Alone

Alone.

He was used to being this way. As a boy he had had few friends, and by default fewer close ones. It was not that he could not make friends. It was more that he did not want to. He could fit in to any group of people he came across with comparative ease. There was nothing spectacular about his appearance. Short, light brown hair kept away from his ears, soft brown eyes with a dark mono-brow above them. Even his clothing was unspectacular, being more for comfort than show. It normally consisted of jeans, a t-shirt and a jacket. He had a varied taste in music, was fairly athletic and picked for many of the school sports teams from primary through into the end of his secondary education. Had he chosen to he could have been the life and soul of any party. But he chose not to go out with people he met. A good night for him was sitting alone in his room with his books, his music, his guitar or his computer games for company. When his family finally got the internet installed he started surfing the net as well, but seemed always to keep an almost clinical distance between himself and the plethora of people he met.

He did not open up to people, nor did he feel any need to. Anybody could, and he thought they all did, go to him with a problem and he would endeavour to help them solve it. To many onlookers he was a normal person whose main abnormality was not having any problems of his own.

He had, of his own admittance, a very keen mind. He had done well at school with minimal effort (more because it presented a challenge for him to do no work than anything else) and people often mistook him for someone at least twenty years older than he in actuality was. He could, and often did, find the heart of any problem and find its resolution before someone had finished explaining the problem to him. His father used to tell people “He won his first debate when he was four. I don’t think my brother was prepared for a four year old who could grasp basic economic theorem.”

Why was it then that he decided to keep so much to himself?

He had, after leaving university, begun a somewhat successful career as a writer. He was a multi-best selling author, his collections of short and children’s stories coming out every few years. He was regularly asked to give talks, and made a fair sum of money writing speeches for politicians, business leaders and, on more than one occasion, school headmasters. He was seen at many parties at first, talking with the rich and the famous and looking at no time to be out of place. Then, gradually as he went through his thirties and forties, he seemed to gradually ease himself out of the public eye. He was still writing and never once entertained the thought of using a pseudonym, but he gave fewer and fewer talks, wrote fewer speeches, and finally stopped going to dinners. Being as he was nothing spectacular or memorable to look at he would regularly go out to the post office to post another story or manuscript without being hounded by people who might recognise him. He would walk for hours at a time in the hills of the Peak District or north Wales, keeping always to himself and never exchanging more than minor pleasantries with anyone he happened to meet. His life, he thought to himself, was as uneventful as he wanted it to be. When he was in his sixties, he wrote a poem (which later appeared in the local paper under his middle names) where the last line was “And he was happy he had no friends or family.” This was how he thought of himself. He took one last look around the study where he had written countless stories and poems, speeches grand and humorous, and locked the door behind him.

He had kept in touch with one person in his life, and it was to her that he wrote his final piece.

Dear Clair,

Thank you for keeping in touch with me over the years. I trust you and your husband are well. You should find with this letter two keys. The larger is to my front door, and the smaller to my study. They are the only copies.

I have decided to leave here and take up residence in a small cottage I purchased not too many years ago on the outskirts of a small village in the Midlands. I have kept it fairly well stocked and feel it would be a preferable place for my final years. I would like to thank you for your friendship, and wish you and your family a long and successful life.

Yours sincerely,

J


He died in his sleep, aged seventy three, on the same day his complete memoirs were published.

Frost Dream

It was a frostbitten night, the sort where walking not only makes a sound but also hurts your feet. He was not walking, but even running he could feel the cold claw up through the soles of his shoes. On and on through the shimmering forest he ran, the frozen floor crunching beneath him, the odd twig or melting leaf thrown into the air as he went. A lone wolf howled in the distance, and his breathing came hard and heavy, like the air itself were trying to get away from him as quickly as possible. It was the same run he made each and every night. From behind he could hear the heavy gallop gaining, closer and closer. There were no shadows cast, no light from the moon, but he could make out the trace outlines of the trees, like gnarled and terrible claws reaching all about, trying to snatch him from the ground as he went. Still the galloping came closer, closer, as his lungs ached and his footing became more and more uncertain. He slipped into a tree, his shoulder striking hard against the trunk as his head hit a branch, seeming to wrap around him. He stumbled back, out of the grasp of the terrible silver shape, and started again at a full sprint, trying desperately to worm his way between the cold, grizzled soldiers standing to attention all around, ducking under boughs, splashing through streams and brooks, the water stinging his thighs and chest. It was close now, and he could hear it breathing as his heart pounded in his ears like a bass-drum.


“Another nightmare?” his wife, Candice, asked him as she spooned some scrambled egg onto the burnt toast she was going to offer him for breakfast.

“No,” he said, still feeling the chilled sweat on the back of his neck as he took his customary place at the small table. “The same one.”

“You can get help for that you know,” she set the plate in front of him. “Mrs Kennedy had problems with nightmares once, but she went and saw someone about it, a hypnotherapist.” She paused to sip some coffee.

“Must we have this same discussion morning after morning?” he said angrily, stabbing at some of the egg and watching the ketchup he had put on it seep off like water from a sponge.

“No need to be testy,” she replied calmly, pushing aside a lock of her crimson hair, “and don’t interrupt me. She says she hasn’t had a problem with nightmares since. I can ask her to give you the number if you like.”

“They’re all charlatans and con artists.” He glanced towards the clock. He was glad he had work to go to in less than an hour. As much as he loved her, Candice was becoming intolerable. It seemed like it was almost a religion for his red-haired wife. She had always been one for gossip and trying out whatever it was her friends, especially Mrs Kennedy, suggested. He was surprised that she had not as yet come up with some excuse to go and see this hypnotherapist herself. “Besides,” he shovelled some food into his mouth, swallowing quickly and lifting his mug to his lips, inhaling the strong scented coffee stewing within, “you know I can’t afford it. This’ll blow over sooner or later.”

Candice looked reproachfully at her husband, and he feared for a moment she was going to shout at him again over something he considered of little to no importance.
“You should stop complaining about it then if you’re not going to do anything about it.”

It took a lot of effort on his part not to point out that she was the one who always seemed to bring up his recurrent nightmare. Maybe, he thought on his way to work, he would have stopped having it three or four years ago if she did not keep harping on.


“How did I let you talk me into this?” he asked as he and Candice sat in the waiting room of a Dr. Eddings, hypnotherapist. She sat there reading one of those tattered, aged magazines, leafing through the pages and soaking in the articles. She said nothing, and sat cold and hard. He thought back to the previous morning and remembered the shrieks and curses she used.

“You get yourself to see him or we’re through. I am not spending the rest of my life with a man who spends most of every night thrashing about in his sleep screaming for his mother. It’s rude and impolite, not to mention the fact it probably wakes up the entire street as well.” Given the circumstances he though it prudent to at least try this suggestion from his wife.


“So, Mr. Bryan,” the doctor started. He had brown hair in an almost military cut, was in his early to mid-thirties and his blue eyes seemed to suggest he was relatively new to not only the field of hypnotherapy, but the world of work in general. “The form says that you suffer from a recurrent nightmare. How long ago can you remember having this particular dream?”

He told him.

“And do you recall anything particular about the day you first had this nightmare, say, for instance, any particular stress or concern, or anything you may have seen or done that was out of the ordinary?”

“Nothing that I recall,” he replied in that monotone manner which is often employed by people who do not want to be in the presence of someone trying to make a psychological difference in their lives.

“Was there any particular stress or trauma at home, work or in your family shortly before this time?”

He answered that there had not been anything out of the ordinary, and secretly thought through some answers to possible questions. Yes, he liked his mother as a child. No he was not bullied by goldfish or chipmunks. Yes he had a normal childhood doing all the normal childhood things. It was with some regret that he had to forego the first two of these answers (especially the one about the chipmunks) and kept in the same white manner of speaking.

“Tell me a little more about this dream,” the doctor told him. “Describe for me the very beginning.”

He described the woods being cold and dark, a harsh frost on the ground and clinging to his body. He was running, the cold air biting at his bare skin. He wore a plain white t-shirt, splashed with mud and something black and sticky, and a pair of cotton shorts with a drawstring soaked, untied and slapping his inner thigh. He felt an uncontrollable fear, and he could taste blood in his mouth, as if he had already been running as hard as he could for mile after mile. He could hear an owl hooting, the sound carrying and echoing through the trees.

“Hmm. You are sure that you cannot recall any trauma or stress from any point in your life?”

He ignored the urge to shout at the good doctor. “No, nothing out of the ordinary.”

Dr. Eddings looked at him for a few moments, jotting down some notes as he did so. “What I would like you to do now,” he said, “is to make yourself comfortable and relax. Many patients find laying down helps. Are you comfortable? Good. Now, close your eyes, and relax. Listen to the sound of my voice. I want you to picture the scene you described for me a few minutes ago. You are running through the forest on a dark night. Something has frightened you. Describe to me what happens as you see it happening in your minds’ eye.”

“I’m running,” he started. “The trees are quite densely packed and it’s difficult to move.” A wolf howls in the distance as he runs, a heavy galloping behind him. “I lose my footing and hit a tree.” He placed his hand on his left shoulder, the one which, in his dream, he hit against the tree. “The tree… it’s trying to grab me, but I get away from it. The whole forest is alive…”

“Go on,” the clinical doctor said.

“I can hear it… it’s getting closer… no... I can’t.” he snapped his eyes open, springing upright like one of those fake skeletons on a haunted-house ride at the fair. A cold sweat ran down the back of his neck, and his breathing was hard and heavy.

“What was the last thing you remember about the dream?”

He took a few moments to compose his thoughts, giving his breath a chance to calm itself. He looked at the doctor, and felt an unnatural hatred for the man who he had only met less than forty minutes before. “I remember hitting a tree, and running on. I ran through a stream, and felt as if something was bearing down on me.”

“And then?”

“That’s everything. I wake up still running and the whole thing repeats itself night after night.”

After a decent pause, Dr. Eddings turned to his patient. “I have a theory,” he started, “with cases such as yours. It could be that you started having this nightmare at a time of some stress, but were so scared by it that you never finished the dream. Of course, most people at some point in their lives have a dream that they never finish. In some instances though I have heard that people are able to stop having the recurring nightmares or dreams after they have finally been able to finish whatever the dream is, coming to some conclusion.” He paused again, looking straight at his patient. The clock on the wall ticked inexhaustibly onward. “Because we only have a few minutes left I don’t think there’s anything we can do today, but how would you feel if we met again and I helped guide you to the end of the dream? Yes? Good. If you fix an appointment with my secretary, that will be great. Have you been prescribed sleeping tablets before?”

He nodded.

“Have they had any effect?”

“No.”

“I don’t know if there is anything I can suggest other than to keep a record of your dreams from tonight until we meet again. Maybe some more information will come to light in them and we can start to put together some pattern or logic in the dream to help rationalise. Thank you for coming to see me, Mr Bryan, and I’ll see you at our next appointment.”

He slept fitfully that night.


He could hear the wolf howling in the distance as he ran through the forest, the earth in places hard whilst in others his footing was unsure in the mud. The only thing that was constant was the cold, stabbing into his feet and legs as the wind whipped his bare arms and face. It felt to him like his face had been cut in a dozen places by the wind and the ever-reaching branches. The moon gave no light, and he could hear, ever closer, the hard, fast gallop echoing in amongst the trees behind him. He slipped, and a tree seemed to grab him as he fell. He pulled himself away, more terrified than anything he could describe. A cold sweat trickled down his neck as the water from the stream splashed up and seemed to freeze against him, trying, he thought, as desperately as it could to hold him in place. Deeper and deeper into the forest he ran, the trees coming thicker and quicker towards and beyond him. He turned sharply, as the lone wolf again howled. He could hear coming from a side the thud of the wolf running, and his heart leapt higher in his throat, almost choking the very life from him.

He slid down a bank, running up another stream, the stones cutting his calves and shins and the water stinging the fresh cuts, freezing his feet even more than the ground had done. Suddenly, the taste of blood still in his mouth, he saw and heard the wolf as it leapt into the stream ahead of him, its shadowy outline turning as it landed and tearing straight for him, jaws agape and a terrible, salivating sound coming from the open mouth. As it leapt to attack, he ducked out of the way, and heard the wolf crash down into the water behind him. Not daring to look back he scrambled up the bank, a yelp followed by sickening snaps coming from the river. The galloping was coming closer, but it seemed to be hovering deliberately some distance back. He could hear that whatever it was was faster than he was, and a new fear gripped him as he realised that it was playing with him. He could have sworn that he could hear and smell the hot breath of his pursuer behind him as he twisted and turned, the tree roots seeming to slither through the frozen undergrowth.

We’ve got to wake him up

At last he reached some semblance of habitation, a crude log cabin set in a clearing. He made towards it, slamming through the door and bolting it behind. He looked out of the window, and saw a single, reflective light coming towards him at alarming speed. It stopped quite suddenly at the window he was looking from, and he started back. He could hear a sinister laughing. It was like a crow cawing, a wolf howling, a vulture shrieking and a man in madness cackling all in one. His whole body was rigid as he lay on the floor, his eyes transfixed on the light. Suddenly it blinked out of sight, and he could hear something pounding at the door, the wood starting to creak and moan like the dead themselves. With an ear-shattering split the door broke, splinters flying everywhere as the terrible light flew straight at him.

It was late spring, the weather fair, with a refreshing breeze blowing over the grass and flowers. A couple stood close together, the woman with a small child in her arms. They had been happily married for two years. In front of them was a gravestone. The woman placed a small bunch of flowers in front of it, as the child played absentmindedly with one of the drawstrings of his coat. With a sigh, the mother took the drawstring from his hand and faintly smiled at him. Her husband placed his arm gently around her shoulder, whispered something in her ear, and led her at a stately pace away from the graveside.

Killer (song-based short story)

You don’t see me. In the shadows, you have a feeling that I’m here, but you can’t see me. You think your imagining things – your mind letting the flickers of light, the rush of wind as the train hurtles through the tunnel, and the drip drip drip of water fool you into believing that someone’s here with you, when there isn’t. You know there isn’t. Still, you can’t shake that uneasy feeling, as if someone is watching you.

I am watching you. My eyes are burning a hole straight through your back.

You keep walking, and it’s time I had some more fun. You couldn’t hear me before, but I start to tread more heavily. You hear each step. You walk some more. You turn, but see nothing. You turn again, quicken your pace. That’s it. That’s it, keep walking. I’m getting closer. Closer and closer with every step and don’t you just know it. You can hear me. A train rushes past and you jump, scared. I can hear your thoughts – there’s no-one there, stop imagining things, there’s no-one there.

You walk through the subway, my eyes burn a hole in your back. A footstep behind you… my knife slips neatly into your left lung, a smile on my face. Fear and terror on yours. You try to turn, but only your head moves as I catch you, stop you from falling. Your eyes… magnificent. The first time I have seen them, and they show nothing but pure fear. Terror in its purest form. You scream for mercy as I push you down, laughing as I watch you bleed.

You aren’t the first. You won’t be the last. I have no need to kill. There’s a voice… compelling… fuelling my blood-lust.

I can see what a life’s meant to be.

I already know what the newspapers will say in the morning. SUBWAY KILLER STRIKES AGAIN. POLICE BAFFELED. There is no motive. I don’t hate any of them. I don’t hate you. I gain nothing material from this. But the excitement… shakes me. Whenever I see someone walking through the dimly lit tunnels, I feel a buzz, a rush of adrenaline as I stalk, and kill. Some have grabbed me, tried to pull themselves up by my white t-shirt, but I bury the knife in their throat, and they bleed to death in a much more painful manner than you will. You’ve been good. You deserve a quick death. I’ll slit your throat rather than puncture.

The papers will be wrong. The Sun will claim I hate everyone, and will probably call it a “mocking religion of hatred that burns through the night”. They’ll never know the truth. The police cannot figure out a motive, and they’re afraid. All of the public are afraid. That fear is electrifying.

Tell my next victim to walk in the light, in a crowd. That is your new job. For tomorrow night, I kill again.

I’m coming for you.

The first Danu/Red War pt.1

“Of all the truths that I’ve discovered in this life I lead, the biggest is this –

“Politicians only care about how people perceive them.

“Why else would this war have dragged on so long? Nobody wants to call an end to it, not because they think their cause is right or noble, but because they don’t want to lose face. They don’t want history to see them as failures, or even worse,” the grizzled veteran drained what was left of his drink, staring into the bottom of the glass as the froth seeped to the bottom. “They don’t want history to forget them.”

The mess hall was its usual cacophony, with the soldiers (most of whom were Northern draftees, but some few, like the veteran, were Northern volunteers from the early stages of the conflict) talking to anyone and no-one. The young draftee, Kayra, was wearing pristine fatigues, a sign of the inexperience to be expected tomorrow. The day before she had been with her classmates, her first squad, at the graduation ceremony in Loyr, the capital of this district; bright-eyed and in awe of the spectacle she had listened to the General as he espoused the virtues of the Danu cause. “We fight for freedom,” he had said. “We fight to protect the world from the Red threat.”

“Cock and bull,” the veteran had said when he first sat down. “Every blooming word of it.”

“Pardon?”

“That speech the brass gave yesterday. You’re a freshie, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I graduated yesterday. My name’s Kayra, assigned to…”

“I don’t wanna know,” he interrupted. “Chances are whatever outfit you’re in is gonna be a head or six lighter come tomorrow.”

“I don’t mean any disrespect, sir, but”

“Don’t you bloomin’ start, blondie!” He almost spat the words out, barely holding onto his mouthful of stale bread. “One thing I can’t stand is political junk. They’re a bunch of liars and with the few hours you’ve got you better not start.”

Kayra sat, bemused by the soldier’s outburst and unsure how to respond. At the Academy, she had been conditioned to respect her superiors, and as a civilian she had heard the news tell of unspeakable evils being committed in the Northern towns by Red insurgents. The Governor of the Northern provinces had made an impassioned plea for any and all able-bodied youths, and she, like many in her hometown of Hemel, had signed up enthusiastically, willing to do their bit for the Danu nation. The last thing she had expected to hear was a dissenting view from one of the country’s own soldiers.

“Listen,” the veteran, noticing the bemusement on her face, finally said to break the silence. “Where’re you from?” She told him. “Ah, a Southerner. Can’t say I’m surprised, Pat said we’d be moving with you guys and he’s always right. Dunno how he does it, but he’s always been right. You ain’t seen the fighting yet, have you?”

“Yes, sir. We get the pictures broadcast from the Front.”

“No, you don’t,” he stabbed his fork into the grey meat in front of him. “Those pictures? The ones where Danu soldiers win easy? Do you know how old those things are?” She shook her head. “Eight months. I should know, I was there when they filmed them. Thought they were going to use them for strategy meetings, but there you go. Listen, freshie, those pictures you’ve seen? They don’t say anything about what’s going on at the Front now. They were a small skirmish when the Reds were just exploring, sending sorties, but now?” He pointed over to a nearby table, filled with other new recruits.

“Him, her, him and him – all gonna be dead in fifteen hours before we even get close to the real fighting.”

“You must be joking,” Kayra said, surprised by the veteran’s words and unable to resolve the conflict between what she had been taught and what she was hearing. “Yes, soldiers like us do die, but casualty rates aren’t that high and they’re getting smaller as we push the Reds back.”
“Push them back?” He laughed, beckoning a red-haired man with chiselled features over to join them. “Tom, listen to this blonde freshie will ya? She thinks we’ve been pushing the Reds back!”
“It’d be funny to me if she weren’t so cute,” Tom replied, taking in Kayra’s features. With her standard-issue beret beside her on the table, he was able to see her hair, soft and supple like velvet, tied in a loose bun, her porcelain neck exposed. She wasn’t overly muscular, although being so freshly graduated from the academy she still had the habit of sitting with a completely stiff back even though no commanding officer was around. Tracing her face, he saw that she wasn’t overly beautiful; her nose was slightly too small for her eyes, and her lips seemed thinner than the models who periodically visited the serving men or the prostitutes who more regularly frequented the camps; but she was cute, even if her round blue eyes seemed to not know what to make of the current conversation.

“Don’t mind Jed,” Tom continued. “Spend a bit of time here, and you’d be just as cynical. Although,” he sat down next to Kayra, “hopefully not as cantankerous.”

“You’re one to talk, Thomas,” Jed laughed, pushing his now empty tray away. “Besides, it’s realist.”

“OK – you’re a cantankerous realist,” Tom smiled. “Now, leave this nice young recruit alone, will you? She may not last to see another sunrise but that’s no excuse for scaring her with your politics.”

“Aye, fine,” Jed replied, half snorting. “I’ve got me weapon to clear out anyways. Just remember what I said, lass – forget everything those maggots in the offices said.”

Walking back to her block, Kayra reflected on the incident in the mess, and her conversation with Thomas. Not as blunt and direct as Jed (short for Jerid, she discovered), he was nevertheless just as strange for a soldier. He had been a student when the conflict started, studying mathematics and chemistry, but was drafted in his second year as the university was closed due to the intense fighting. He had told her of the early months of combat – in his first battle as an active soldier, his squad of six had been ordered to clear a building in the border city of Cannath. The mission was a success; “An easy one at first,” he said, a smile on his lips, “but when we were waiting for the back-up squad to arrive, the Reds started a counter-offensive, bombing the road back out of town and rolling a couple of tanks our way. We’d captured one of their soldiers to make them think nothing was wrong, had him man the radio, but I guess he’d told them what was going on. Or maybe they’d done a drone fly-over and saw us enter the building. Either way, Douglas – he was leading the squad – shot the guy in the head, heaved the body out the window, and ordered us to withdraw before we were completely cut off. At least I think he was going to say cut-off, a sniper got him at the window.” Kayra was shocked when Thomas laughed. “Guess he shouldn’t’ve dumped the body, huh?”

Suddenly, an explosion ripped through the barracks, debris scattering about as she heard a second explosion, and then a third. Someone shouted from a nearby block for help, as from other buildings orders were shouted – “Get your guns.” “Pinpoint their artillery.” “Get HQ on the line.” Kayra ran towards her block, fear gripping her by the throat, and she nearly tripped over a shard of heated metal, roofing that had been blown off during the first bombardment.

As she reached her block, she found Hyru, a fellow recruit, barking orders like an officer. “Get the fire under control! Don’t let it reach the armoury! Kayra, get under cover, quickly!” His grey, slanted eyes told her everything she needed to know. The unit commander who she had only met that afternoon, was dead, his blood on Hyru’s shirt; and Hyru, charismatic as he was, had immediately assumed command. “What happened to him?” she asked.

“Shrapnel through the skull,” he shouted back, kicking a nearby table across as she dived for cover, blocking the entrance to the block. “Coming from the Officer’s Mess. Get that fire under control!”

“We can’t!” came a shriek, as at the same time an explosion ripped the door to the courtyard off its hinges.

“Damn! Kayra, help with the armoury, get whatever you can carry and get out of here.”
“What about you?”

“I’m going to see what in the name of Balant is going on,” the nomad tribesman responded. “We can’t keep running around like ants from boiling water!”