The Signal Box

Some time ago, during an evening run, I decided to take a breather on an old bridge that ran over a disused railway. It was a clear night, the stars sparkling across the cloudless sky like someone had poured silver glitter onto a cutting of black velvet.

It was then that I spotted the signal box, disused and lonely, sat between two rusting train lines, its only company being the fox squeezing into a small hole in its side, and the weeds, tall, unruly, and threatening to one day grow as tall as the box itself.

But there was something else that caught my eye that evening. Something I had often seen but never paid much attention to. Fixed to the box above the door to the signal box was a light, bright and strong, illuminating the tracks that stretched out underneath the bridge.

And then I spotted the man - an old man in a dark suit with a cream shirt and black tie. His hair was as white as the paint on the old signal box, and he had an unkempt, bushy moustache, the type that entirely hides any evidence of a mouth. He silently backed out of the signal box and then locked the door behind him, the bunch of keys jangling in his hands as he put them back in his jacket pocket.

He must have felt my eyes on him because he turned to look at me, his eyes narrowing as he did so. He went into his pocket and pulled out a pair of small, wire-rimmed spectacles. He smiled and gave me a little wave of acknowledgment. I hesitated for a moment before waving back at him. I felt a little awkward, like I had been caught spying on him.

He made his way down the old signal box steps - very carefully I noted - and then hobbled across the track and towards the ancient stone steps that climbed up the embankment to the bridge. He pulled out the bunch of keys, unlocked the rusty wrought-iron side gate and then passed through it before locking it behind him.

He nodded a greeting to me before starting his slow, shuffling walk over the bridge.

Suddenly filled with a need to satisfy my curiosity I asked him why the light was still on. Why a light was even needed on a disused line. The line had been shut down to passenger trains decades back. A small handful of freight trains had continued to use it up until five years ago when even they had stopped. The land around was presumably just waiting to be redeveloped into something new.

He smiled warmly and I finally noticed his previously hidden mouth. He looked away from me, lost in his thoughts, and then explained to me that he had been the signalman stationed in that very box for over fifty years before the line had been shut down. The engine drivers always knew they were nearly home when they passed his signal box. He explained to me that, although the line was no longer operational, he still wanted to keep the light on to guide those home that were no longer here.

I asked him what he meant by that.

He told me that sometimes the souls of the departed would go wandering along the railway, reliving days gone by, but by following his light they would always find their way home. They would always find their way back into the light. It was a reassurance for him and a comfort to them.

I nodded but I couldn’t hide my scepticism. The idea of ghosts roaming a disused train track, following a light was ridiculous. He must have noticed and smiled warmly, shaking his head. He stepped a little closer to me and I could now see his light blue eyes twinkling in the starlight. He told me that if I looked closely, I’d be able to see them, and they’d see me.

With a smirk, I asked him when I could see these so-called wandering souls.

He told me that I would only see them on a cloudless night when the stars were out, the moon was bright, and the sky was completely clear.

I smiled and then looked up at the night sky. The stars were indeed out. The sky was most definitely clear and the moon...the moon was brighter than I had ever seen it. I could make out all the craters and the patterns on its surface. I could even see the shapes that defined what people had called the man in the moon. I had never been able to see it until now. I chuckled in delight as I gazed up at the incredible vista high above me.

But as beautiful and breath-taking as it was, it wasn’t enough to convince me that I was about to see a ghost. They were a work of fiction - an excuse for people trying to find answers to the creaks in their houses or as a comfort to handle the loss of a loved one. There was no such thing as ghosts.

I was about to carry on speaking with the old man...but he had gone. I hadn’t heard him leave. I hadn’t heard his slow, shuffling feet as he had walked away, and he wouldn’t have had the time to get all the way over the bridge. It was like he had never been there.

I quickly turned to look back over the side of the bridge. The signal box was now in darkness. The light had gone out. All was silent.

I felt a chill run through my body and, laughing nervously to myself, I resumed my run as the clouds came out and swallowed up the silvery moon. I kept expecting to see the man halfway across the bridge, but I didn’t. He had gone.

I never saw the man again, but on a clear, cloudless night when the stars are out and the moon shines brightly in that dark, dark sky, the light on the signal box will be on, guiding the souls of the dead back home.

The End

Copyright © 2022 by Jim Allenby

All rights reserved. This story or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the publisher

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Horizon: File 019 (Angels)

BEGIN REPORT

FILE 019: ANGELS

Last night I had a dream. As I lie here in bed staring up at the ceiling, listening to the soft ticking of the clock on the bedroom wall, I can remember the dream as clear as day. But even now it's fading again. Fading into the ether as the sounds of the storm outside overpower my senses.

In the dream I was a little girl again. I was on holiday somewhere. Somewhere on the coast. And I was cold. I'd walked across a coastal path alone and towards the edge of a cliff top. I'd clambered down the rocks and stood looking out at the churning, gun-metal grey sky that stretched out before me.

And as I was dreaming this dream last night I realised, during the dream, that it wasn't actually a dream at all. It was a memory. A memory of something that had happened to me as a little girl.

And what I had assumed had been the sea, wasn't actually the sea at all - but the land stretching out before me. Green fields turned grey under the murky storm clouds. My feet wanted to continue walking. They wanted to take me over the edge of the cliff. Take me down to those distant realms below. Something was forcing me to jump. To take my own life.

But before I could - and in the dream itself - I had looked up and seen her. A woman in the clouds. Shining and bright. Blonde hair swirling around her head. A white robe tied at the waist with golden rope. She smiled sadly at me and held up a hand. I can still see silver tears staining her rosy cheeks. She opened her mouth to speak. I could hear her. Her voice loud and clear in my ears. She told me that it wasn't time yet. Not yet time to return to my siblings.

I didn't understand it at the time, and I still don't quite understand it now, but I'm just learning to figure out what it was about. I've had that dream - that memory - time and time over the years and every time I see her. Every time I see the Angel telling me it's not time to go yet. Not time to return.

Not time to return...

But that's a far cry from what myself and Roper found in the Well. And I guess I better get back to that...

END REPORT

Copyright © 2022 by Jim Allenby

All rights reserved. This post or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

Horizon: File 018 (The Well)

BEGIN REPORT

FILE 018: THE WELL

I wasn't sure how long we'd been in the car. An hour? Possibly two? Roper and myself didn't speak much. Not on that initial journey. I'd pressed him, but he'd asked me to let him concentrate on driving. By the time we'd arrived at our destination it was dark.

I watched the headlights shining from his car as we snaked through country lanes flagged by high, over-arching leafless trees. I glanced up at them ominously, almost expecting them to reach down and grab the car for daring to attempt to disturb their slumber.

Finally we reached out destination - a clearing that narrowed towards a trail through the woods. Roper parked up the car as close to the tree line as possible, gave me a concerned look and then, with torch in hand, guided me away from the clearing and down a pathway. We walked for a good forty-five minutes to an hour. Roper explained to me that Horizon have facilities everywhere across the United Kingdom and beyond, and that some facilities are chosen with very clear intentions. The office blocks and the tall buildings and the urban locations are there as the face of the company, but there are other locations - more hidden locations - like Viking Wood and this place - that are chosen for other reasons.

More supernatural reasons.

Finally we came across something and Roper indicated for me to stay hidden. Crouching behind a particularly thorny bush, we glanced over the top of it. Another clearing - this time much smaller. It was surrounded by burning torches, illuminating the structure that sat in the middle of the clearing. It was a strange, wooden hut that looked like it had been built on top of a large, cut flat tree-trunk. It's rough was made with thatch or straw or something and set in the front of it was an old, metal door. Sat on a small tree stump not far from the front of the structure was a man dressed in a dark combat suit complete with domed helmet and night-vision goggles. He looked like he was almost asleep, but still clutched his rifle tightly to his side. Perched on the ground next to him was a flask.

Roper turned to me and whispered, "Welcome to the Well."

I was about the ask him if the well was inside the building or if the building was actually the Well itself, when he suddenly rose from behind the bus, cleared his throat and shouted a greeting to the armed guard.

And in that moment I wondered if I'd been deceived. Wondered if everything I had learned - this journey I had been on in the search for my daughter - had all been for nothing...

END REPORT

Copyright © 2022 by Jim Allenby

All rights reserved. This post or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

It's Always Winter (A Horizon Short Story)

I awoke suddenly. The room was as cold as it had ever been. There was nothing strange in that, and at this time of the year it never seemed to get any warmer. I was lying in bed again and I shivered, pulling the cover a little further up my body. I turned to look at my clock. It was 3.23am and I sighed. I always seemed to be waking up during the early hours these days. I had so much on my mind.

Still, it was the middle of December, and I was stuck in a cottage deep into the Yorkshire moors in the middle of winter. All my own doing of course. I needed to get away from the hustle and bustle of home and escape the confines of the city. Just for a little bit. I wasn’t intending on staying here forever. Just long enough for me to get my thoughts in order. To sift through the shit and figure out what I wanted to do about my car crash of a life.

I sat up in bed and the sheets fell away from me. The air was like ice, and I shivered, quickly getting off the bed and reaching for my dressing gown from the armchair in the corner of the room. I tied the chord around the middle and walked from the bedroom into the hallway and then entered the living room.

It wasn’t any warmer in here either. The only light was coming from the roaring flames crackling away in the fireplace. I glanced at the fire curiously. There were two distinct questions on my mind. The fire was lit, so it should have at least warmed the place up a little. The cottage may have been old and as droughty as a pair of baggy Bermuda shorts, but the fire still should have done the trick.

But it was the second question that had me even more perplexed.

Who had lit the fire?

I had gone to bed…well, I couldn’t remember the time, I had consumed an excessive amount of whiskey, but I knew for certain that I hadn’t lit the fire. And it must have been lit just recently as well because even if I had lit it before I had passed out on my bed it would have died down by now.

I shivered again and rubbed my arms to try and warm myself up, sliding into my slippers beside the armchair. I had left a clothes basket extremely close to the fire and shook my head. What a bloody idiot. I had to cut down on the alcohol. Then I shook my head. I hadn’t lit the fire so I couldn’t really be blamed for leaving clothes unattended beside a fire I’d never even been responsible for lighting. I went to move it to the side and was about to warm myself up beside the hearth when I heard a sound towards the kitchen.

I froze (quite literally this time) and then swiftly made my way across the plush, red carpet towards the kitchen door. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting to see – maybe the person who had lit the fire. And then my thoughts went to who it could have been. There were only two people who knew I had come up here for the Christmas holidays. My brother, Roger, and my landlady, Vera. Since there was no love lost between myself and Roger, I doubted it would be him, and there was no reason why Vera would have followed me up here. I mean she maintained my flat well enough, but we weren’t close. She’d still be getting her rent even without me being there for the next week or two.

So, it couldn’t have been those two.

I had quit my job after a particularly difficult Tuesday. The boss had set me up too many deadlines and not enough time to do them in. Now I don’t particularly enjoy Christmas, but I was looking forward to having a couple of weeks off for some downtime. A chance to catch up on some reading, de-stress and to just generally reset myself for the new year. This year had been a horror show, especially with the economy in the dire situation it was in, and we all were ready for a break.

That was until Mr Phillips, my manager, had handed me my deadlines. When I had explained to him that there was no way I was going to get them done by the Christmas break he had informed me that the Christmas break (except for Christmas Day) would have to be cancelled if that was going to be my appallingly bad attitude to the company that had propped me up for the last few years of my life.

I couldn’t help myself. I broke. He had pushed me too far. The one light at the end of the year was getting out of that hell hole for a few weeks and now that light had been extinguished. So, I told him where to stick his job, got in my car, told Roger where I was going in case of an emergency, and just drove up here.

My father had owned this cottage when he was alive and when he had died, he had left it in his will to myself and my brother. I had never had any cause to use it until now. Roger had hosted numerous parties for his many female friends over the years, but not me. I was a city guy at heart. I lived and breathed the city life. A lonely cottage in the middle of the bleak and miserable moorlands wasn’t my idea of fun. And I wasn’t here for fun anyway. I was here to get away from Phillips and all the stress that that damned place had caused me.

There was the noise again. It sounded like someone opening a cupboard door. An intruder? Why would an intruder light a fire for me? Maybe it was a squatter, although there hadn’t been any sign of forced entry when I had come up here the previous night.

I grabbed the handle, stole my nerve, and flung the heavy, white door open. Standing there beside the kitchen cupboard was a young woman in a red skirt, black cardigan and long, cascading blonde hair. Her terrified blue eyes flashed up to me and she stepped back, hitting the old range cooker behind her. She brushed her fringe out of her eyes and swallowed.

“Can I help you?” I calmly asked. She was not what I was expecting. Come to think of it I didn’t know what I had been expecting. Not a pretty blonde, that’s for certain.

“Who are you?” She had a Yorkshire accent and sounded absolutely petrified.

“I could ask you the same question.”

She didn’t reply. She just remained with her back to the cooker. I saw hands feel along behind her until they reached something. She brought the object up threateningly in front of her face – a wooden spoon.

“What are you going to do with that,” I asked her, incredulity in my voice, “stir me to death?”

“Just…don’t hurt me.”

I shook my head. “I’m not going to hurt you. And I could say the same to you. You’re the one standing there with a spoon in your hands.” I relaxed a little. “What are you doing in my cottage?”

She frowned, her eyes never leaving mine and her spoon-holding hand never lowering. “What are you talking about? This is my cottage.”

I tilted my head to the side. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s my cottage,” the woman replied.

I shook my head. “No, love. This place was left to me and my brother. It was in my dad’s will.”

“A likely story.”

“Honestly. I’m telling the truth. I’ll give me brother a call if it’ll help convince you.” I went to turn but caught the flash of her hand. The wooden spoon flew through the air and hit me on my shoulder. “Ow.” It didn’t really hurt. I was more shocked at her reaction then anything.

“I’m sorry, but I did tell you to stay where you are.”

“It still doesn’t justify having a spoon flung at me.” I stepped back a little to show her I wasn’t a threat. “Look, why don’t you tell me your name?”

She didn’t answer, content to simply stare at me, her eyes never blinking.

Okay, so maybe it was better if I went first. “My name is Phil. I live in Manchester and work for a logistics company called GoToo. I’m 32, single and have one brother. My parents are both dead and I have an auntie living down in Somerset somewhere. Oh, I had a cat called Rickie up until a few years ago when he ran off with an ex-girlfriend.” I held my arms out and nodded to indicate it was her turn to spill the beans.

She narrowed her eyes. “Where did you come from?”

“I thought it was your turn to tell me a few things about yourself.”

“Where did you come from?” She said it a little more forcibly this time.

I sighed. “The bedroom.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Did you light the fire?”

“No.” She shook her head.

Before I could ask any more questions there was a sound from outside the window. I darted across to the windowpane and peered out onto the snowy landscape beyond. The cottage really was in a remote location. The garden in front wasn’t particularly large, but it didn’t need to be. All that you could see for miles and miles around were rolling hills of snow-covered moorland. In front of the house was an ancient oak tree and just beyond that a small, two-foot wooden fence.

The snow was coming down fast again now and, if it hadn’t been for the fact that I was stood in a lonely cottage with no lights and a strange, distraught woman, it would have made for quite a pretty Christmas card scene.

But it was as I was staring beyond the oak tree that I noticed the two figures standing in a gap along the fence where the old gate used to be. I couldn’t make out much as they remained in shadow. Consumed by the natural darkness. One was tall and the other was a little smaller. The taller figure was male, I felt sure, and I could make out the gentle curves of the other figure. A female.

“Do you know them?” the woman asked nervously. She made me jump. I hadn’t expected to see her by my side. Still, at least she wasn’t staring at me in terror now.

“No.” My voice was almost a whisper. “I can’t even make them out.”

The two figures angled their bodies towards the window. Had they seen us?

“Can you smell smoke?” I asked, sniffing. It was only faint, but it was there. A distant trace lingering in the air.

She shook her head. “I thought I smelt gas earlier on, which was why I was in the kitchen. I thought I’d left the cooker on.”

I turned to look at her, ignoring the shadowy figures for a moment. This wasn’t going to do at all. This was my cottage. “Exactly where did you come from? Are you squatting here?” I knew how stupid that sounded straight away. She definitely didn’t look like a squatter. She was too refined. She hadn’t been sleeping rough at all.

“I was asleep in bed when I woke up. I came into the living room, spotted the fire had been lit and then thought I smelt gas.”

“Which room were you asleep in?”

“The master bedroom. The room that overlooks the back garden.”

“That’s my room. The one I’ve just come from.”

She turned to look at me and shook her head. “Stop lying to me.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You say that, but everything you’ve told me so far is utter bullshit. For a start, your father never owned the cottage. It belongs to my family.”

I tilted my head to the side and scratched at my chin. I needed a shave. “My father bought this cottage years and years ago, love.”

“Don’t call me love.”

“Then what should I call you?”

“Peggy. You can call me Peggy, okay?”

“Good. Nice to finally put a name to the face.” And it was actually a very pretty face the more I looked at her. Very natural looking. She had a pale complexion, but her lips were full and red. She had dark rings around her eyes, but rather than make her look tired, they helped her eyes to shine brighter. There was a certain look about her. Something I couldn’t quite place my finger on. She had a classical look about her. The sort of person who always tried to look their best no matter what time of day.

She placed one hand on her hip and tilted her head back, her eyes narrowing in distrust. “It still doesn’t explain what you’re doing in my cottage.”

“My cottage.”

Her eyes momentarily turned away and she grabbed my arm, her fingertips digging through the thick material of my dressing gown. She gasped and I followed her gaze. She was staring through the window, the panes partially obscured by a collection of snowflakes. The two figures were now looking in at us.

“Holy shit!” I breathed.

“Who are they?” Peggy gasped.

I shook my head. “I have no idea.”

If they could see us, they certainly weren’t reacting to us. The snow continued to fall around them, but their faces remained in shadow. The male figure pressed his ethereal face against the pane of glass to look in.

Peggy and I slowly backed away from the window.

“Switch the lights on,” I said.

Peggy darted across to the switch, but the lights failed to turn on. After multiple, futile attempts at the switch she finally gave up.

“Damn electricity bill. Roger probably hasn’t paid it for this quarter,” I growled under my breath.

“I have candles,” Peggy said, running to the cupboard under the window and pulling out two, thick, white candles and two ornate holders.

I grabbed one from her and we slowly exited the kitchen, making our way over to the fireplace. I knelt to light my candle, but the wick failed to catch alight. I tried with Peggy’s but, again, the candle failed to light.

“What the actual…?”

I was cut off by a loud knocking on the front door. It didn’t sound like a particularly heavy thump, but it was louder than normal, reverberating around the room, and bouncing off the wooden beams of the ceiling. The entire cottage was reacting to the knocking.

“It’s them,” Peggy gasped, backing up to me. I had no idea where she came from, but right now we were in this together. I could see her face, but I couldn’t see the faces of the two figures. I knew which one I’d rather be siding with.

I placed a hand on her shoulder and then handed her my candle. I walked between the two sofas and headed towards the door, picking up a log that had been left in a metal drum beside the entrance. I raised it so it was level with my face and then slowly opened the door.

The figures were standing there, silhouetted against the bright white of the snow outside.

And their features were still inexplicably cloaked in darkness. The only way I could describe it was as if you were looking at figures walking through night-time fog. They were merely silhouettes. Shapes in the gloom.

“Who are you?” I asked.

Neither of them responded, but there was something there. Some form of incoherent mumbling coming from them. They were talking, but it was obscured. Like when someone tries to talk underwater. Or when you’re wearing some heavy-duty ear protection, and everyone sounds muffled and distant.

“I asked you who you are.” I said it a little more fiercely this time.

The figures looked at each other and then stepped inside. I stepped out of the way. They seemed completely oblivious to me being there. They made their way towards the centre of the room and stood, turning around, taking in every detail of the cottage.

Peggy fled from the fireside to join me. “Who are they?”

“You heard as much as I did, love.”

“Will you stop calling me love?”

“Sorry, sweetheart.” I chuckled.

She rounded on me, staring at me in frustration. There was something about those eyes. Something captivating. She was intriguing, but it wasn’t like I fancied her or anything. That wasn’t it. I was fascinated by her.

“Will you stop staring?”

“Absolutely.” I held up the hand that didn’t have hold of a log and moved away from her. The figures were now standing beside the fireplace. The male crouched down and placed his hands on the burning logs. He didn’t react to the flames. It was like he wasn’t really there.

“Are they ghosts?” Peggy asked.

“I have no idea.” I had always been a realist. I didn’t believe in ghosts or the supernatural. Life was life and when you died you died. It may have been a slightly grim view to have on the afterlife, but there was nothing else after this world. You just went to sleep, and nothing ever happened again.

At least that’s what my dad taught me to believe. My mother, Mags, had died when we were little, and it had haunted him for the rest of his days. He never really found a way to live without her. And he had begged for her to show him a sign that there was something else there. That sign had never come, and I think that had affected his beliefs.

There was that smoke smell again.

“I can smell gas again,” Peggy said, sniffing.

I walked over to the two figures as they both sat down on the sofa, holding hands. I knelt in front of them and reached out my hand. I touched the male on his shoulder, and he jerked suddenly. He had felt my touch. So, they were sort of there. But it had felt strange to touch him. It was like he was there, and I could feel him, but there were no sensations running through my fingertips. It was like he existed, but didn’t, all at the same time.

Peggy came to join me and peered more closely at the female. She made an ‘o’ with her mouth and blew a cool stream of air at the darkened face of the female.

The female figure jumped and got to her feet.

The male was now standing up. He placed a hand on her shoulder as if to calm her down.

“What the hell is going on here?” I asked, shaking my head.

“They must be ghosts.”

“Let’s try together.”

The both of us reached forward with both of our hands and grabbed the arms of our shadowy opposites. The two figures jerked backwards. There came a high-pitched sound from the female. Slowly the whistling mingled with a rush of wind and became a scream. The girl staggered backwards towards the stone fireplace and collapsed against it.

The male was at her side in an instant and I could understand more words now. He was becoming clearer.

I ran forward and knelt in front of them to try and hear what they were saying. I tilted my head to the side and listened.

“Rosie…Rosie it’s okay. It’s okay they can’t hurt us.”

The words were becoming sharper. Like when you come up out of a swimming pool and the water slowly runs away from your blocked-up ears.

“Tell them that,” came the female voice.

“Can you hear them?” Peggy asked.

I nodded, straining my ears to hear more.

“This is no different to what we’ve faced before,” the male said. He had a Scottish accent. “This is just the same as anything else we’ve ever seen.”

I could hear them quite clearly now.

“We have to help them,” the female sobbed. “We have to. I can’t stand this, Albert.” Her voice wavered with emotion as both of her hands went to her head, tyring to ring out some sort of invisible pain.

Help them? Help who? There was nobody else here other than me and Peggy. So, who exactly did they need to help? It was then that I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece above them and realised the time. It was 3.23am. Nothing odd about that. Nothing odd about it being 3.23am at all.

Nothing odd about it in a million years.

Except that it was the same time that it had been when I had woken up. And I had been awake for longer than 0 seconds and 0 minutes.

I looked at the Peggy, standing beside me. She was staring intently at the two shadowy figures as they continued to talk about ways to save “them” and how they could help “them” to move on. And I could smell smoke again.

“Peggy, tell me what happened to you.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Please, just answer my questions this time. What happened to you?”

She shrugged. “I had another fight with my husband over the kids. I came up here to escape him. For five bloody minutes peace.”

“And?”

“I had a few cuppas and then went to bed.”

“What time did you wake up?”

“I don’t know. Not long after I had gone to bed. I needed the loo.”

“So roughly what time?”

She shook her head in frustration. “I don’t know. It couldn’t have been long after eleven.”

“At night?”

“Of course, at night,” she hissed back at me. Now she really did look tired. Tired of me.

“And you were up for how long before I came into the kitchen?”

“Maybe…five minutes.”

I bit my lit and shook my head, trying to work it all out. “I woke up at 3.23am. My bedroom clock said 3.23am and the clock above the mantelpiece says 3.23am right now.”

“No, it doesn’t,” she scoffed, “it says 11.17pm.”

“What?” I looked back at the clock. The clock face blurred in and out of focus. I squinted my eyes, but I couldn’t focus. The hands were shifting from 3.23am to 11.17pm and back again. It was like I was seeing two different times on its face. I narrowed my eyes and stepped nearer to it.

“This house is horrible,” I heard the shadowy girl saying. “It’s cruel. To do this to them…”

“I know, I know, Rosie,” the man continued, “but you’ve got to try and block out the feelings. It’ll only overwhelm you. You’re new to all of this.”

“I wish I could. But they’re both still here. They’re both still trapped here.”

I turned to look at Peggy. She was standing frozen to the spot, her eyes staring at the two figures as they brightened more and more. Colour was flooding into them, and I could feel warmth coming from their bodies. A complete contrast to the cold of the cottage. They were real and they existed. There was mass and substance and life. Feelings and emotions. The people in front of us weren’t ghosts at all. They were alive.

And that damned smoke smell was there again.

“I want to go home,” Peggy sobbed. I turned to look back at her again. Tears were streaming down her face, her lips quivering. “I want to go home and say sorry to my boys.”

“Your boys?”

Peggy nodded. “Phillip and Roger. I need to say sorry for ruining their Christmas.”

My eyes widened. “Phillip and Roger? Your kids are called Phillip and Roger?”

She nodded. “It was such a stupid argument I had with my husband.”

“And your husband was called…?”

“Wilf. Why does it matter to you?” She turned to me, her tear-stained cheeks quivered, her dark eye makeup was running in steady streams from her eyes.

“Peggy, my name is Phil. My brother is Roger, and my father was Wilf. The Nicholson family.”

Her eyes flicked to mine. “But that’s my name. I’m Peggy Nicholson.”

“My mother was called Mags. Mags Nicholson.” It all started slotting into place. “And Mags is short for…Margaret,” I finished off. “And Peggy is a nickname for Margaret.”

She stared at me and stepped forward, her eyes refusing to break free from mine. It was then that I realised why I found her so fascinating. It was then that I realised why she intrigued me so much. That feeling I had felt. It wasn’t lust or attraction. It was love. Pure and simple love.

The woman standing in front of me right now was my mother.

“My father never told me exactly what happened to my mum.” My voice was a whisper. “But I know they had had an argument when we were small. It was one Christmas. She never came home.” I looked away, the memories of that horrible Christmas flooding back. “I used to sit at the top of the stairs listening to Dad praying for God to send him a sign that she was still alive. That you were still alive.”

Peggy shook her head, her lips moving but producing no sound.

“Phillip? Phillip Nicholson?” came the Scottish voice.

I turned to look at the two figures. They were now fully formed. The girl was short with pretty eyes and long dark hair. She had an elvish look about her. She was sweet-looking but looked utterly exhausted. Her eyes were bloodshot and red. The man was taller, in his early forties with an unshaven jawline and short, dark hair. He was handsome in a rugged way, and I couldn’t stop noticing his eyes. He was wearing a long, dark coat and the girl was wearing a bobble hat and scarf.

“Who are you two?” I asked.

“We’re here to help you move on.” The man stepped forward and smiled sadly at me.

“Move on? What do you mean?”

I glanced back at Peggy, but she was frozen on the spot, her eyes staring at the two figures. Her face was bathed in a bright, white light. I tried to see where the light was coming from, but I couldn’t see a source.

“My name is Albert, and this is Rosie. Rosie can…well, sense things.”

“Like a medium? A psychic?”

Rosie nodded. She smiled through the anguish on her face, but she didn’t look totally comfortable with what she was feeling. “It only happened just recently.”

“She’s my mother, isn’t she?” I nodded back towards Peggy. I didn’t know how, but I knew now. It was the only thing that made sense to me. She was the ghost of my dead mother.

The man called Albert nodded. “She is indeed.” He stepped forward and stood in front of her. “Mags. Margaret. Peggy. She came to this cottage when you and your brother were both young. All couples argue, I know that, and all she wanted was a break. But it ended in tragedy. There was a gas leak and she died in her sleep.”

“Gas…She kept telling me she smelt gas. Dad never told me.” I shook my head and sniffed away a tear. “He would never talk about it.”

“The bereaved don’t always discuss their heartache.”

I walked over to my mother. She looked so young and beautiful. I had only ever seen a handful of old, black and white photos of her. Photos of a distant and long-gone woman that I never really knew. Never something so real as this. I reached out a hand and touched her face. She blinked and turned to look at me, her eyes wet with tears. Now there was no mistaking it. It was her.

“Hello, Phillip.” She reached out and placed a cold hand on my cheek. There was a true understanding etched onto her face now. A realisation. “My beautiful boy. I’m so sorry. I should have stayed at home.”

“It’s okay, mum, it’s okay. These two, kind people are going to help you pass on.”

There came a sigh from Albert. I turned to look at him. The girl looked away from me. She too looked sad. Sadder than she had been a few moments ago.

“What?”

“We’re not just here to help your mother move on,” Albert replied.

“I don’t understand.”

“We’re here to help you move on as well.”

“What do you mean, help me move on? Move on where?”

“Move on from here.”

“But I’m okay. There’s nothing wrong with me.” I laughed nervously. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Phil, there’s no easy way to say this.” He rubbed his chin and shook his head. “You’re dead as well.”

His words hit me like a bullet to the heart. I felt my legs give away from underneath me and I stumbled to the floor. I couldn’t comprehend what he was saying. I knew what he was saying, but I couldn’t process it. It was impossible. There was no way that I was dead. I was standing there talking to them.

“It’s okay, Phil,” the girl said. She knelt in front of me, her eyes sad. “I can help you be with your mother again.”

“But…I’m not dead.”

“Phillip, you’ve been dead for years.”

I still couldn’t process it. My mind was swirling. It was impossible. I had quit my job, escaped to the cottage, lit a fire, had a drink, and passed out in bed. Passed out in bed…. smoke again.

“You died on December 17th 2008. An investigation was conducted into the cause of death. You had drunk so much that you couldn’t remember leaving your washing basket beside the lit fire. When you went to bed the washing caught on fire and spread through the cottage. You died sometime in the early hours.”

“3.23am,” was all I could say. “I died at 3.23am.”

“Very possibly,” Knox said.

There was a sudden rush of wind, and I was no longer standing in the cottage. I was standing in its cold, burnt out remains. My feet were buried in the snow and the once pure white walls and wooden beams were blackened and charred. This skeleton of a building was reality. I knew it now. I had been standing in an illusion all this time.

“The place couldn’t be saved.” Albert put his hands in his pockets and shrugged his shoulders. “I’m so sorry.”

“This can’t be happening. I only woke up twenty minutes ago.”

Rosie shook her head. “You’ve been repeating the same moments over and over again. You’ve been trapped in a loop, never realising it. For you, it’s always been the same day.”

“It’s always winter.” Albert closed his eyes and lowered his head. “The only reason we came here is because a group of campers had reported strange activity coming from the remains of the building. It wasn’t hard to dig out the facts and put two and two together.”

“My mother and I have been trapped here all this time?”

Albert nodded. “Your mother trapped at the time she died all those years ago and you trapped at the moment you died back in 2008.”

I closed my eyes. This could not be happening. It wasn’t real. Any minute now I was going to wake up in bed with the mother of all hangovers. I balled up my fists and thumped at the ground, willing the world around me to fade away.

“It’s okay, Phillip.” My mother’s hand was on my shoulder. She crouched down beside me and took my hand. “We didn’t know. We couldn’t accept it. But now we can move on.”

“I don’t want to move on, Mum. I’m 32 and want to live my life. I want to go out and drink and meet someone and…have a life.” I closed my eyes as the tears fell. I had never been scared of much in my life, but this terrified me. This complete and utter unknown. “I don’t want to be dead.”

“Nobody wants to be dead.” Rosie took my hand. She felt so warm against my cold skin. “But we all have to pass one day.”

I felt both Rosie and my mother’s hands around mine and I rose to my feet. There was a flash of light behind me, and we turned to look at it. A slither of bright, white light expanded until it became a larger fissure. The light flared and flickered and all I could feel from it was…warmth. Warmth and love. A pull and a tug in my heart. There was something calling to me. Something calling to us.

Albert smiled at Rosie and then looked at me. “The one thing I can say to you, Phil, and you too, Peggy, is that death is not the end. What you will find beyond that light is something that I have always been…so intrigued by. Something that has always drawn me in and helped me to move forward in my life.”

Rosie let go of my hand. It was just me and Mum now. “You’re gonna be just fine. I promise.”

I turned to look at Mum and she smiled at me. In some ways this was a gift. I hadn’t ever really gotten to know her, but now I had that opportunity. Now there was a chance to get to know the real Margaret Nicholson. I gripped her hand tightly as we turned and walked towards the light.

As frightening as the unknown was, this clearly wasn’t the end.

“Oh, just one more thing, Phil,” Knox said, “because I don’t usually get a chance to actually talk to ghosts like this.”

I didn’t reply. I just looked at him.

“If you see a woman on the other side called Harriet, tell her that I haven’t given up on her yet. Tell her that I’ll find her one day.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but he looked sad. Heartbroken even. He looked the same as my father did after Mum had died. I nodded once at him, smiled, and then turned. As I approached the light the warmth built in my chest. I turned to look at Mum one more time and she smiled at me.

And then, hand in hand, we stepped into the light.





Albert Knox and Rosie Dangerfield remained in the ruins of the old cottage for a few more minutes after Phil and Peggy had disappeared into the light. When the air had settled, and all was silent, Rosie finally exhaled and then smiled, exhausted. She sniffed and wiped away the remaining tears from her face.

Albert turned to face her and half-smiled, placing his hands on her shoulders. “Are you okay? It was a little rough for you back there.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m just going to have to get used to these feelings.” She straightened herself up and looked at him. “Why did you ask Phil to give a message to Auntie Harriet?”

“Because I have to keep trying.”

“But she didn’t get taken to the light.” She wrinkled her nose.

There was a silent moment between them. Albert refused to look at her. His face turned stern, his eyes dark. Then he finally spoke. “We don’t know that for certain.”

Rosie was about to dig further but thought better of it. Albert was a livewire at the best of times but dealing with Harriet always brought out the most volatile emotions in him. She didn’t want to ignite that fuse again. Not after she had brought him back from the brink once before.

Albert glanced one more time at where the crack of light had appeared and then put his hands back in his pockets, trudging out of the ruins of the house and back into the snowy moorland.

Rosie breathed, took one more look around the house and then followed him.

 

The End

Copyright © 2022 by Jim Allenby

All rights reserved. This post or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

Half the World Away

“Does it have to be this way?” she asked me.

That voice. That incessant, condescending voice. I was sick of it. Tired of it. The never-ending questions. The demands for answers that go on forever and ever. Does it have to be this way? Yes, of course it must be this way. There’s no other way, is there?

“Brother?”

I clenched my teeth, dug my fingernails into the palm of my hands, closed my eyes and span around on my heel. But by the time I was facing her I’d managed to recompose myself. Bring that veil of calm down around me again.

The same veil of calm I’d been using for as long as I could remember.

It felt like I was stood mid-way between anger and calmness for longer than an eternity, but it must have only been a millisecond. Not long enough for her to have noticed the change in my demeanour. When I say change, I mean my constant disposition. The one I’m forever having to wear. Because this never ends for me. I’m forever having to wear this mask for others.

“Brother?” she asked again.

In that millisecond I unclenched my teeth, widened my eyes, let out a huge grin and released my fingernails from my palms, stopping before I drew blood. I puffed up my chest, took a silent breath and then angled my head to the left, blinking my wide eyes.

“Yes, it does, sister.”

“But shouldn’t we try-”

“No, sister,” I replied, my voice faltering on the edge of a precipice that I’d not be able to come back from. “No, it has to be this way.”

“But surely, we could…”

I held an ancient finger up to her. I was trying to hold back the anger. Like when you shake up a bottle of fizzy pop that the ones below are so insistent on drinking, and you remove the top. Except I’d become an expert at keeping my top screwed tightly shut.

If only she knew…

“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice calming again as I hoped I hadn’t let my mask drop. It hadn’t slipped in all these years so there was no way I was going to let it slip now. “If we wish to continue on this journey, then we have to do it this way.”

“But what about the animals? What about the people?”

I swallowed down a chuckle. It was just like her. Just like my sister to think of the animals first. In my head I nodded at her sound logic. Quite often animals gave people more pleasure than anything in this world. So, it almost felt like I was going about this the wrong way.

Perhaps leaving the animals would solve all the problems.

I remained resolute, my eyes flaring white-hot fire. “They have all had their chances. Countless times.”

“But the animals. Surely, the animals…”

I’d let my mask slip. I closed my eyes again and smiled. “There’ll be more people. More animals. Better people.” I put my hands on her shoulders. “Better animals.”

“But if we could just save a few then at least some of this wouldn’t have been for nothing.”

I shook my head and looked down at my sister. Her old eyes filled with tears, delicate teardrops balancing on the edge of her eyelids, threatening to tumble down her young face. A face that had stayed youthful for such a long, long time whereas I…I had chosen to grow older. To really become the character in this never-ending play.

I leaned in and kissed the top of her head. The curls of my whitened beard brushing her forehead, my fingers lost amongst her dark ringlets.

When I drew back from her the tears had overflowed, staining her cheeks in glistening silver. I laughed at her, but this time it was a genuine chuckle. Where had she gone? Where had my once-tough sister disappeared to. Some would say she was stronger than me. It would be hard not to disagree with that viewpoint, but at what point did she become so attached to them?

Maybe it was all her years spent living among them. Watching them. Trying to understand why they did what they did. Mingling with them. Falling in love with them.

But it’s not like they were family.

Merely…outsiders.

“When did you become so disinterested in them?” she asked me

It almost took me aback. Had she been listening to my inner thoughts again? It felt like a rebuke against my criticism of her.

“I became disinterested in them when they became disinterested in themselves.”

“But there could have been another way.”

I shook my head and made a mental note to trim my hair back. It was brushing the top of my shirt collar. I may have become old, but that didn’t mean that I couldn’t still be distinguished.

“But why not?” she asked. That irritating, whining voice had returned again.

“Be thankful I’m not leaving you behind, sister,” I found myself gently snarling at her.

I had shaken her. She stepped back from me. Her ruby-red lips parted, a shiver escaping her mouth. She looked like I’d slapped her in the face with a wet, cold fish.

I realised what I’d done and forced down that anger again. I smiled at her. “I’m just joking. You know I would never leave you behind.” I took her fingers and brought her pale, almost China-white hand to my lips. I kissed her gently and I saw her melt back into assurance once again.

“I just wish there was another way.”

Finally. The acceptance.

I shook my head. This was the only way. “There may have been another way. Once upon a time.” I exhaled and closed my eyes. When I opened them, the room around us had darkened. Only pinpricks of starlight could be seen. My sister was stood, bathed in platinum light and within those old, dark eyes were the swirls of a thousand, distant galaxies.

“What’s to say that it won’t happen again?” she asked. The tone of her voice told me that she’d finally understood what was to come. “What’s to say that we won’t make the same mistake again?”

“Because this time there will be a ‘we’,” I told her. It was a mistake last time. I never should have rejected her ideas. Her designs. She had always desired it. Always wanted to help me. She was my twin, after all.

There was a look on her face. Excitement? Fear? I’m not sure. It was certainly something I hadn’t seen in her for a long time. “Do you mean…?”

I nodded. She irritated me. She annoyed me to the brink of pushing me over the edge, but maybe that was my mistake. Maybe I should have allowed her freer reign. It was either that or leave her here to die with everyone else.

“It means, Amara, that we will do it together this time. Like it always should have been.”

Her skin had turned monochrome. The darkened colours of her dress crushed black. Her face paled. Her flowing ringlets of hair now jet-black. Not a hint of colour on her. It was then that I realised I had already begun the process.

Amara took my hands, cupped together, the searingly bright glow burning from between my fingers. Both of us remained still, pale and emptied of all colour. The stars had begun to flicker and die like candles on a birthday cake.

Until there was nothing but darkness.

“We will begin again?” she asked. “We will do something more? Something better?”

I nodded. And for once I didn’t feel frustration at my sister. Just a sadness for what had become of the people. Of my people.

“We will do it, together, my sister.”

She took my old hands in her young hands. I watched as the wrinkles on my flesh tightened and smoothed out. I was becoming young again. I was becoming like her. And then, with a final glance at the world below us – all blue and green and white surrounded by a smog of rusty-brown war and deathly black hatred – I let go of the orb of light within my hands.

The light flared.

And then there was nothing but the ear-piercing scream of silence. A white noise that lingered long in my ears. The silent scream of an infinite number of souls. Each of them pondering the same question as my sister – could there have been another way?

A world died.

Something new was born.

And we created a new world together. As it always should have been.



The End

Copyright © 2022 by Jim Allenby

All rights reserved. This post or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

The Horizon and Ghostwood Universe

Readers may have (or probably not have) noticed that a lot of my stories, novellas and short stories are, or will be, tied together in a "shared universe".

Let me explain...

I'm currently in the middle of re-editing my first novella, "The Haunting of Polly Webster". This book features a government agency known as Horizon. They investigate weird phenomena, paranormal activity and many, many other things.

Most of my novellas will be standalone, but will feature Horizon in some way or another. Some will be loosely connected and some will be more heavily connected. My intention, however, is that you will be able to read them as separate entities, but gain much more from them if you read them all together. See the connective tissue between each story if you like. These will be released under the banner "The Horizon Archives".

My other project is called "The Ghostwood Chronicles". It's intended to be a three-novel series comprising of the books, "The Ghostwood Demon", "The Three Worlds" and "The Last Eclipse". I'm working on the first book and writing the second. But it's still a little way off. Without spoiling things, "Ghostwood" follows a group of characters living in a small, rural village named Little Ashbury. There is something off about the village and there's something even more off about the woods that lie to the west of the village. Horizon features in these stories to some degree and there are a lot of threads woven between the two series. You don't need to read the Horizon stuff to enjoy Ghostwood, however, but I hope it enhances everyone's enjoyment.

As a little addition I also have the "Horizon Files" that are being published sparodically on this blog in online format and the occasional "Tales from the Ghostwood" and "Horizon Micro Stories" that have been published here as well.

My intention is to release, firstly, "Polly Webster" followed by "Muddleton Woods" and then the first "Ghostwood" book. All of these will hopefully come out in 2023. I'll also be tidying up the blog to better represent the online-only content.

So, now I've cleared that up, here's a complete list of things I am currently working on (as well as a couple of unfinished, early projects):

THE HORIZON ARCHIVES

Novellas

• The Haunting of Polly Webster (The Horizon Archives Book 1) - TBR 2023
• The White Lady of Muddleton Woods (The Horizon Archives Book 2) - TBR 2023
• Zoe (The Horizon Archives Book 3) - Currently being written

Horizon Micro Stories

• The Possible Death of Bryony Jones (Online Only Blog Release) - Released 2022
• The Horizon Files (Ongoing Online Only Blog Release) - Ongoing 2022-Present
• It's Always Winter (Online Only Blog Release) - TBR 2022

THE GHOSTWOOD CHRONICLES

Novels

• The Ghostwood Demon (The Ghostwood Chronicles Book 1) - TBR 2023
• The Three Worlds (The Ghostwood Chronicles Book 2) - Currently being written
• The Last Eclipse (The Ghostwood Chronicles Book 3) - Currently in planning stages

Tales from the Ghostwood

• Dead Flowers (Online Only Blog Release) - Released 2022
• Echo (Online Only Blog Release) - Released 2022
• The Stranger and the Holy Man (Online Only Blog Release) - Released 2022

SIDE PROJECTS

Novels

• Enter The Mirror (currently unfinished work from 2001)
• The Girl from Nowhere (currently unfinished work from 2017)
• Letters from Addlestone House (currently being written)

Short Stories / Pieces

• The Signal Box (Online Only Blog Release) - Released 2022
• Reaper on the Roof (Online Only Blog Release) - Released 2022

Horizon: File 017 (Intervention)

BEGIN REPORT

FILE 017: INTERVENTION

It's been a few weeks since I last posted. A few weeks since they - Horizon -  caught me. It was a man with blue eyes. Handsome and unshaven. I'm pretty certain it was the guy who I'd seen hanging around Bluebell Hill back when Eleanor had gone missing. He was wearing a long, dark coat and a grey suit, holding a simple, black umbrella. A real, genuine Horizon agent. And this time he didn't try and disguise the fact. He was pleasant, but to the point. He took my laptop and told me it'd be confiscated. The man - Knox his name was - warned me to stop. Told me that they were the good guys, but not all of the good guys were, in fact, good. He didn't hurt me, but he did insist that I stop.

And then the world had turned black. The last thing I'd seen was his blue eyes and a sad smile playing on his lips.

I woke up in my car a few hours later, the rain hammering down on the roof and no sign of the mysterious Horizon agent. But he was the idiot. These posts are saved onto a secure server that Simon Roper had helped me to set up before...well, before he left. So all it took was a new laptop and access to the server and I'm back. So if any of you goons are reading this, you failed? Maybe next time send someone with more than one brain cell to deal with me.

That's not an invite by the way. But you'll never find me. Not now. I'm somewhere you'll never think of looking. And I still have a story to tell. A story that involved a man who became like a father figure to me over the few months that I knew him. My personal Obi-Wan Kenobi if you like.

Simon Roper was a hero. And it all started with a place he had called the Well. Now, I didn't sit there thinking that the Well would be a literal well. I assumed it was a code name for a building stuffed full of information. A "well of information". But no, it was a literal well. Dark and dangerous and downright terrifying.

And I wasn't prepared for what I found in the Well...

END REPORT

Copyright © 2022 by Jim Allenby

All rights reserved. This post or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

Horizon: File 016 (Hope)

 BEGIN REPORT

FILE 016: HOPE

Still in my car. Still wondering how much longer I can keep doing this for. Still wondering if I'll ever see the light at the end of the tunnel. The sun should be rising soon, but somehow the daylight doesn't seem to expel the terrors of the night. They stalk me no matter the time of day. So, I'll just sit here sipping on my cold coffee, praying that each day brings me something else.

You'd forgive me for thinking that the grizzly old Simon Roper was going to take me into the Adam & Eve and buy me a drink, but he didn't. Instead, he looked at me with those haunted old eyes, grabbed my hand and began marching across the gravelled carpark and towards the street. I'd pulled back, asking him what the hell he thought he was doing.

He had told me that what he had to say couldn't be said in public. That there were potentially people watching him all the time. I told him I still wasn't prepared to go anywhere with him as I didn't know him. He suggested we go to my car and then proceeded to hand me a gun.

A bloody gun!

He slipped it covertly into my hands and told me that I could sit next to him in the driver’s seat and if I felt threatened, or if he made any attempt to hurt me, then I could defend myself. You couldn't have said fairer than that.

What followed was a conversation that wouldn't exactly open my eyes but would put me on another course. A course that led to hope.

I'd asked him about what he'd seen in Hell. I told him that the video had caught on fire part way through. He told me it was just as well, touching his scars lightly, his milky eyes lost in the distant past. He didn't want to tell me what he'd seen down there. After I'd pressed, he'd warned me not to force the conversation and that I had to stay focused - finding Eleanor.

That brought me crashing back to reality.

He told me that after he'd "left" Hell he'd had nightmares. He wouldn't tell me exactly what, but it had broken him. Horizon had tried to help him, but really all they wanted were answers to what he had seen. It had gotten too much. He'd resigned. They had refused his resignation request. He'd quit. They'd hauled him in front of their CEO, Galloway, who had told him in no uncertain terms that he was going nowhere.

So, he had escaped. Changed his identity. I'd asked him how he had come to know Stark. He'd told me that some connections needed to be protected. Out of desperation he'd adopted the identity of David Harrison and become a recluse, hiding out in Lincoln. He told me that he had to hide from them because of what they may do to him.

I asked him what he meant by that. At that point his mouth had finally stopped moving, his eyes blank. And then he looked at me. I saw a fire in his eyes I'd never seen before as he told me that he was going to show me and that, if I felt comfortable with him, he'd take me somewhere that would give me answers.

I asked him where that would be.

He told me he was going to take me to somewhere called "the well".

Shit! I car has just pulled up. At this time. In the early hours. And there's no bloody number plate on it. Oh shit. Oh shit...

END REPORT

Copyright © 2022 by Jim Allenby

All rights reserved. This post or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

The Stranger and the Holy Man (Tales from the Ghostwood)

This piece was the original prologue to my first, full-length novel titled "The Ghostwood Demon." Very quickly I decided to remove it and a totally new prologue was written instead.

“I once met a strange, tired man, not long after I had arrived in Little Ashbury. His eyes were the darkest brown I had ever seen, but they seemed sad. He seemed to be on the verge of tears, yet when he smiled at me, I saw such warmth. Such happiness. He was a troubled character. I'd met him leaving the Ghostwood Arms and, in his drunken stupor, he had told me that his name was Flagstaff and that he had lived in the area for a long, long time.


An incredibly long time.


I asked him if he needed any help on returning to his home, but he told me that he could never return home. That he was cursed to remain here forever.


After a little while he began telling me a strange tale about Heaven and Hell, yet he had different names for them. Names he said were only remembered by those who needed to know.


After a few more minutes of him mumbling incoherently he made to leave. But before he departed, he turned to me, now seemingly stone cold sober. He warned me that no matter how tempted I was I must never go into the woods. He told me that inside the woods lay only darkness. And he warned me that whatever I thought I knew about death was a lie.


I continued to meet with Flagstaff many, many more times over the years and we eventually became good friends. And that’s when I found out what lay in the heart of the Ghostwood. That's when Flagstaff told me the story that would rock my very beliefs to their core...”


Extract from the diary of Reverend Ernest Goldsmith, August 1851

Copyright © 2022 by Jim Allenby

All rights reserved. This post or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

Horizon: File 015 (The Waking Ally)

BEGIN REPORT

FILE 015: THE WAKING ALLY

Bloody dog walkers. Why do they hang around remote woodlands in the dead of night? Mind you they're probably wondering why a diminutive blonde is sat out in her car in the dead of night as well. Their faces told me all I needed to know about what they thought about that. So, I'm ok. No Horizon men in suits trying to take me away.

Again.

So... Simon Roper. Stark had sent me on my way with all those freaky images in my head. She told me that if I ever needed her then all I had to do is call her, but...I don't know. This was my crusade. This was my quest. I felt like Stark was too detached from Horizon. I had to dig deeper. She understood that and praised me for my dogged determination.

But as I sped off from the freaky little village of Little Ashbury, I did have to wonder what I would find with this David Harrison aka Simon Roper.

I didn't have to wait long. I called him on the number Stark had provided. The man who answered was gruff. His voice sounded as though he smoked fifty a day. Roper had been thirty-five when he had filmed Hell, so he was now in his mid-sixties. He had introduced himself as David Harrison on the phone and I had said the words that Stark had told me to speak:

"Hello, my name is Zoe Parish. Joan Stark sent me. The Shadow Man still walks the Ghostwood."

There was a pause. A rasping sigh at the other end of the line before Roper told me to drive to Lincoln and meet him at the Adam & Eve pub at 3pm that afternoon. And so, I did as I was instructed. He also told me that if he saw I was with anyone else then there would be trouble.

The Adam & Eve Tavern was an old building that had been painted over in white some time ago. It was reportedly one of the oldest pubs in the city, having been built at some point during the 1700’s.

The flat face of the front of the building rose, triangular, to a point. On it’s left side it tapered down to a smaller, extended section of the pub. Another add-on lay on its right-hand side and a drive, leading to the beer garden, ran down its right-hand side.

It was raining. And when I say raining, I really mean raining. The type that's relentless. The type you can drown in. Stood outside the pub, underneath a black umbrella, was a man in a raincoat. He had short, untidy white hair, a neatly trimmed white beard, almost-grey eyes and a deeply lined face that told me he had seen more than his fair share of heartache in his time. But it was the left side of his face that left the mark on me. The left side of his face was partially melted. Not badly, but clearly, he'd been caught in a fire at some point.

And my mind went back to his alleged trip into Hell as he extended his hand to greet me...

This was a turning point for me.

END REPORT

Copyright © 2022 by Jim Allenby

All rights reserved. This post or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

Horizon: File 014 (A Glimmer of Hope)

BEGIN REPORT

FILE 014: A GLIMMER OF HOPE

I slept. On the sofa. But as soon as the sun came up I was up as well. Stark cooked bacon and eggs and made me a massive mug of coffee - white ceramic mug with "God Says Just Smoke" in huge, black letters plastered on it. She was an interesting woman. She clearly knew more than she ever told me, and she definitely wasn't just here as a vicar, but she was good enough to answer a few questions about Horizon and what had happened to Eleanor.

She had apologised profusely to me with regards to Eleanor, but she had suspected that something wasn't quite right. She told me that something had used my daughters image to get to me. I asked her why the something was interested in me, and she said that I probably had something that it wanted. That in taking Eleanor it had learnt something or it had taken Eleanor as a way to get to me.

I mean...what?! I had no idea. I had nothing. My life was boring. I had nothing of any interest to anyone at all. I was normal. Ordinary. Stark told me that it'd be something I probably didn't even realise and to search deeper. But my thoughts had turned back to my daughter. She reassured me that Eleanor was probably still alive because the thing would be able to use her as leverage against me. So there was that at least. But then I thought of my poor little girl being stuck out there in the darkness, scared and alone...

Stark had admonished herself for her slip ups. She told me she'd had too many of them just recently. That the thing had used her to get to me. She told me that the Ghostwood was a hive of supernatural activity - one reason it had gained that name - and the thing had honed in on her.

But I didn't care about the hows and the wheres and the whys. I just needed to know how I could get Eleanor back. So I asked her more about Horizon. She told me that they were founded a few decades back in an attempt to investigate the unknown. The supernatural. They had a firm hold over a number of things, but they had largely stayed away from her. And she also told me that if they didn't want to be found, then they most certainly wouldn't be found.

But then Stark, that twinkle in her eyes, had gone into her purse and pulled out a slip of crumpled paper. She told me that she had heard of those who had left Horizon. Most had disappeared. Possibly gained new identities, but that she had the contact details of one of them who had left. She had met with him once, a long time ago, when she was dealing with a case. He had given her his name and number.

I looked at the faded writing on the paper - David Harrison followed by a number. She told me it was his new identity and that his real name was Simon Roper - the same sodding guy who had filmed the video in Hell!

Okay, I must point out that I'm still at Viking Woods. And there's a light heading towards me. A torchlight. It could be a dog walker I suppose, but if you don't hear from me again then you know that they've got me. Damn it!

END REPORT

Copyright © 2022 by Jim Allenby

All rights reserved. This post or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

Horizon: File 013 (Ashes)

BEGIN REPORT

FILE 013: ASHES

I've contemplated it. I really have. Contemplated going back to Little Ashbury. I know that I'd be relatively safe with Stark, but that would be going backwards. I need to move forwards. So that's why I'm currently parked up near Viking Wood again. Yep, Viking Wood. I figure it's the last place they'd think to look for me.

So, the vicarage...

I'd made my way outside the building. It had been raining and I slipped on the wet doorstep, falling flat on my face, but I didn't stop moving. I scrambled along the floor for a few metres until I felt far enough away to take a breather. Turning around I looked up to see the dark silhouette of the building against the dimly lit streetlights. The silence was palpable. I wasn't sure what to do. Stark had entered that room clearly ready to do battle with whatever had attacked me, but now there came no sound whatsoever.

And then the door swung open and out stepped Eleanor. Her face was covered in ash and soot. Her once-friendly face fixed into a ferocious frown. Her hair was wet and hung lankly either side of her face and her arms hung limply at her side, the fingers on both of her hands bent and curved into claws.

I whispered her name into the rain, but the thing that was wearing my daughters face didn't respond. It continued to walk slowly towards me. When I shouted out for Stark, the Eleanor-thing twisted her face into a sneer. The streetlights winked out leaving us both in total darkness. I caught a little flash of the figure as she advanced on me, but it wasn't Eleanor anymore. It was the taller female form again. I caught a glimpse of silver hair and the blue dress. Later I'd realise that the figure was the same silver-haired, blue-dressed woman I'd see on the Hell video. But right now I didn't give a fuck. I just wanted to get out of there.

I turned to run. There came an unearthly, hollow shriek from behind me and something grabbed my ankle. I twisted out of its gripped, turned back and saw the shape of the woman divide in two. The only way I can describe it is that her body suddenly turned to ash, exploded in a cloud and then reformed into two separate figures. Visibility was shit in the dark, but in the occasional bit of natural light provided by the sky I could see that they were faceless. Grey and tall and thin. They walked like something that didn't belong in this world. Like their legs weren't working quite right.

Fear took over and I got to my feet and ran. I made it across the graveyard when I turned to look at them. They were moving slowly but they were still coming. Fucking hell. It was probably the most terrified I'd been in my life after Eleanor had gone missing. I was about to turn and keep running past the church and into the village - into civilisation - when two shots rang out. Two actual sodding shots from a gun. I covered my ears and when I looked back the two figures had exploded, particles of them hanging in the air, swirling and churning around almost as if they were waiting for orders on whether to reconvene again.

I turned to see Stark standing next to her verger, Miss Johnston. Miss Johnston was holding a shotgun. Stark was covered in the same soot that had been smeared across the things face. She muttered some words under her breath, held up the cross and the two clouds of ash merged as one and then spun off into the night sky like some kind of hurricane from the depths of Hell.

And that's when I finally demanded some answers from the Reverend Joan Stark.

END REPORT

Copyright © 2022 by Jim Allenby

All rights reserved. This post or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

Horizon: File 012 (My Little Nightmare)

BEGIN REPORT

FILE 012: MY LITTLE NIGHTMARE


Coffee at the ready. Make sure you've got all your lights turned on.

So, in the moment that I turned around I knew that it wasn't my daughter that Joan Stark had found walking out of the woods. It couldn't be my daughter. This was something else.

I turned to face whatever stood behind me just as the ice-cold fingertips of the "thing" touched the base of my exposed neck. What stood there was a shadow. That's all I can describe it as. Female in shape but taller than Eleanor. Slim and lithe with a the outline of a dress flowing around it. But when I shone my torch light on its face I caught the glimpse of the pale, familiar looks of my Eleanor.

The thing leered at me, with Eleanor's eyes, and jerked forward unnaturally. I had gasped, stepped back and dropped my phone. The light from the torch spread out to partially illuminate the room and I watched as the shadowy woman expanded, spreading out through all the free spaces around her, creeping across the walls and the corners. Filling the room. And there was a sound. Something I'll always struggle to forget. Like a moaning sound. A deep, groaning filled with pain and anguish getting louder and louder the bigger the shadow became. I had been paralysed with fear. Unable to get up.

Until the door had burst open and Joan Stark and flown in wearing a pink, fluffy dressing gown and holding a wooden cross in her hands. The lights in the hallway had all gone out. The place was in pitch darkness. But Stark had hauled me to my feet and told me in much more colourful language to get out of the building. I barely had any courage to protest so had stumbled to my feet and escaped the room, leaving her to face whatever this thing was.

The entire vicarage had been thrown into darkness. I could barely see to make my way down the stairs and to the front door. All the time I could hear the unearthly moaning of the creature up in the spare bedroom. It was only whe-----

ERROR

ERROR

ERROR

ERROR

Damn it. I'm on the road again. Something put a signal blocker on my connection so I'm travelling out of the area. I'll find somewhere to hole up and then I'll finish this bloody nightmare of an event.


END REPORT

Copyright © 2022 by Jim Allenby


All rights reserved. This post or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

Horizon: File 011 (Fear of the Dark)

BEGIN REPORT

FILE 011: FEAR OF THE DARK

Why does the dark scare us so much? Why are we so afraid of it? Most ghost stories are usually told under the cover of darkness. Told at night around campfires or around the glow of a fire. When we watch a horror film we turn the lights off. We draw the curtains. We try our best to keep the sun away so we can feel the fear of the dark. We enjoy being scared of the dark. But that night at the vicarage in Little Ashbury...all I wanted was the sun to rise.

And I believe that the night is a living thing. It has so much control over us all. Over our emotions and how we act. Burglars break into your house during the night. Robberies are committed during the night. It's a cloak. A disguise. A shroud that evil uses and operates under.

And it's also something that the thing that claimed to be my daughter used on us.

You'll be happy to know that I've found myself on a caravan park. Paid cash in hand and I'm now all cosy with some proper coffee, a bit of toast and some old comedies playing on the TV. It's not home, but it feels a little closer to it, although I'm not safe. I mustn't be lulled into a false sense of security, but I needed somewhere that felt safe while I recounted this one to you.

So the verger, Miss Johnston, had wished us a goodnight. Stark had given me a brandy to help me get to sleep. I'd pressed her as much as I dare. There was something there, I knew it. I straight out asked her if she knew what Horizon was. 

She said she knew enough and would only tell me that they were an organisation that she tried best to stay away from. The woods that Stark watched over in between sermons at the church were on their radar, but they left her alone. Mostly. I pressed for more information, but she told me it was best not to pry any further and that I should get some sleep. With a clear head we'd be able to discuss further.

So I slept. On the floor beside the double bed in the spare room. The room that Eleanor had been put up in.

It had been around three or four in the morning when I'd awoken. There was a streetlight not far from the window of the spare bedroom. I'd noted it because when I went to sleep it had cast the room in an eerie, pale light. But now the room was enveloped in nothing but ink-black darkness. Instinctively I went to my phone and switched on the torch light, sitting up to check on Eleanor.

She wasn't there.

Naturally I started to panic, threw back the covers, and scrambled around the bed to look for any sign of her. She had gone. And my fears slipped back to losing her once again. I'd only just found her. I couldn't lose her again. It was then that I felt something I had never felt before and prayed I would never feel again. The sense of something in the room. A creeping, slithering feeling of dread climbed up my spine and wrapped its arms around me in the worlds most disturbing hug. I could feel something breathing on my neck. A shallow, rasping. On every exhale it let out a rattling whine. Whatever it was, it wasn't Eleanor.

And then I heard her laugh. I heard my little girl laugh. And the laugh was coming from the same place as the breathing. With a deep breath I closed my eyes and turned around to face whatever was in the room with us.

Okay. I need something stronger. Something stiffer. This is messed up. I'll be back.

END REPORT

Copyright © 2022 by Jim Allenby

All rights reserved. This post or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

Horizon: File 010 (Little Ashbury)

 BEGIN REPORT:

FILE 010: LITTLE ASHBURY

I've been considering calling Joan Stark for some time now. But she helped me and I don't want to put her in any more danger or betray her trust in me. Just another lead that's more or less been cut dead from me.

I managed to get some sleep, in case you're wondering. I parked up at the train station in Halifax and I'm now sat in McDonalds eating a bagel and drinking some bad coffee. I long for my coffee machine. I long for so many home comforts these days.

So, Little Ashbury.

I'd never heard of the place. That whole area of the country was pretty much off my radar. Never visited it before, but it was not too far away from Lincoln. The drive from Cambridge took me just over two hours. Two hours of sat there zoning out to overly-repeated songs on the radio and wondering just what had happened to my little girl.

The village itself was pretty hard to find, but find it I did. A quaint place nestled between a huge expanse of woods to the west and rolling hills to the east. I had to travel through Lincoln to get to it and it was nearly dusk when I finally arrived at the church - St. Christopher's. The fog had descended and the church looked ominous, looming out of murk like a dark, stone beacon design to ward travellers away.

I was met by a gruff, small Scottish woman at the entrance of the church who ushered me away from the building and into the picturesque little vicarage just off to the side of the building. Once inside the vicar, Joan Stark, greeted me with a handshake and a concerned face. She looked like she'd seen some things in her time. An ancient face sat underneath a shock of short, white hair. But there was a twinkle in her blue eyes as well. I asked her how she had found Eleanor, but she told me to not bother asking her questions as it would only get myself in deeper.

She took me upstairs to her spare bedroom where I found Eleanor sleeping under the covers. She looked peaceful, but different. Almost like there was no life left in her. Stark told me that she had been found wandering near the edge of the woods - the aptly named Ghostwood - whilst she and her verger had been out scouting the area in the early hours of the morning. Naturally I'd asked what they had been doing out at that time, but Stark had again reminded me not to ask questions.

Jesus, just thinking about that night now...It's hard to piece it all together. The relief at having her there again. The fear of what I'd found. The unknown. The darkness. And I remembered what Freya McCormack had said about the night climbing into her and Eleanor's tent. The night certainly climbed into the vicarage that night.

Stark offered me a room for the night, and part of me wishes to God I hadn't taken her up on the offer.

I need a moment. This is all bringing back too many screwed up memories. I'll be back.

END REPORT

Copyright © 2022 by Jim Allenby

All rights reserved. This post or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a review.