All stories

This natural world of ours full of wonders. Sprinkled with horrors too. The Black Widow spider springs first to mind, the female who rips the head from her mate then consumes his flesh to feed their children. A myth they say. A myth! Why would the good Lord put such creatures on our wonderful earth?

A myth, perhaps. But I say look closer.

Let me take you to the banks of the River Oose, where a cosy inn hunkers for shelter from the steamy forbidding dark forests spilling from the mountains above. Only a fool walks at night, and look, meet Geoffrey de Puce, a young man on the cusp of graduation from imbecile to full oafhood. He left the comfort of the inn, not for him the two penny benches near the fire, because what could be cosier than a stable stuffed with hay and four hooved heating?

But not just horses in this stable.

Geoffrey crossed the yard where he chanced to meet a young lad stood facing the open stable door. This boy’s teeth were gritted, his eyes bulging. He was clinging with both hands to a long sword with tip grinding sparks from the cobbles.

‘Whot ho,’ Geoffrey said brightly.

More sparks from the cobbles as the boy’s whole being tensed. Geoffrey followed his gaze.

Something was moving at the open door of the stable. It was silvery pink in the moonlight.

‘I say,’ Geoffrey said. ‘That’s a filly’s leg, no?’

Geoffrey took a step closer. From the other side of the door slid something into view, something slender, something pinky.

‘By jove, there’s another one!’

Geoffrey was plucking at his collar, smoothing out imagined creases in his jupon.

Two more legs appeared, hissing into view from the top of the door.

Geoffrey’s eyes shone. ‘I say, acrobats! From the dusky East? Of course! At the village of Plwmp they were setting up a show!’

He scampered for the stable. The boy drew his sword from the cobbles, but could only manage a whisper - ‘sir, no. You mustn’t.’

Geoffrey reached the stable door where now eight beautiful slender pink legs were reaching for him. As he crossed the threshold they were all whisked away in an instant.

‘Ladies! Oh ladies, where are you hiding?’ Geoffrey called.

It wasn’t the lad’s fault of course. His orders were stop it leaving, not stop randy idiots going inside. His sword returned to scrape the cobbles, the boy’s stomach turning cartwheels until at last a prick of light grew into the blazing brand held above the grim reassuring countenance of his master.

‘I got the oil and the flame,’ the beast slayer said. ‘The bitch still inside?’

At that moment a scream sang, cut mid cry by a sound akin to a champagne cork popping fleshily. Something shot from the stable, rolling gently across the cobbles before coming to rest at their feet.

Geoffrey’s face looked up at them, still full of vim and vigour, but his eyes not so much.

The beast slayer smiled in grim satisfaction.

‘She’ll be too busy feeding. Here, you take the oil. I have the fire.’

The hay smoked, kindled, caught, then roared to life in a great rush of red heat and death black smoke. The slim hand in the black leather glove bolted the stable door and stood back to watch the flames rise.

Next door in a small, pretty, white inn, guests and staff dozed, oblivious to the flames licking up the adjoining wall, all of them sleeping through the very last pain-free moments of their lives.

Jim Miller, the innkeepers youngest son, sneaked down into the inn’s snug little kitchen, his feet chilling quickly through his woollen socks. He had snaffled no more than a hasty mouthful of cheese before his nose caught the acrid, insidious smell of smoke.

In a flash he was ringing the heavy brass bell atop the bar screaming Fire! Fire! at the top of his lungs.

At the sound of footsteps hurrying and voices raised in alarm, the hand in the black leather glove tightened to a fist of frustration before disappearing into the shadows.

Later, when the fire was safely out, Jim’s mother collapsed into a chair near the hearth.

“Well thank God for your stomach Jimmy. Without your craving for cheese we’d all have been burned in our beds. But why would anyone set fire to the stables?”

Then the second cry of alarm of the night sounded. A high, terrified scream rang out in the smoky darkness.

Springing to her feet Mrs Miller followed the sound of the girl’s screaming to one of the guest bedrooms, nearest the stable.

Inside was a sight she would never forget. The dishevelled bed looked tumbled in and ravished, with sheets strewn about the place and smears of lipstick across the pillowcases. Lacy knickers dangled from a lightshade and an empty champagne bottle lolled decadently beneath them.

Then Mrs Miller saw a young woman in a white lace negligee sprawled on the floor, covered in thick gobbets of blood from her own slit throat. A crimson arc splashed gaudily across one whitewashed wall and a single black leather glove curled mockingly on one soiled pillowcase.

Mrs Miller backed slowly away from the sight, her hand covering her mouth, bottling in her scream. William, her eldest, was keeping the other guests from coming up the stairs to see what was going on. Their mounting hubbub mingled with Betty’s screams and the pounding of her own frantic heart.

Then, added to the melee, she heard footsteps making their way past William and up the stairs. What was William thinking? She’d have to summon a policeman, she decided.

Turning to make her way to the telephone she found herself facing two curious gentlemen, both still wearing pyjamas. One was tall and thin, with an apologetic smile, but the other was round like an egg and sported the most fantastic moustache Mrs Miller had ever seen.

He peered into the room and took in all with a sweeping glance.

“Ah, Hastings, the window is locked! This will be a most interesting challenge for my little grey cells…”

She couldn’t wait to get to the hotel and spend two nights with Tom. They were always sneaking around at work and pretending they were just friends; the build up to this weekend had been intense. They were finally going to be alone with no interruptions.

Tom dropped Sarah off at the entrance to the Cosy Inn, the excitement within him building until he felt he would burst. He opened the boot of the car and pulled back the picnic blanket which Sarah had been sprawled across only an hour earlier. A row of three, shiny knives were neatly lined up. He had waited a long time for this moment and he wondered if he should take his time with this one, savouring every minute.

Quickly he bundled the knives into one of the holdalls and closed the car boot.

After dinner, Tom had suggested taking a walk to explore the grounds. The hotel was in a converted farmhouse and there was nothing else for miles, except for unused barns and stables.

Tom had carefully selected Sarah as she was exactly like the others. She was desperate for fun and longed for someone to finally take notice of her. She was a little mouse of a woman, but that’s how he liked them.

“What about over there?” Sarah nodded towards the old stable.

Tom smiled as Sarah walked on ahead. After forcing the door open, they made their way inside; luckily the late evening sun allowed them some light.

Looking around the old chairs and shelving covered in dust, Sarah suggested that Tom grab an old dust sheet. He found one covering a large, wooden armchair. He removed it and placed it down on the cold, concrete floor.

Sarah smiled. “Go on then. Lie down.”

He looked at her and after some hesitation, he did as she said. As he lay down on the sheet he watched as she dropped her shoulder bag on the ground and then straddled him.

She reached for his hands and pulled them up above his head.

“Relax. Close your eyes.”

He reluctantly closed them. He started to think about later that night. He always followed the same, simple plan. Sex. Strangulation. Knife. He tingled with excitement at the thought of her limp body. As he pictured cutting up her body parts, a sharp object pierced his stomach. He tried to catch his breath.

He opened his eyes as Sarah plunged the knife deep into his chest. In her eyes he saw the thrill and intense pleasure of it all. As he fell away to nothing, Sarah continued to stab away at his body. She then pushed herself up and looked for the container of petrol she’d hidden earlier amongst the old furniture.

She pulled out a cigarette lighter from her handbag and quickly ran from the stable as it began to blaze.

Sarah had carefully selected Tom as he was exactly like the others. He was desperate for fun and longed for someone to finally take notice of him. He was a little mouse of a man, but that’s how she liked them.

Amir creaked his rusty eyelids open as sleep slowly rolled off him and wandered away. A dim light slipped into the room dragging him slowly to his feet. The advertised quaint cosy inn had turned out to be a bleak run down shack opposite an equally derelict farm house. But at least it had been remote. He smiled to himself, after all he had lied about his details so why shouldn’t they. He heard something cry out in the distance and peered through the window. All seemed quiet. It was probably nothing. He was safe here.

The early morning mist creeped around the windows, brushing against the blackened cracked glass, a shifting wave of dimness distorting shapes and sounds. Somewhere a light was flickering strangely. Cautiously he headed out. He turned past the crumbling stone of the back wall and instantly saw the fire. One of the barns was burning. He started to run towards it. Where was the farmer he thought. Surely he would have seen this by now, where was his wife? But there was no one in sight. Up close the heat was overwhelming. No sounds but the crackle and crash of the collapsing barn. Helpless he headed back to the house. Fear rolled over him like thick tar on a new road. He told himself he was being stupid. No one here knew what he’d done or even his real name. But the farm door loomed ahead. Dirty, dusty, open.

He pushed the door and there the farmer sat, at the table. A half smile across his face, blank staring eyes, a second smile across his throat wide open and dripping. Amir span round and ran out. He felt something swing into his head and then blackness.

When he opened his eyes the world was a blur. He was on his knees with his wrists and legs tied behind him and he knew he was going to die.

She stepped softly into view. “I’m sorry about the farmer, and the woman in the barn,” she said, calm and sincere. He couldn’t look at her face. He didn’t need to, he had spent months trying to forget it. So young and pretty, once. Dark brown skin, smooth and flawless. Kind eyes that you could almost disappear in. Almost make you forget what you were doing.

“You shouldn’t have come here. If you hadn’t of run they wouldn’t have had to die.” She stated and took a step closer.

“I’m sorry”, Amir stuttered. “It went too far. I didn’t know what they wanted,” he lied. An image flashed in front of him; her knelt on the floor turning her head to look at him, confused, scared, kind eyes begging him not to leave.

She stepped closer and he saw the knife in her hand.

She pushed his head back against wall and he watched him self walk out of the room and close the door.

She knelt in front of him; once kind eyes, now two locked furnace doors and he began to weep softly.

She pushed slowly and he saw the furnace doors open, gazed at her raw burning hate; a gateway to hell that he fell tumbling into.