the blanket tighter, the feel of it soft against her cheek, admiring the Welsh tartan.

“It never snow’s in Cardigan,” He said. Well not never, it’s bloody snowing now innit. But y’know what I mean. It’s the sea salt, that’s why they pour sea water on the roads round here, in order to grit them, that’s what ma says anyway.”

She tried not to grimace, but sometimes he made her blood run cold. There was no signal here, no wi-fi, just a broken tv and a wood fire. It gave her the creeps.

“How about a little afternoon delight?” Geoff smiled cheekily. She paused to give him the look.

From behind his back Geoff produced a box of chocolates. “A little afternoon Turkish delight?” he laughed. “I know they’re your favourite.” She forced a smile and took the box.

The floor above creaked loudly. “What was that?” She started.

“These houses creak, luv. Proper old see. Could be ghosts mind.” Geoff laughed again and put the last wood on the fire. “Right ill just pop out an’ get a bit more fuel is it?”

She tutted and flicked through her blank phone. Still nothing. The tv was just as useless, nothing but static. It hissed at her as she scrolled through the channels. The sound of her name cut through the static “Macey”, then nothing. “Geoff” she shouted? “Is that you?” He must have called her from outside.

Another creak from above her. The lights flickered, then cut out, along with the buzz of the generator.

“For fucks sake Geoff, the generator.”

There is was again low and clear. “Macey”.

“Geoff stop dicking around, I am not in the mood.” No reply.

She realised that the TV was still on and cautiously moved towards it. She traced the plug from the back. It was unplugged. The door to the kitchen banged suddenly and she span round. Nobody there.

The fire light mixed with the eiry white of the TV. Shadows walked the room.

It must be the cable she thought, her hands edging down the lead. There was a split in the cable she saw, that must have something to do with it. She grabbed it.

“I’ll sort the generator now,” Came a voice, and she heard the engine kick in. At the same moment she saw the plug was back in the wall.

The paramedic, Nia, told him that the shock killed Macey instantly. She had smiled at Geoff asked if he would be ok, concern in her eyes. Later when Geoff sat alone, staring out at the snow, he knew he should be sad, but all he could think was how long it had been since someone had looked at him with such care.

Malcolm Teddington, Host of “Sing Something Simple” died on January 8th at 5.01am. A stalwart since The Light Programme, his show had been whittled from 5 afternoons a week down to the 3AM slot on Mondays. He’d signed off with his catchphrase “The Music keeps us spinning!”, delivered his trademark avuncular chuckle and was discovered in his chair the following morning, headphones still on, draped in a tartan blanket with a half-eaten box of Turkish delight by his side.

“Thought he’d never die!” said Dougal, the producer, as they entered the fusty studio a week later kicking snow off their boots. He was furious at having at being stuck in a blizzard because the powers that be thought it was a “nice touch” to record Alys’s first show from Malcolm’s fabled studio.

“I didnt know he actually recorded it from a castle” said Alys who’d come from 6music as part of the slate of younger, more diverse radio2 talent, Dougal wasn’t listening… “Jeez Would’ye look at his collection!” he sighed

Piled on the floor were countless records.

“Amazing!” said Alys vaguely “What a ledge”! She’d dreamed of something cooler but had taken the job because there didn’t seem to be much prospect of MaryAnne Hobbs dying. “Some gems here I bet”.

“Doubt it” Snorted Dougal staring at the cover of “She” by Gordon Kaye from “Allo Allo” who was posing in front of the “Fallen Madonna with the big boobies”. Elsewhere the Band of the Coldstream Guards glared morosely from their “Tribute to Queen“.

Dougal fiddled with some leads and they were ready to go.

Alys started her carefully prepared “populist yet contemporary” playlist with a hit by Portugal the Man.

Except, ….. though it sounded like that song, the insistent rhythm and high-pitched vocal were replaced by the overstrung piano of 50s novelty act Mrs Mills. Undeterred Alys tried the next song, Pharell Williams’s “Happy” only to find it’s singer was Ken Dodd and it segue’d into his own hit “Happiness”.

Her playlist continued, the songs she’d chosen yes, but now performed by James Last, Des O’connor and, on one unbearable occasion, The Krankies .

Even more strangely, though the links between records were clearly being delivered by Alys, in her own voice, she found herself speaking authoratively about encounters she’d had with the “late, great Russ Conway” who she hadn’t actually heard of. She and Dougal seemed powerless to stop or affect the broadcast which finally ended when she signed-off in time-honoured Teddington tradition. “The music keeps us spinning!”

Banging her head on the desk, Alys prepared for her inevitable future making tea for Nemone. But then the strangest thing of all happened, critics loved it! “Single-handedly re-inventing the cheese genre”, they rejoiced. “A post-modern Wurlitzer of twentieth century Schlock!” they trumpeted.

When Alys and Dougal stood on the stage holding statues aloft in triumph at the National Radio Awards, Somewhere in a castle in Scotland you could hear, if you listened carefully, a trademark avuncular chuckle.

So, this is it ...this is where it was all leading to. They had been moving him towards it for the last year, but in recent months the insistence had been greater. It’s for your own good Dad, they had said. What do they know about my good, thought Jack. I belong here. I belong here with my Rita, with my memories. We had a good life here – sixty-three years together. He stood looking out of the kitchen window. In his mind’s eye he could see his Rita sitting in the blue striped deckchair in the shade of the old pear tree. She loved that spot. Every year, when the chill of winter gave way to the gentle warmth of spring she would say ‘soon be time Jack, not long now’. Every year he would go out to the garage and get her blue striped chair down from the hook on the wall where it had been hanging all winter, waiting for this moment. He would dust off the winter’s worth of cobwebs and take it to its place by the pear tree.

Doctor McFadyen had always been firm with his instruction – Jack, Rita must have as much fresh air as possible. You have a beautiful garden, get her out there to enjoy it. And so it was. For many afternoons Rita would sit in her chair, tartan blanket over her knees, reading her gardening books, a dusty snowfall of icing sugar trailing all the way down to the box of Turkish delight on her lap.

Jack remembered back to when their Peter was little, he could see the boy playing chase with their two mischievous puppies ...round and round his mother’s chair, shrieks of laughter then Peter collapsing in a heap with the excited dogs clambering all over him, licking his face and barking with delight. How Rita loved those times and, looking back, how short they seemed. Peter grew up and moved away – an inevitability.

Towards the end, when Rita became more frail, Jack would carry her out to her chair. She still so enjoyed their afternoons together. She was never a burden, never complained. Then, quite suddenly, one day she was gone. Jack’s world fell apart.

He struggled on in the house. Feelings of anger, guilt and a terrible emptiness overwhelmed him. He did the best he could but everything became such a chore. He didn’t go out – why bother, there was no one to share the pleasure with. He began to miss meals, cooking for one seemed pointless. Gradually, over time, Jack retreated into himself, hardly communicating with anybody. Peter and Marion became increasingly concerned and so for that reason the decision was made – he would have to go into a home.

He was still looking out of the window, lost in his thoughts of years gone by, when Peter turned the key in the lock and came into the kitchen. Ready Dad? he asked.

The snow had been coming steadily for hours. The group downstairs had made themselves quite at home and Siany was trapped.

Voices drifted up through the rotting wood of the floorboards to where Siany crouched, shivering in her ragged tartan blanket. They’d already started burning the wood she had gathered and one boy had wandered off to find other things to burn. She hoped he wouldn’t find her sleeping bag and stove.

Siany had been settling in herself when she’d seen the headlights flare in the drive and they’d tumbled in, a bundle of youth, panic and excitement; red cheeks and blue fingertips, damp wool and bravado. She’d frozen, desperate not to be heard, found and driven out into the snow. Siany had been sleeping rough for long enough to know what happened to people who stayed outside in this weather.

This must have been one of the bedrooms, she thought, staring at the windows boarded like blinded eyes, the vicious, jagged rents along the walls and all the signs of neglect and decay that wasted a beautiful building.

She listened. They were eating sweets and telling ghost stories as Siany’s wood crackled in their makeshift fireplace. She thought wistfully of the little meal she had planned. Fat chance of that now. If only they’d fuck off.

“No-one ever comes here because they know old Bertha is still here, still thirsty for revenge…”

Siany had a thought.

“When they found out about her human sacrifices they chopped off her legs so she couldn’t run away before they killed her…”

Slowly Siany crept down stairs that jutted from the wall like broken teeth until she stood outside the room where they huddled.

“At night you can hear her dragging herself from room to room by her hands, as she roams the halls looking for victims to drag into her basement…”

Siany began a slow, shuffling walk outside the door, dragging one foot heavily behind her. The voices instantly fell silent.

“Nathan? Did you find more wood?”

Siany dragged her nails down the door then slammed into it. The group screamed. Quickly she drew into the shadows as Nathan careered down the hall past her and into the room.

“What the fuck’s going on? There’s no-one out there I swear!”

The fear was palpable. Siany let out a low groan and rattled the door handle. That was enough. They piled out, clutching torches and sleeping bags, heedless of the fire they’d left burning, mindless of anything but their desire to be away. The car revved, faltered, flared to life and they were gone. Back to their halls of residence.

Siany sifted through the stuff they’d left. A box of Turkish Delight, a few bottles of nice red, expensive wool socks. Perfect. There was still plenty of wood left so Siany settled herself down near the fire. She poured some wine into the lid of her thermos and swirled it around, imagining the grand people who used to live here and swirl wine before their own crackling fires.

As she listened to the howling wind raging at the walls of the house Siany stiffened a little, wondering if the scraping, dragging sound she thought she could hear was coming from within the storm, or from the empty blackness of the corridor outside

Sighing, he pulled the tartan blanket from the picnic basket and threw it over the cold stone floor. “If anything” she said, “this snow makes it more authentic”. He was disappointed. He had spent months planning the perfect present — a Narnia themed picnic in the woods — only to stranded by the snow, stuck inside an old stone cottage.

“Can’t believe you remembered they were my favourite books” she said. He had to admit, he’d done good. It had been a rough year for them both, with her father passing so suddenly and them having to move back to her home town. He couldn’t say he loved the countryside, but he was acclimatising.

“Why do you love them so much?” he asked. “As a kid I loved the sense of magic” she replied. “The idea there was a whole other world out there... small town living was too small for my imagination, you know?” and he did.

“Do you think that anybody will mind us being here?” she asked, changing the subject. “Nah, look at it. Nobody has lived here for years. That wallpaper is from the 20’s” and he had a point. Whilst obviously once a home, the cottage was decrepit. It was hard to imagine anybody knew or cared about it’s current state.

“We’re stuck here. Might as well explore”. She turned on her phone torch and pointed it under her chin, “hope we don’t see anything spoooooooky!”

“Holy shit there’s only a bloody wardrobe in here! A big old one, like the books!” She shouted from the next room. He threw aside his Turkish delight — a Narnia picnic essential — and went to find her, but when he arrived next door she was nowhere to be found.

“Real funny babe”, he remarked, edging closer towards the wardrobe “I know you’re in there”. He threw open the wardrobe door to reveal…nothing.

“BOO” she screamed, jumping out from behind the wardrobe. He jumped back, visibly shaken. “Oh haha good one you really had me…” he started to say, but was interrupted by a loud crash from down the hall. They looked at each other, and then at the hallway. “Should we….” “I guess….”.

Carefully, slowly, they edged out of the room, gripping each other as a form of protection. CRASH, it happened again. They moved closer, cautiously, in the direction of the noise. He squeezed her hand tightly as he pushed on the door….

“SHIT” he screamed, his stomach dropping to the floor as a pigeon flew directly into his face. She couldn’t contain the laughter that erupted out of her “you should have seen your face!”. “Did you want to eat the picnic now or…” he deflected. She stifled the giggles and replied “sure”.

“Thanks for organising this” she said, following him back to the picnic. “it’s really kind”. No response. “Babe, are you listening?”, she asked impatiently. But he was not listening to her. He was too busy staring at the now folded tartan blanket, carefully placed on top of the picnic basket. The half eaten Turkish delight nowhere to be seen. The wallpaper, though imperfect before, was now clearly ripped to spell out the word ‘go’.

He wasn’t scared of nothing, not The Exorcist, not any of these trendy quiet, quiet BANG! Films, Para-snore-mal Activity and the like. When the girlfriend suggested a night in the MOST HAUNTED castle in Britain he told her he could use a peaceful night away.

The place looked the part right enough, soaring stone towers topped with conical turrets of zinc, all backed by the craggy majesty of the Brecon Beacons picture postcard under a heavy blanket of snow. All it needed was a cloud of bats or an ominous welcome of organ music.

They relaxed in the bar next to the open fire, slowly sinking deeper into the bulging sofas wrapped in tight navy leather. The girlfriend was trying her best, telling him stories of the jilted diva opera singer who sank slowly into madness, crooning to herself for hours in her lonely green room next to her private opera stage with its audience of memories.

He didn’t need her to tell him where he’d be staying.

The floor to ceiling painting of the late lamented Madame Pucci overlooking the bed was somewhat disturbing. The bed was now placed where they’d found most of her torso, and if you propped yourself up with a couple of pillows your raised head would be roughly in line with where her feet had dangled.

The girlfriend offered to stay, but he ushered her to her own room. This was his challenge, and no worries - load of old tosh. He tucked himself cosily inside the tartan blanket topping the bed, had another beer and watched Match of the Day. It was bloody lovely.

He had to have another beer from the mini-bar after that. Of course he wasn’t scared, stories the hotel put around to scare up guests. He didn’t switch the light off though, which was handy for getting the whisky miniatures out of the mini-bar.

And then, as the night closed its bony fingers around his lonely room, as the owls in the night screeched their mournful cries, and as the spirits of times past rose from their gloomy dens, he fell gently to sleep.

Best bloody sleep he’d had in ages. The bed was perfect, the room toasty warm and that morning shower! The water beautiful and hot and stinging.

He sauntered down to breakfast, ready to bask in the adulation of all the guests who had cowered in their priest exorcised rooms through a sleepless night.

He entered the breakfast room and his blood chilled, his limbs grew cold and heavy and a great trembling began in his breast.

The room…

The horror…

All the chairs were done up in silk, the tables set with flowers and favours, tiny boxes of Turkish delight adorning each place setting.

The girlfriend caught his arm and stopped him stumbling to the carpet. She couldn’t say sorry enough, but it was the only way. How else was she going to get him to check out a wedding venue?