Alfie

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Pitter patter, pitter patter,
On the wooden boards,
Pitter patter, pitter patter,
Is the sound of my dogs claws,
The click-clacking tapping,
As he traipses across the floor,
The bump bump thumping,
Of a heavy footed paw.

Heavy panting and tail wagging,
He looks up at me in awe,
Sitting proudly to attention,
Awaiting his reward,
Fur once black as darkest night,
Age has now speckled grey,
But eyes still shine with puppy’s joy,
Always ready to run and play.

His obedience is… selective,
His excitement ill contained,
He likes to swim in rivers,
Be it snow or wind or rain,
Often choosing to ignore,
The desperate cries of “Alfie no!”
He dives right in to scare the ducks,
And chase them as they go.

“Alfie out the way,”
In unison we whine,
As he’s removed from the kitchen,
(For the umpteen millionth time)
If eating food you’re guaranteed,
A head resting on your knee,
Strands of drool soak your skin,
As he watches fixatedly.

His confidence is overflowing,
A character full of charm,
Yet if you chance upon a picnic,
Be filled with terror and alarm,
Sandwiches go missing,
As they’re swallowed one by one,
Angry parents shake their fists,
Annoyed their cake is gone.

Chaos reigns abundant,
A child weeps and wails,
“Dad! He’s got my stick,”
But a retrieval is sure to fail,
At tug of war he’s never beat,
He’ll hang on whatever the cost,
You can pull and pull with all your might,
But soon enough you’ve lost.

Another warning is for OAPs,
Out on their Sunday march,
Leave your walking canes behind,
If you’re travelling round these parts,
He’ll rip them from your frail grasp,
So be ready for a fight,
Oh and please avoid wearing clothes,
That are beige or cream or white.

A lady cries a loud “Good Heavens!”
As he shakes water across her dress,
She quickly faints and hits the floor,
At the sight of such a ghastly mess,
But Alfie doesn’t care about that,
Alfie doesn’t mind,
He’s already half way down the path,
All troubles left far behind.

There are no words to describe,
What Alfie means to us,
There is no feeling better felt,
Than stopping to make a fuss,
A gentle scratch behind the ear,
The biggest belly rub,
Playing legs when he was younger,
Or perhaps wrestling… or tug!

And even as the years go by,
He’s been with me all the way,
From pup to dog and boy to man,
He’s loved me every day,
So to sum up a dog like Alfie?
I really wouldn’t know where to start,
Than at the pitter patter, pitter patter,
Of his paw prints on my heart.

Alfie

Harry and the Baskerville Gang: The milkman, the beast and the diamonds

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I still remember my first real case. I don’t think there is a soul in the village that doesn’t, in fact it was the most exciting thing to happen to the sleepy town of Chapley Hollow ever since Frank Skinner was caught stealing apples from Mrs Benson’s orchard. I am of course talking about the gruesome murder of Bill Bryce, the milkman. This was most certainly a step in the right direction for myself, a much greater mystery than the petty playground thefts I had to deal with at school. Dare I go as far as to say that this was a case worthy even of the talents of the world’s greatest detective himself?

My name is Harry Finchley, private detective of thirteen years of age. My story starts on a crisp, dry autumn morning in early October; there was a faint fog lingering in the fresh dawn light as I made my way down the old overgrown bridle path in pursuit of my not so faithful furry companion. Taking up a rather brisk pace my eyes scanned the muddy trail stretching out in front of me, picking out the paw prints Bertie left behind. My breath hung in the air, reminding me of the steam trains that occasionally passed on top of the old hill behind Staunton manor. I tucked my gloved hands, already beginning to feel numb, as deep into my jacket pockets as humanly possible and hunched my body over in a desperate attempt to withhold as much warmth as I could. I loved this kind of weather, it got the blood flowing and the brain to attention; and as the weather became less and less inviting there were fewer people out and about, leaving me alone to my thoughts.

Such was life in Chapley Hollow, the entire village ran to the steady beat of dull routine. Every morning I would wake up early and take Bertie, my Irish wolfhound for a walk under the waking of the sun. Here I could make up my own cases in my head and attempt to solve them, sometimes I would imagine what it would be like to work with Holmes himself; an unstoppable duo foiling the dastardly Moriarty at every turn. I watched a bead of mucus drip from the end of my nose and plummet towards the ground, only to be whisked away by the wind before reaching its destination. How I wished for a real case, I needed to know I could do it, that I could match the great Baker Street detective. But nothing ever happened in my little village.

No sooner had the thought crossed my mind when a terrible scream shattered the idyllic silence of my surroundings. I froze, all thoughts of Holmes and the cold evaporating from my consciousness as I listened intently. A second scream tore through the ever more sinister feeling silence, this time I dived into action. Perhaps finally my wish had come true; there was no time to lose, the game was afoot.

I sprinted down the remainder of the bridle path; Bertie would have to make his own way home today. Most likely he was bothering the local squirrels that lived in the tree outside George’s house. Nearing the end I ducked in between a missing fence panel to my left and found myself standing by the edge of the village common. The screams were becoming more frequent now, but more importantly they were getting louder and I knew I must be close. I ran across the short space of grass and up Windermere Road, narrowly dodging an old beat up looking van coming the other way. The driver pipped their horn irritable as they sped past and away towards the old hill. Taking the first right onto Foxleigh Crescent, I came to an abrupt halt and surveyed the scene that lay before me. The first thing I took note of was a very distraught looking Mrs Benson, still dressed in a night gown and slippers with her hair in curlers. I quickly identified her to be the source of the screaming, her face was whiter than a ghost as she clutched an unopened bottle of milk to her chest. Her other hand held out before her trembled with sheer terror as she gawped further up the road.

Following her outstretched finger with my eyes, I turned my gaze towards the milk float. At first glance it seemed like a perfectly normal sight, but as I stared I noticed two things. The first was two smashed bottles of milk lying next to the truck, their contents still dribbling outwards in a pool as it traced the creases in the road. A few stray flecks splattered their way down in my direction, it was strange but it almost looked like… That was when my attention was drawn to the pair of legs sticking out from behind the back of the milk float. For a moment my mind went numb, Mrs Benson’s screams were starting to make sense as all the pieces clicked into place. As the other residents of Foxleigh Crescent rushed from their doors, or peaked out of their curtains to investigate the commotion, I began to regret my earlier wish. For now the once peaceful village of Chapley Hollow was facing its very first murder.

It wasn’t long before the police arrived, someone must have finally gathered enough sense to call them. They moved quickly onto the scene and began to disperse the gathering crowd of bystanders; I was hurriedly shooed off in between disapproving remarks such as,

“This is no place for someone of your age, Mr Finchley,” and “How about we leave this one to the grownups?” As I was pushed back down the street I took one last look back at the scene, my eyes were drawn to Mr Pickard. He was an elderly gentleman and next door neighbour to Mrs Benson; currently he looked rather sick as he stood by his front door holding an uncollected empty milk bottle in his hands. My first clue, Mrs Benson had been holding a fresh milk bottle; that must have meant Mr Bryce had been attacked in between the delivery of Mrs Benson to that of Mr Pickard. It still wasn’t much to go on.

With little else for me to do I decided to head home to see if Bertie was waiting for me on the doorstep. Perhaps I should flick through some of my books and see if Holmes could offer me any insight to aid the solving of this mystery. I was about half way back to my house when my thoughts were once again distracted by the sound of my name being called out. Turning sharply I was relieved to see the figure of George approaching from across the street; even better than that was the fact his hand was gripped firmly around the straining collar of a rather mischievous yet happy looking Bertie.

“Harry! Lose something? Again,” George shouted as he was pulled across the street, “Caught him digging up my mum’s flower bed. You need to be more careful, she always blames the squirrels but if she caught him she’d be out for your head. ” As he reached me Bertie pulled away from George and jumped up, leaving a large muddy paw print visibly stamped into the front of my jacket.

“He was trying to bury this I think,” George said, he held out what looked to be some kind of small gem, no bigger than an acorn. Taking it I examined it closer, it must have had some value to it, though I had no idea where Bertie would have found it. Perhaps it had fallen off of someone whilst they were out walking; I made a mental note to find out its owner at a later point. Right now there was more pressing matters to think of.

“Thank you for covering for him…” I paused before deciding to add, “…again. No doubt you’ve already heard the latest news.”

George raised an eyebrow, a faint smile flashing across his face.

“How the devil did you deduce that Holmes?” He gasped putting on a mock voice and feigning surprise.

“Why, elementary my dear Watson,” I replied wagging a finger knowingly, “Old Mrs Hood lives on Foxleigh and we all know how she loves to be the bearer of all the latest intrigue in Chapley Hollow. Seeing as how your surname is Adamson, it’s rather simple to assume that you would be the first name in her phone book and informed of such news with direct haste.”

“Why Holmes you’ve done it again, you sly dog,” George laughed, “does this mean we have a new case then?”

“Did you honestly believe otherwise?” I asked, “I say you run and fetch Freddie while I take Bertie home and we’ll gather in the clubhouse to plot our next move.”

“Right you are,” George nodded, “I think I saw him going to play football with his brother earlier, I’ll go and fetch him and tell him the news on the way. See you shortly.” With that George turned and began jogging back the way we had come, in search of the third and final member of our trio.

As I arrived back at my house I could feel the weather beginning to warm up as the last of the fog finally dissipated and the sun took control of a clear blue sky. I opened the side gate to the house and let Bertie into the back garden, making sure to shut it firmly behind me as to stop him from disturbing anymore innocent flower beds. I entered the house through the back door that led into the kitchen and hung my jacket up on the coat rack. I stopped quickly to pinch some jam and bread from out of the pantry before running upstairs and collecting several Sherlock Holmes novels; I intended to flick through them whilst I waited for the other two to arrive.

Exiting the house once again after a rushed hello and goodbye to my parents, who seemed yet to hear of the unfortunate news of Mr Bryce, I made my way to the clubhouse. We’d built it ourselves several years ago, with the help of my father and now it sat proudly in the oak tree of my front garden, the green paint showing the first signs of flaking this year. Scrambling up I quickly placed the books in a pile and sat against the far wall of the clubhouse and began to flick through my favourite of Holmes’s adventures, The Hound of the Baskervilles.

Freddie and George took a much longer time than expected and when they finally did turn up I had become so engrossed in the story that I didn’t notice their arrival until they sat directly opposite me. I raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“Sorry, we took so long,” Freddie stammered, somewhat out of breath, I could tell they had run here and from the look on their faces they had discovered something too. “We discovered something,” Freddie continued, confirming my suspicions, “As we were passing my house we noticed my Dad had come home, so we swiped a look at his pocket book whilst he was talking to mum.” Freddie’s dad was the chief constable at the local police station and since the village was far too small to have its own detective branch he was often in charge of carrying out the preliminary investigation until a detective could be sent in from the city.

“Well chaps?” I asked, urging them on.

“Well,” continued George, “it turns out that Mrs Benson claims she saw a bear.”

I frowned, “A bear? But there are no bears here.”

“That’s what I said,” Freddie chimed in, “No one else claims to have seen anything, we tried to find out more info about Mr Bryce but no one seemed to know anything. Mr Pickard hadn’t spoken to him since he stopped getting milk delivered and he usually knows everything about everyone, ever since he retired. All we managed to find out was that Bryce had scheduled an appointment to see my dad last week, but he never showed up.”

I frowned again, hadn’t I seen Mr Pickard holding an empty milk bottle earlier that day? I was certain of it, but if he had stopped getting milk delivered…

“Not only is there this mysterious murder, Harry,” George took over again, “but we also saw that yesterday Lady Staunton accused her grounds keeper, you know that Italian chap. What was his name? Giv… Gio…”

“Giovanni,” Freddie said, “Lady Staunton’s accused him of stealing her family’s diamonds, but they searched his van and found nothing.”

My frown became so intense; it felt as though my eyebrows would fall off. None of this made any sense Mr Bryce is killed by a bear, an Italian grounds keeper steals the Staunton diamonds and Mr Pickard lies about his milk consumption. This could not all be coincidence, but how on Earth was any of it linked?

I stood up and began to pace the room, thinking about each clue over and over, desperately trying to fit them into some sort of pattern. I put my hands in my pockets and my fingers brushed up against something small and hard. I pulled the object out of my pocket and stared down at it, it was the stone George had taken off of Bertie. I stared at it a little longer, and a little longer, and a little… Then it hit me.

“Of course!” I shouted, causing the other two to jump. “Mrs Benson’s imagination’s run away with her, she didn’t see a bear. All she saw was Bertie, stealing the stolen diamond from Bryce.” I smiled holding up the diamond in my hand and looking triumphant. Now it was George’s turn to frown,

“But it was Giovanni who allegedly stole the diamonds.”

“Oh he did, he took them from Staunton manor. But they never found them on him, did they? Milk bottles!”

“What?” said Freddie, looking confused.

“Giovanni passed off the diamonds in the empty milk bottles. Bryce picked them up and swapped them into some full bottles and delivered them to Pickard. Who I’ll bet is keeping them safe until they’ve taken all the diamonds from Lady Staunton. But I think Bryce got cold feet and tried to warn the chief constable, but one of the others must have found out and threatened him.” I paused once more my pacing becoming faster and more excitable, “Giovanni nearly ran me over this morning, he must have fled the scene of the crime once Mrs Benson saw Bryce. But he didn’t manage to get the diamonds back because Bertie interrupted him, he probably heard the smashed bottles and that’s how he got this.” I held up the diamond once again.

“But this is all hearsay, surely. There’s no way we can prove this,” George said scratching the top of his head.

“Yes we can; the milk float. We need to tell Freddie’s father to check all the bottles that were supposed to go to Mr Pickard. I’d bet my life that there’s more diamonds to be found in those bottles.”

“How on Earth did you figure all that out?” George asked incredulously, “If this is correct then you’ve solved an entire murder case in one morning. You really are Holmes.”

I smiled, “Let’s go and find out shall we?”

Alfie Diaries: 1.A Walk to Remember

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Picture yourself located in a tranquil and peaceful wood during the late morning hours of summer, a light breeze can be felt on your face as it rustles through the green leaves of the canopy. Dappled sunlight peeks through splashing on to the ground. Everything is calm, everything is relaxed. The only sounds are the birds in the trees and the only sights are the dashes of various coloured wildflower hiding amongst the undergrowth. Now picture that peaceful atmosphere being interrupted by the lone and repeated bellow of a teenager in distress as he cries one word over and over: “ALFIE!” You look up. Just in time to see a rather large black Labrador flying down a small path between the trees, covered head to tail in the foulest smelling brown sludge ever to be encountered by mankind. This is where I come in. Because I am the pissed off looking teenager, also covered in a healthy portion of disgusting gunk, tearing down the same path in pursuit of my disgraced idiot of a dog.

Most children are able to look back at their first dog and think of fond memories of that loyal and obedient companionship that has been shared by man and pooch over the millennia gone by. I, on the other hand, will be left with only the bitter reminder of all the trouble Alfie has caused me ever since the devil left him on our doorstop, grey carry crate and all. Here is a dog that laughs in the face of the law and spits on the shoes of dignity. Alfie has tried it all: shoplifting, home invasion, assault and elderly abuse are to name only the most famous of his accomplishments. Sometimes I wonder if his actions are deliberate, if he takes pleasure in watching as I return the now punctured football back to a screaming toddler as his mother hurls abuse in my direction.

So there I was, caked head to foot in a filth that’s smell was as putrid as the first fart after an egg sandwich on a hot day. I wouldn’t wish such exposure on my worst enemy and there I was getting a full frontal nasal blast every three paces, all thanks to my four legged so called “friend”. I was staying with family in an old holiday cottage in Herefordshire, on a small weekend break. Upon arrival the house had seemed like a canine paradise, located in the middle of the woods with a large open garden and more sticks and branches than Alfie would know what to do with. And the best part of all? It was secluded, meaning that there were no other people for Alfie to harm, annoy or otherwise inconvenience. The first three days had passed by with no serious incident; the only minor case was when Alfie had managed to capture a live frog and brought it back to the kitchen. The thing seemed to become quite at home on the stone tiles but was forcefully evicted by my step-mother much to the disgust of the frog.

It wasn’t until the last day that Alfie finally chose to strike. Packing in my household is a very stressful affair, it involves an excessive amount of swearing, moaning and arguing and a surprising lack of actual packing. So I decided, as the first of my father’s insults echoed through the house directed at the rucksack that had “vanished” in the night, that this would be a good time to go for a dog walk. We left the house and the mysterious case of the missing backpack and stepped out into the trees. The walk itself went fine, we met no other people and Alfie seemed contented enough to stay by my side and carry a tennis ball in his mouth. It wasn’t until we were nearly back at the house that things went wrong. Alfie seemed to decide that he was not ready to go back to the house and, out of the blue, bolted off into the undergrowth, leaving the tennis ball forgotten at my feet.

At first it didn’t worry me too much, there was no one around and he seemed to be behaving well. That was until I finally caught up with him. I heard him before I saw him, crashing around in the undergrowth with all the grace of a baby elephant on roller-skates. I felt all the optimism of the day drain from my body as I came face to face with my, now completely brown, black Labrador. He was stood, tail wagging, in the very centre of a pool of thick viscous muck and was absolutely covered in the stuff. All I managed was a faint sigh as I thought of who (me) would have to clean him and how long it was going to take. Whenever I attempt to wash Alfie, I always seem to end up wetter than he does and he always seems to end up running around with the hosepipe in his mouth. I took out his lead from my pocket and attempted to call him over, but he pretended as though I wasn’t there and continued to roll around in the filth. It’s always heartening to know that, to a dog, a stinking puddle of slimy foulness is a more preferable choice than the human who feeds, walks and cleans him every day. Once again I stress how loyal these majestic creatures really are.

After about ten minutes, I decided I was bored of being ignored and accepted that fact that the only way to get Alfie back was to go to him. I was thankful I’d chosen to wear walking boots instead of trainers as I stepped out into the mess and towards Alfie. Managing to get a hand around his collar I clipped the lead into place and stood up triumphant. However my victory was short lived as Alfie chose that precise moment to decide he wanted to run off again. Under normal circumstances I would have been able to control him on a lead, but standing in the middle of a pool of liquid filth is far from normal and instead I was dragged to floor and the lead torn from my hand. All I could do was watch forlornly as the lead trailed uselessly behind my runaway dog.

After being purposefully tripped up, I was forced to race after Alfie once again, freezing cold sludge dripping from every part of my clothing. My hope was to catch him before he had the chance to ruin anyone else’s day. Like he always does. I decided to cut a corner by going through the undergrowth, my goal being to get in front so I could ambush him. For some reason I was still calling his name, perhaps in the hope Alfie would suddenly develop a conscience and come bounding faithfully back to his “master”. Of course this did not happen.

What happened instead was far more humiliating and soul destroying. Just as I was starting to get worried that he might have already slipped passed me, I was deposited back on to the main path. To this day I cannot not say what would be worse; that sinking feeling of despair I felt as I arrived just in time to witness the world’s filthiest canine rip the walking stick from what appeared to be the world’s oldest man, or simply being shot in the face. The whole incident unfolded before my eyes in slow-motion and the poor man didn’t stand a bloody chance. In fact, I had to rugby tackle Alfie to the floor and prize the stick from his jaw, strands of saliva trailing off of it. I’m not exactly sure what was wrong with the millions of other sticks that littered the entire woodland, but it would seem my dog is somewhat picky when it comes to correct stick selection. But apparently a £58.99 hand carved, sturdy oak walking cane with brass handle just about makes the cut.

As for the man himself, I can only say two things about him. The first is that he looked to be at least eighty years old and not accustomed to such action, being mugged by a dog in the middle of the woods was probably not something he had anticipated dealing with. The second thing was that he picked the wrong day to wear beige. Everything about him was beige, from his sunhat to his loafers and everything in between. I remember noticing several large, black paw prints plastered down the side of his jacket and trousers as I returned his property back to him and hoped he wouldn’t notice the rather large cluster of teeth marks gouged into the stick’s base. I must have apologised probably somewhere near the six billion marker, give or take a few hundred.

I dragged Alfie home after that and refused to let him off of the lead for over a month, not that he cared. In fact I’m not even sure if he noticed the added weight as he dragged me around like some sort of rag-doll. The most annoying thing is that this was probably one of the less embarrassing things he’s accomplished. When we turned up back at the house, thirty minutes later than promised and both covered head to toe in filth, as a pair we stank so badly that the rest of the family retreated back inside and told me not to come inside until I’d hosed myself down. By the time I had cleaned the dog and then myself we were three hours behind schedule and to top it all off got stuck behind a slow moving tractor for the majority of the journey home. As for Alfie, self-reflection is not his strong point and so I feel he did not learn any lesson from the whole experience, in fact I believe he now sees most poor defenseless walking sticks as easy prey. I cannot even boast that since then he has become more obedient as not even two months later he stole an entire roast chicken from a family picnic. These days I’ve found it’s easier to just keep walking and pretend he isn’t mine.

The Last Great Battle – Extract

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I woke with a start, hands pressing against my face, dragging me into the depths of my bed. I tried to scream but my attempts were cut short by long coils of Darkness forcing themselves down my throat. I couldn’t draw breath, every part of me was convulsing, wanting to vomit up the poisonous tendrils that had entered my body. The weight on top of me pushed down harder and harder until it felt like my ribs would snap under the pressure. A single tear escaped from the corner of my eye, trickling slowly down my cheek, this was the end for me. I had eluded capture for nearly thirty years, but finally my past had caught up with me. No, I thought to myself, this was not how I wanted to die and I certainly was not about to let myself lie down and be subjected to a most villainous execution. Gathering my mind in the ever decreasing fraction of time I still had left I focused my attention onto the creature that was devouring me. A blast of energy exploded from my body a bright, white hot light leaping forth consuming the monstrous beast. I felt the weight lift, the Darkness leave my body, I could breathe again. Gasping in great lungfuls of air I lay still, minutes went by, slowly those minutes turned to hours and then days. Eventually I mustered the strength to move. Fighting the Darkness had taken its toll on me. Even the most skilled guardian would have struggled against such a dark and powerful entity.

Even though the order lay in tatters and my kinsmen spread throughout the universe, I had so far managed to cling to some fragments of hope that we would someday be great once again. Until then I needed to continue to hide away, far from the reaches of the Darkness and wait. For how long I was not sure, but eventually the Phoenix would be reborn and then I would be called back home. To fight alongside my kinsmen in the last and greatest battle of the universe, I would fight and most definitely die. But I would not rest, even in death, until the usurper was dead.

But, more urgent matters needed to be taken care of; the rebellion was a long time away. Right now it was up to me to survive, the Darkness had found me. I ever so gently sat up, pain shooting through every part of my body. I had just enough power left in me to summon an orb of light; it hung above me, almost as if it were protecting me from another attack. The light cast a harsh, clinical glow on the cave, leaving long shadows and dark patches at the far end that lead deeper down into the bowels of the mountain.

Looking down at my body I realised that I was in worse shape than I had originally imagined, the Darkness had caused severe damage to my body. My right leg was missing; three fingers on my left hand, an ear and two large chunks of flesh had been gouged out of my side. To heal what I had lost would require more power than I could muster. I was able to deal with cuts and bruises, but missing limbs were extremely difficult for even the most well practiced of guardians. Placing my hands over the wounds I had sustained, I attempted to close them. Burning the skin so that it sealed, if I had been a normal human the blood loss would have killed me long ago. Dried blood covered the floor and as I struggled to stand on my one remaining leg flakes of it showered down from the remains of my tattered clothing.

Although my injuries were bad, it wasn’t the worst of my problems. The Darkness had found me, more would surely follow, so I needed to move once again. Looking around at the place I had called home for over a year I sighed. I glanced over to where my bed had been, all that remained was a charred pile of ash and splinters of wood. Sighing once again I thought about what my next move should be. Moving location would be a pain, I had lived in isolation for so long that I had become complacent and forgetful of the dangers that pursued me. It was time I hid somewhere unexpected, to throw my enemies off of my trail. I needed to go somewhere where I could hide amongst others, as one of them. I needed to go to one of the primitive worlds that existed in the universe. First, I would have to find Celestia, she could restore my body, make it whole again.

Hopping over to an isolated area of the cave I traced the symbol of the guardians into the wall. The jagged stone grated against my smooth fingertip, the cold rock still singed from my recent encounter. The tracing began to glow, a bright blue light shone out from the wall, the symbol I had drawn pulsating with a mystical energy. The blue light battling with the light from the orb, which remained resolutely hanging over where I had been attacked, like a silent witness to the suffering the Darkness created. The wall shone brighter causing me to shut my eyes for fear of being blinded. The cave began to vibrate, stone grinding on stone as the walls changed and shifted into position. The shaking became more and more violent, I merely stood as still as I could, hunched with my arm covering my face, waiting. Then as if I had imagined it all, everything stopped.

The cave was still. The cave was silent. I was alone.

The Woman in the Marsh – Short Story

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Dear Reader,

          Do not read on, for this is a script that is not meant to be read. I’m sorry to say that the script you are holding is frightfully disturbing. It tells a ghastly tale about myself and my wife. A tale that begins with death and ends with death, containing nothing but misery and woe in between. One might say I am a magnet for misfortune and others would say I bring it upon myself. It is my last desire to write down the unpleasant tale, but there is nothing stopping you from putting this script down, walking away and never having to worry about such horror.

You have been warned,

Daniel.

This story starts in the morning. And what a morning it was, often how you feel in the morning reflects the rest of your day. And as I stared around at the dismal surroundings, the dreary clouds hanging in the crisp morning air as the wind charged directly at me drying my lips and only adding to my discontent, I realised that my day was not going to be enjoyable at all. A faint mist was creeping in from the direction of the coast, its tendrils spreading slowly towards us reminding me of some ghostly sea monster. As we stood and waited I turned my attention to the austere landscape that lay before me; it was unfriendly, unpleasant, and unnaturally flat. My eyes scanned the horizon noticing the only break in the otherwise level skyline was of the old ruin of Kendlewick Castle, standing out alarmingly. The only sign that civilisation had once conquered this unforgiving land. The morbid marsh spread out before me like a vast ocean, an ugly cancer on the pristine countryside. Its bottomless, murky waters that seemed to have remained undisturbed for hundreds of years sat there, unmoving. Who knew what abominable atrocities lay beneath those sinister waters?

I turned to Horace, my face a picture of stony determination. The old man appeared somewhat apprehensive and slightly queasy; he kept wringing his cap in his hands. “How much longer do we wait?” I demanded, impatient to start our search. The barman glanced up at the distant sun and turned to look back along the road leading into Kendlewick. “Not much longer Mr Daniel, sir. I know yer wantin’ t’get moving, but the doctor was adamant he join us,” Horace replied, failing to meet my eye almost like a child who had just received a severe telling off.

No sooner had Horace spoken when the sound of a horse’s hooves could be heard coming from further down the road. In unison my companion and I turned to face the approaching cart as it loomed into view. The cart ground to a halt several yards short of where we stood and a tall elderly man climbed down. Dr Benedict Jones was a sullen man. His face, wrinkled with age, seemed to be permanently frowning, as if life had been one big disappointment. He had a crop of snow white hair and piercing blue eyes that gave the impression of a man of extreme intelligence. Everything about him was immaculate and deliberate, the last person I would imagine wading through a marsh no matter what reason.

“My apologies for my lateness gentlemen, I was detained at the House,” he said reaching forward and shaking my hand, “how do you do? You must be Mr Woodgate.”

“It is finally nice to meet you in person Doctor,” I remarked.

“Likewise. Well let us not waste time on pleasantries we have a job to do!”

“Thank you doctor, I hope our search turns out something. Charlotte is out there somewhere and we must do something to help her,” I spoke more to myself than my companions. At those words we turned with grim faces and waded out into the marsh, to seek my deceased wife.

Some experiences in life can be pleasurable, whilst others are less so. I can inform you that wading through a marsh on a cold winter morning is definitely one of the less pleasurable. With each step, my boots sank into the muddy wet ground, and each step brought a sucking sound as I picked my foot up again. With each step, the muddy imprint of my foot quickly filled with water and I realised that the traces of our passing would soon be gone, covered in a new layer of mud and slime.

As we crossed further and further into the wilderness, the fog grew thicker and thicker and the light started to fade. According to my pocket watch it was only just past ten o’clock in the morning but it got to such a point that Horace had to light a lamp for us to be able to continue. “Damn weather,” Horace cursed, he was becoming more and more agitated the further we ventured into the marsh, “We’re not making no progress, we should return to Kendlewick an’ come back with more ‘elp.”

We halted our thus far unsuccessful search and decided to rest on what appeared to be somewhat less boggy ground and decide our next move. “No one from the village will assist us; they are all terrified to come within a mile of this place. Especially after what happened to misters Cole and Flint,” mused Dr Jones, he stopped and stared in to a particularly large pool of grimy water. The fog now completely enclosed us in a timeless microcosm separated from civilisation.

“Beggin’ yer pardon sirs…” Horace trailed off into silence, his gaze appeared to be some way beyond where I was standing and slightly to the left. I turned to see what had seized the attention of the anxious man and screamed. There she was, gliding through the air towards us from across the deep fog. A strange silvery glow resonated from her as she came to a halt some distance away amongst the reeds.

To my right I heard a sudden splash and spun around just in time to witness Dr Jones’ white hair disappear beneath the brown, filthy water. I watched in horror as the rippling water slowly returned to its unmoving state as if nothing had disturbed its surface for decades. “The… the doctor… where did the doctor go?” cried Horace the terror in his voice was only seconded to the fear on his face. “Where did he go?” Horace turned wide eyed staring at me without seeing. “WHERE?” he bellowed, “WHERE?” Turning Horace ran, with complete disregard for his surroundings. I could only watch, speechless as the usually quiet barman ran shouting like a lunatic pelting towards the road. He managed several frantic strides before stumbling and falling down into the cold mud, there was a moment of silence and then I heard Horace scream. He continued to scream and scream and would not let up, getting more fearful with each cry. He began to thrash around beating his legs with his fists as hard as he could manage. At first I thought the man had given in to madness, but when I looked again I saw what had made the poor man panic. A hand, no, many hands. Rising out of the mud and grasping on to Horace and refusing to release him, the poor man was in hysterics yet I continued to watch, appalled. What happened next I will never forget, it is burnt into my memory and will haunt me to my last breath. Horace still screaming and thrashing was dragged beneath the mud to join whatever foul creatures saw fit to take him there. But what will stay with me forever is the desperate, pleading look Horace gave me as head slipped from view. I could look no more; I turned away from where Horace had been lying only moments ago and stared at the glowing figure of my wife.

It is a curious thing, to face death. We all know that our time in the world is limited, eventually our tiny, tiny hearts will beat their last and our eyes will close to that endless sleep that is eternity, never to wake. Yet it still comes as a surprise, even when it happens to someone we love. But now as I stood here staring at the foul apparition that I had once been bound to in holy matrimony, I saw not my wife. I saw only evil, felt only hatred. To my alarm Charlotte began gliding silently towards me; a wicked smile distorted her once beautiful face. The closer she came, the less she looked like my wife. Her once golden hair was a dull mousy colour that hung from her, limp and lifeless like her eyes. From a distance her white gown looked spotless but from so close I could make out mud splatters and rips in the once pristine fabric. Charlotte paused, only a few feet away from where I remained, rooted to the spot with a fearful fixation.

“Charlotte?” I croaked my voice barely audible above the shrill wind, which was picking up and evermore desperately violent. It is impossible for me to portray the fear I felt in the short time that passed. As I stood there shaking, eyes fixated upon my wife, she remained deathly still, we stared at each other for a long time. She raised a cold, grey hand hesitating just short of my left cheek, her clammy fingers stretched out.

Then, all of a sudden, her beauty returned in full force making my breath catch in my throat. There she was, my Charlotte. Smiling lovingly down at me. She opened her mouth, I leaned forward desperate to hear her soothing voice telling me it was all going to be alright that we could return home and forget the dire and terrible occurrences of the last few hours. Needless to say that is not what happened, when Charlotte opened her mouth it was not words she spoke.

She simply screamed…