Six Scary Stories

Selected and Introduced by Stephen King

About Stephen King

No. 1 bestselling author Stephen King is an acclaimed master of novels and short stories. His collection The Bazaar of Bad Dreams received excellent reviews, with his story ‘Obits’ winning the Edgar Award for Best Short Story:

‘King can sketch a full-blooded character in just a few pen strokes. This gift comes to the fore in his short stories, where every syllable counts’

— Sunday Telegraph

‘Short stories have a famous place in the King oeuvre, with the likes of The Body and Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption finding second lives on the big screen as Stand By Me and The Shawshank Redemption . . . Like all the greats, though, his ability to grip the reader’s mind, body and soul with his prose makes it all look easy’

— USA Today

King won an O. Henry Award, he was recipient of the 2003 National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters and in 2015 he won America’s National Medal of Arts. He is the author of more than fifty books, all of them international bestsellers, including Misery, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft and End of Watch. He lives with his wife, novelist Tabitha King, in Maine and Florida.

Introduction to SIX SCARY STORIES

By Stephen King

I enjoy working with my British publisher, partly because the folks at Hodder have always been friendly and helpful, perhaps more because they have always published my books with joie de vivre and enthusiasm. They’re also promotional wizards (for the current book, they have invented an amusing little grid-game, sort of like Battleship, where participants can win prizes for picking the right square). So when my editor, Philippa Pride, said Hodder wanted to have a short story competition to promote The Bazaar of Bad Dreams, I agreed to pick a winner. Entrants were encouraged to write something scary, based on a few lines I wrote in the introduction to Bazaar: ‘There’s something to be said for a shorter, more intense experience. It can be invigorating, sometimes even shocking, like a waltz with a stranger you will never see again, or a kiss in the dark.’ A quick, unsettling encounter, in other words.

I’ll admit that I had my reservations. I have judged similar competitions in the past, and found the quality of the entries to be . . . erm, shall we say lacking. It usually came down to picking the best of a bad lot. Still, the way this competition was set up made my part of the job look pretty easy. The avalanche of entries (over 800, as it turned out), would be winnowed down to twenty. These would be further winnowed to a short list of just six stories by a panel of judges that included redoubtable Ms Pride, Kate Lyall-Grant of Severn House Publishers, and Claire Armistead, the Books Editor at the Guardian. I felt that with such seasoned veterans separating the sheep from the goats, I would be able to select at least one story that wasn’t too embarrassing.

I wasn’t the only one with doubts. In her piece for the Guardian, Ms Armistead wrote, ‘I have to admit that the prospect of ploughing through dozens of wannabe Carries and second-rate Shinings seemed like the roundabout route to Misery.’(This, dear reader, is known as British humour.) But she went on to say, ‘It turned out to be a far more interesting task than I had expected, demonstrating that there are plenty of talented storytellers out there.’

Absolutely spot-on, Ms Armistead, and good on you. I was stunned – and absolutely delighted – to discover that all six of the stories sent on for my consideration were very good, indeed. In some cases the prose was a bit more felicitous than in others, but each and every one of them had an original slant, and in each and every one there was that icy frisson of fear, that quick stab of the literary ice-pick that we look for in tales of horror, terror, and the supernatural. Also – this is important, because scary stories are extremely delicate – each of the writers had internalised the most important rule when it comes to inducing unease: Never tell too much. The monster is always scarier when it is still under the child’s bed; the intruder is more frightening when he (or it) is still a shadow on the wall, or a breathing presence behind the door.

After a lot of brow-furrowed cogitation and a great deal of shuffling the order of the stories around, I picked a winner (the extraordinarily atmospheric ‘Wild Swimming’, by Elodie Harper). That might have been the end, but I was unsatisfied, because the other five were all terrific, and of publishable quality. I suggested that it would be a treat for the writers – not to mention a gift for potential readers – if these stories could be published together. Phil Pride agreed, along with my friend Rich Chizmar at Cemetery Dance, and the slim but powerful volume (or Ebook) you hold in your hands is the result.

I could elucidate the charms of each individual story (part of me longs to do just that, because in my heart, I’m just another fanboy), but that would be unfair to you, Constant Reader, and even more unfair to the stories that follow. It would be violating the Prime Directive; it would be telling too much. When frightening stories work – when they actually raise our heart-rate and the short hairs of the backs of our necks – they do so because each one harbours a small, malignant secret. Each of the half-dozen stories that follow harbours such a secret, and you must discover them on your own. I’ll have no part in spoiling the experience.

In closing, I want to repeat how extraordinary it was to find not just two or three of the final submissions were good, but all of them. I’m not sure what’s up with you Brits, but if it’s something in the water, my advice is keep drinking it.

All okay, then? I hope so, because this is where I let go of your hand and send you off with your six not entirely trustworthy guides. Enjoy the trip.

Stephen King

June 5, 2016

Elodie Harper

ELODIE HARPER

Elodie has been making her living from storytelling for the last ten years in TV and radio current affairs. She is currently a reporter and presenter for ITV Anglia in the East of England. It’s a part of the country she particularly loves, not least because it has its own drowned village – the medieval town of Dunwich off the Suffolk coast.

Before working as a journalist Elodie graduated from Oxford University with a first class degree in English and spent a couple of years employed as an actress. This included filming the ITV drama Jekyll and Hyde in Lithuania, where this story is set. She never went diving in any Lithuanian reservoirs, but has been wild swimming in the Lake District. Though unlike her heroine Chrissie, she found the sense of endless depth beneath her feet a bit too spooky.

Elodie is married with a young son. Her debut novel The Binding Song, a gothic thriller set in a Norfolk prison, will be published by Hodder’s Mulholland Books in 2017.

ELODIE ON STEPHEN KING

‘I love so many of his books. His work has shown me the importance of the story – and how the supernatural can be used in different ways. The Shining is an exceptional novel, not only terrifying but also unique for the way Stephen King uses the supernatural to give the reader an insight into alcoholism. Jack is such a tragic figure, somebody the reader really likes, and what happens to him is not just frightening but heartbreaking. Night Shift is my favourite collection of stories by any writer. Each one is a self-contained world – a joy to read.’

WILD SWIMMING

From: porpoise1swimit@gmail.com

To: barflysuse@gmail.com

Date: 29 May 2015, 20:03

Dude!

Can you believe this place has Wi-Fi! Finally back in contact . . . How are you?

I’m in Vaiduoklis, this tiny little place next to a massive reservoir, a couple of hours’ train ride from Vilnius. The capital was very pretty, in a John Lewis, biscuit tin kind of way, all cobbled streets, pastel colours and gilded spires. Great market selling just about EVERYTHING amber you can think of – not just necklaces and jewellery etc., but cutlery, key rings, doorstops (!) the lot. Only downer was somebody in the crowd nicked my phone, hence the lack of messages, sorry. It’s insured so can get another, but going a bit crazy not being able to chat to anyone.

Anyway, Felix has been delayed by a few days (problem with the new flat he says, but I think problem with his new boyfriend is more likely . . .) so I decided to explore a bit on my own. Not much point to a wild swimming trip with no swimming! We’re due to go to Lake Lusai, so I thought it would be good to put in a couple of days somewhere different. The guy at the tourist office suggested this place, not much to do, but very unspoiled. In fact, there’s only one place to stay near the water, a guest house run by an old lady called Asta Jakovleva. It’s not going to make it into the boutique listings any time soon – the amount of linen doilies is amazing (in a bad way) – but it’s just a short walk to the edge of the lake, so perfect from that point of view. And the Wi-Fi is a bonus!

If I’m honest, the reservoir isn’t the prettiest I’ve seen. Not much like the photo on the tourist office leaflet. For a start, although it’s huge, the level’s quite low, so you’ve got this ring of mud round the edge, which will make getting in and out a bit tricky, and it certainly spoils the look of things. And the landscape is flat, like a dull day on the Norfolk Broads, only with lots of fir trees.

Then there’s Mrs Jakovleva. Given I’m her only guest, you’d think she’d be a bit friendlier. Things weren’t too bad until I started asking her if she got many swimmers staying here, any advice about the water, safer spots etc.

‘You can’t swim here!’ she barked, as if I’d just threatened to murder her budgie. (Yes, she really does have a budgie, a green one. It lives in the breakfast room, and is watching me right now as I type this on her ancient PC.)

I tried to explain about wild swimming, that the whole point is to pick open water that most people don’t swim in, that I’m fully qualified and experienced, but she cut me off with what looked like a rude hand gesture.

‘No swim,’ she said. ‘Shows disrespect. Dangerous.’

Then she walked off which was . . . helpful. So I don’t know if it’s just the idea of a twenty-something cavorting in a bikini that outrages her, or if there’s anything about the reservoir I should know.

I guess it will all be clear tomorrow when I go for my first swim! Perhaps the sight of a wetsuit will mollify her. Though I doubt it.

* * *

Loads of love Chrissy xxxxxxx

From: porpoise1swimit@gmail.com

To: barflysuse@gmail.com

Date: 30 May 2015, 16:57

So good to hear from you!

Particularly nice after the weird day I’ve had. Really glad the new job’s going well and John is behaving himself. We’ll all have to meet up at that new place when I’m back, sounds fab.

Still here in Vaiduoklis . . . Well, maybe I should have kicked my heels in Vilnius till Felix arrived. It’s not awful, just odd. Will try and explain.

This morning, I got up really early for a swim, hoping to sneak past our scowling landlady. But she must have heard me creaking down the stairs, as she shot out into the hallway.

‘Breakfast,’ she said. It was more a statement than a question.

I didn’t like to be rude so followed her into the dining room. She had laid out a monster amount of food. All that stuff they do on the Continent: boiled eggs, salami, ham, yoghurt, plastic packets of toast bread. And she was smiling away. Very different from last night.

There was no way I could eat all that – the last thing I wanted was to load up on carbs and get cramp in the lake, so I decided I would have to delay the swim for a while. You can’t just ignore somebody making all that effort.

She poured us both coffee and sat down opposite.

‘So, no swim today,’ she said.

I didn’t want to argue so hedged a bit. ‘What’s wrong with the water here?’

‘Water fine, is what’s beneath.’

‘Was it a quarry then? I’m used to that, I know they can be deep.’

‘Not industry. The old village. Still down there.’

‘They flooded it? We’ve got a few of those in the UK, like at Haweswater. They don’t really do that now.’

‘Vaiduoklis not like anywhere else,’ Mrs Jakovleva said, shaking her head. ‘All still there.’

I’ve always been a bit intrigued by these sorts of stories. Like that whole village sunk off the Suffolk coast, Dunwich, where legend has it you can hear the old church bell ringing when the tide’s low.

‘How old is it? Do you get divers going to explore?’

Mrs Jakovleva looked at me as if I were mad. ‘No diving! Worse than swimming. Terrible disrespect.’ She had her sucking lemons face on again, and the green budgie was twittering.

‘Well, I’m not a diver,’ I said, sipping some of her coffee, which was far too strong. She looked a little reassured, so I pressed on. ‘And what about the new village here? Is there much to see?’

The smile came out again at that. ‘All modern,’ she said proudly. ‘Restored. You should see the church, beautiful glass.’

And that, I’m afraid, marked the start of a long, tedious monologue about the new village, to which I had to nod along with a fixed smile. When she finally ran out of steam I headed back to my room, to wait a bit before sneaking out again for a swim. I can’t pretend that she hadn’t made me feel a little uneasy, but having trudged all the way from Vilnius to Boringville, I couldn’t face the thought of not getting in the water.

I started to trot out towards the lake, a coat over my wetsuit. She must have heard me, because the next thing I knew, there was a thump, thump, thump and she was banging on the glass of the kitchen window, waving frantically for me to stop. I pretended not to understand and waved cheerily back, then made it as fast as I could to the fir trees without actually running.

The reservoir is a serious challenge to get into. It seemed to be even lower than it looked yesterday. I found a place where some tree roots helped me in (and more importantly would help me out) and slithered down the side, holding on to clumps of reeds as I went. By the time I hit the water I was caked in mud. But then, the joy. I know you’re not a fan, Suse, but there’s nothing like the adrenalin rush of hitting ice-cold water.

Even at the edge, the reservoir is really deep, metres of black below. I cut out sideways, not making for the middle, to make sure my body acclimatised. The place is vast, but, oddly, it doesn’t give you that sense of empty space and wide horizons you normally get in a big lake. Maybe it’s the steep sides, hemming you in, but with the flatness and the firs it felt a bit claustrophobic, like I was a fly swimming in a giant’s soup bowl.

I headed into the middle to see if that would give me a better view. There’s nothing like seeing Helm Crag reflected in the water from the middle of Grasmere, and although this place is flat, I thought distance might lend it a little majesty. It did look prettier further in, the wavering green and black lines of the trees matching their sturdy frames above, so I trod water for a bit, absorbing it all.

I’m very used to lakes, the fact that there’s nothing but the dark below you, going down tens, often hundreds of feet. That’s never bothered me. The sense of emptiness beneath, I even quite like it. But that’s not what I felt here at Vaiduoklis. Rather than nothing-ness beneath me, I felt a something-ness. That it wasn’t empty space, that there was something there. I peered down, and I swear I thought I saw something move. Not a fish, much bigger than that. It looked like someone was swimming several feet below me. I even saw a flash of pale flesh.

Becky Adlington couldn’t have made it to the shore faster than I did. I shot up that root like a rat. At the top, I stood holding on to the tree, gasping for breath, looking out over the water, half expecting to see something burst to the surface. But once the disturbance I’d made died down, the water returned to its glass-like state, rippling slightly at the edge, reflecting back the dreary firs and grey sky.

I felt annoyed that Mrs Jakovleva must have got to me, and tramped back to the guest house.

She was standing at the door and for a minute I thought she was going to hug me with relief. That didn’t make me feel any better. ‘You not long,’ she said. ‘All okay?’

‘Yes, lovely thanks, really nice swim. I’ll go check out that church you suggested now,’ I said. She looked surprised, and I could sense her watching me as I went up the stairs.

I felt a bit better when I was warm and dry, but the new village soon knocked that out of me. The church she had been on about looked like a 1970s municipal library, and all in all, the place was fantastically dull. There was one shop, selling groceries, some awful-looking floral frocks and, bizarrely, postcards. I couldn’t believe that anyone would have printed a card of such a town. But instead of the place I’m staying, it showed a black and white photo of a pretty village in a valley, part of it clinging to the side of the hills.

‘Is this the old village?’ I asked the man behind the counter.

‘Vaiduoklis,’ is all he said.

‘When was it sunk?’

‘Soviet days. The villagers, they object. Some never left. Still there.’

‘The Soviet Union drowned them?’ I asked. I had seen the KGB museum in Vilnius, but this seemed particularly chilling.

The man shrugged. ‘Bad times,’ he said. ‘Water low now, Vaiduoklis must be near the surface, maybe even possible to see, if you look.’

I thanked him and bought a handful of cards. Despite my scare this morning, I’ve got to say the idea of seeing some of the old medieval village cheered me up. A sort of Lithuanian Dunwich. It must have been a bit of that I saw today, not another swimmer at all. From the shape of the reservoir map I printed out at the Vilnius tourist office, I think the church might be quite near the exact spot where I got into the water this morning.

Anyway, I’d better go as I’m feeling a bit bad about hogging the computer in Mrs Jakovleva’s breakfast room all this time. Although she seemed to be out when I got back.

Will update you on the hidden village hunting! Chrissy xxxxxx

* * *

From: porpoise1swimit@gmail.com

To: barflysuse@gmail.com

Date: 30 May 2015, 17:24

Okay, me again. So I just had to get this off my chest. I went up to my room after emailing you, and would you believe the bath was running, with the plug in. Any longer and it would have overflowed and flooded the place. It DEFINITELY wasn’t me who left it on. I don’t know what Mrs Jakovleva is playing at, there were even wet foot marks from the bath to the window. Nothing missing, thank God. Do you think she’s been hanging out in my bedroom?!!

Gross

* * *

From: porpoise1swimit@gmail.com

To: barflysuse@gmail.com

Date: 31 May 2015, 16:48

I’m so frightened, Suse, I have to leave this place, I have to leave, and I don’t know how. Everything is shut in the town, there are no trains tonight and I don’t know where Mrs Jakovleva has gone.

I wish to God I’d never come here.

I don’t know what’s happening, I don’t know what to think.

The day started all wrong. I slept in late this morning and when I came down, there was no landlady and no breakfast.

I thought maybe I’d pissed her off by going for a swim yesterday, and after that stuff with the bath, she’s obviously odd. I walked into town to see if I could find something to eat there. But it’s Sunday and the place was a ghost town. All shuttered up and nobody on the streets. I passed the church. The lights were on and there was singing inside and I had this mad thought of going in, but for what? I ended up going to the train station instead. There was nobody in the ticket office, and the snack kiosk was shut, but I did manage to get some sweets and crisps from the vending machine, along with a really sad-looking sandwich.

I checked the timetable and saw there was only one train out that day. To Vilnius in about half an hour. I had this sudden feeling that I ought to rush back for my bag and take it, but then I thought that was ridiculous, and how would I pay Mrs Jakovleva?

Back at the guest house, I had the sandwich and went through the guidebook again in my room. There’s absolutely nothing on this place. I looked up Lusai and decided to head there first thing in the morning. Felix or no Felix, I’ve had enough of Vaiduoklis.

The tourist office map of the reservoir was still on the bedside table. For some reason I didn’t fancy going hunting for buried villages quite so much today; there was something weird about being here without Mrs Jakovleva. But then there was absolutely nothing else to do, and I thought, While I’m here, it was really worth trying to spot a bit of the old town.

I got my goggles and headlight out, and togged myself up in the wetsuit. It was so quiet walking to the water, I sort of missed the sound of the old woman thumping on the glass behind me.

The reservoir looked even lower today. There was a light wind, breaking up its reflective surface and I walked round the edge, peering down the sides, trying to see if there was anything that looked like masonry down there. I thought there might be a pale shape, about a ten-minute swim from my root stairway, not far from the edge.

The climb down felt more difficult. I swear it looked as though some of the roots had been broken off, but once in, I got that familiar high from the cold, and adrenalin soon took me to the spot I had scouted out. There was definitely something down there.

I plunged under and at first nothing. But after surfacing and then going a little deeper, finally I saw something. The torch on my forehead picked out some red brick in the gloom, covered in algae. From the carving work it looked like it might be part of a church tower. I got a bit closer and saw the remains of a green dome at the top, smashed in on one side with reeds blocking the hole. I didn’t want to get tangled up, and knew I’d have to surface for air soon, but it was amazing to think I’d found a medieval church underwater, so I swam a bit nearer.

I looked into the hole, shining my headlight into the black. The reeds got in the way, and I went to move them aside without getting my arms tangled. I pushed my face towards the dark and felt something soft brush against my lips. I drew back, thinking it might be a carp. And that’s when it happened. A face bobbed up out of the broken dome. It was a person, Suse, all bloated and rotting, the eyes white and sunken like a dead fish when it’s been left out in the sun. It had swollen lips, lips that had just touched mine. Terrified, I pushed it away, and its jaw fell open. Half the tongue was gone.

Then a hand floated – or reached – towards me.

I screamed, losing precious air in the bubbles. I made for the surface, but something grabbed me by the ankle. In blind panic I kicked hard, hitting a round, soft thing, which buckled and gave against my heel. I kicked again and felt the grip slacken on my foot, then by some miracle I broke free.

I don’t know how I got back to the tree root, I don’t know how I didn’t drown from fear; it must have been the training kicking in. I ran back to the guest house, crying my eyes out, calling to Mrs Jakovleva. There was no answer. I sprinted to my room and, crazily, locked the door behind me. It was only when I sat on the bed, still hyperventilating, that I saw there was a mass of reeds wound round my ankle, the one I thought had been grabbed.

And so now I’m really confused, Suse, I don’t know what to think. It must have been reeds, dragging me under. It can’t have been anything else. It can’t have been the body I saw. The dead are dead, aren’t they? They don’t come back.

I wish to God I knew where Mrs Jakovleva was. I wish it were already tomorrow and I was on that train.

* * *

From: porpoise1swimit@gmail.com

To: barflysuse@gmail.com

Date: 31 May 2015, 21:18

Dear God, Suse, be online, please be reading this, please be online.

You’ve got to call the Foreign Office, call 999, anything, please, you’ve got to send somebody to help me.

Mrs Jakovleva’s dead. I thought I heard footsteps on the stairs. I thought it was her. I called for her, followed the muddy trail of prints to the top of the guest house where her room is.

The door was half open.

I had a really bad feeling, Suse, I had a bad feeling something had happened to her. I shouted and bashed on the door. Inside her bed was made up. Bottles of perfume laid out neatly on a linen doily covering the bedside table. Beside it was another closed door. Her bathroom door.

And I just knew she was in there.

I pushed it open and she was lying at the bottom of the bath, her eyes wide open. Drowned. Her clothes were the same ones she had on yesterday, which means she has been here, under the water, all that time. Wisps of grey hair floating round her face like reeds.

There was a phone on her dressing table. I ran to it, picked it up, but there was no dialling tone. So I’m going to try and get help in the town, I’m going there now.

They came for her, Suse, the people in the lake, I woke them up and they found her, and now I think they’re going to come for me.

Please God, get hold of the Foreign Office, Suse, tell them I’m here. Please send the police to Vaiduoklis. Please help me.

* * *

From: brian.heddler@ukforeignoffice.gov

To: Elaine.Griffiths@ukforeignoffice.gov

Date: 10 June 2015, 11:14

Subject: CONFIDENTIAL

Elaine,

The investigation into the death of Christine Miller is ongoing, but having now visited the reservoir and spoken to local police myself, I wanted to bring you up to speed.

There is a need to be sensitive with this case, as the family remain convinced she was murdered.

The landlady, Asta Jakovleva, was a widow with no children, and her business was doing badly. The most likely scenario, police believe, is that she committed suicide by drowning. According to medical records, she had a history of depression.

The local superintendent tells me a fingerprint search of Asta Jakovleva’s bedroom suggests Christine Miller must have discovered the body and tried to raise the alarm. In panic she then fled the premises, leaving the door open in her haste. It was dark at this time and the landscape unfamiliar to Ms Miller, who in her fright seems to have taken the path to the reservoir, rather than the one into town. Both are through woodland areas of fir, and not impossible to confuse.

Ms Miller’s body was found in the lake, fully clothed and tangled in reeds. Markings on the banks show she had clearly tried to claw her way out of the muddy sides of the reservoir after falling in, but there were no signs of violence to indicate forcible drowning. Like so many tragic cases of people swimming in open water each year, Ms Miller became caught up in reeds and drowned. It was night, she was frightened, and out of her wetsuit; even her training as an experienced wild swimmer was unable to save her. I hope in time the family will be able to accept this.

There is one anomaly in the case. Muddy footprints have been found throughout the house, as if somebody ran from room to room. The owner of the footprints could conceivably have been an intruder, but the police are confident that these must have belonged to Ms Miller who perhaps ran in panic through the property, looking for a working telephone. The footprints eventually lead to the front door.

Also, I finally have an explanation for our difficulty at the Foreign Office in locating the place from Christine Miller’s friend’s description. ‘Vaiduoklis’ is in fact a local nickname for the village, not its actual name. It is the Lithuanian word for ‘ghost’ and seems to refer to the original village, sunk in the reservoir.

I will of course keep you updated on further developments.

Regards,

Brian

Manuela Saragosa

MANUELA SARAGOSA

Manuela is a journalist and presenter for BBC World Service and a former Indonesia correspondent for the Financial Times.

Inspiration for her story, Eau-de-Eric, came after she gave up smoking and found she could smell properly again. At the time she was working on a radio item about why smell is the most powerful of all five senses in conjuring memories and emotions.

Manuela lives in London with her two children and their large collection of soft toys, and has excellent relations with all of them. In 2015 she was placed second in an Ireland-based short story writing competition

MANUELA ON STEPHEN KING

‘I’ve been reading everything by Stephen King since my teens but the novel that has haunted me the longest is Dolores Claiborne. It only occurred to me after submitting my story to The Bazaar of Bad Dreams Hodder-Guardian competition that Eau-de-Eric also involves a mother’s troubled relationship with her daughter. Coincidence? Probably not.’

EAU-DE-ERIC

It was just another teddy, picked up for 99p at a local charity shop, until Ellie decided to name him Eric, after her dead father. She named all her soft toys but told her mother this one was special because it was big and hairy like Daddy had been.

‘But Daddy didn’t have black eyes, sweetie,’ Kathy said as she tucked Ellie into bed. ‘His eyes were blue.’

Ellie rubbed Eric’s stitched nose against her own as she snuggled under the duvet. ‘I know, but he smells like Daddy,’ she said.

Kathy hadn’t been able to resist a quick sniff herself, even though she didn’t have particularly fond memories of her late husband. Ellie was right, there was something about the smell. A whiff of Eric’s old aftershave buried deep in the teddy’s matted fur. Kathy recognised the brand. It was one she’d managed to avoid ever since Eric had died, except for that one time when a shop attendant had sprayed it at her in a department store, part of some aggressive sales pitch. Kathy had recoiled but it had been too late. The smell had clung to her hair and clothes for the rest of the day as if the ghost of Eric – the real Eric – was intent on sticking around.

‘How about Mummy puts Eric through the wash?’ Kathy said.

Ellie shook her head, squeezing the teddy to her face. Kathy tugged and cajoled but Ellie started crying, her eyes squeezed shut as she tucked her chin into her neck, hushed tears coursing over her flushed cheeks. That was often the way with Ellie; her anger was silent, tantrums were not her style. Kathy found it unnerving, more so since her father Eric’s death.

‘Okay,’ Kathy said, getting up from beside the bed. ‘If it means that much to you.’

But it unsettled her enough to mention it to Chris on the phone later that evening.

‘You think she’s figured it out? About us?’ he said.

‘I don’t know.’ Kathy sighed. ‘We’ve been so careful.’

It had been over a year since the funeral and Kathy’s therapist had said there was no need to keep her relationship with Chris under wraps. But Ellie was so sensitive and Kathy had only been seeing Chris for a few months. It didn’t feel right for him to stay overnight, not yet at least. A year wasn’t long in the grand scheme of things, Kathy thought, given the traumatic circumstances of Eric’s death. Because despite his faults, he’d been tender with Ellie in a way that he’d never been with her. Ellie had been so little after all, too little to answer back.

‘You’re a good mother,’ Chris said.

‘Am I? I’m not sure. I want to move on but I don’t know how to take her with me.’

‘You always put her first. That makes you a good mother.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Sorry for you. Sorry I’m forcing this on you too.’

There was a pause at the other end of the line. ‘It’s fine,’ Chris said. ‘It’s . . . fine.’ She pictured him leaning forward, the phone at his ear, dragging his hand through his hair. She could love this man, she thought. Yes, she could.

But she still felt uneasy as she climbed the stairs to bed that night. Turning at the top step, she caught sight of Eric through the open bedroom door, propped up against the wall next to her daughter’s sleeping head. She went in, listening to Ellie’s damp breathing and for a moment she felt observed, as if Eric’s black button eyes were following her every move. She rubbed her hand over her face, feeling suddenly tired and heavy. It was Friday and it had been a long week, too long.

On Saturday, Ellie perched Eric on the table during breakfast but Kathy drew the line at Ellie taking him along to her playdate. When it was time to go, Ellie stood stock still, hands rigid at her side, as Kathy buttoned up her coat.

‘Mummy,’ she said and Kathy felt herself tense up. It was a voice her daughter only ever used when she was about to blindside her.

‘Yes, sweetie.’

‘Promise me.’

‘Promise you what, sugar?’

‘Promise you won’t put Eric in the wash while I’m away.’ Kathy kept her eyes lowered, focusing on the top button.

‘’Course not,’ Kathy said, her fingers slipping over its smooth edges.

‘Pinky promise, Mummy?’

Ellie smiled as they hooked their small fingers and Kathy had really meant it then. She had other plans for the afternoon anyway.

She was thinking of those plans, of Chris coming over, as she struggled to stretch the vacuum cleaner’s nozzle into the far corners of Ellie’s room. There was always some fluff you couldn’t quite catch. She reached down under the bed, pulling out a forgotten pyjama top and stray pieces of Lego. And there was something else, something stuffed away to the far side: Gerald the Giraffe, her gift to Ellie after the funeral. He must have fallen out of favour.

She pulled him out by his long neck and positioned the nozzle to suck the grey dust off his body, watching the yellow and brown spots recover their colour. Where to put Gerald?

A collection of glazed, plastic eyes looked back at her from the top of Ellie’s bed, where the soft toys were gathered as if in amiable conference. Ellie had brought Eric back up to her room before going out and had given him pride of place, separate from the rest. He was laid out on her pillow, his face turned up to the ceiling.

‘How about some company, Eric?’ she said, placing Gerald’s thick snout next to Eric’s head.

‘Gerald, meet Eric. Eric, meet Gerald.’

Christ, she sounded like Ellie. Fantasy play, the therapist called it. It helped process difficult emotions, apparently. Kathy gazed at the face of each in turn. She dropped the nozzle and picked up Eric by the scruff of his neck, holding him in front of her, next to Gerald.

‘Nice to meet you, Eric,’ she said in a gruff voice. Gerald’s neck drooped to one side.

‘Now look what you’ve done.’ She turned Eric’s face towards her own and scowled.

‘You bastard,’ she said between tight lips. She paused, looking at Eric’s scrunched-up face and lifeless eyes. He really was quite ugly, his pug-like snout giving him a permanently disgruntled expression. She brought him close to her nose, daring herself to smell, and made a face.

‘Here, take that, stinky,’ she said, using one of Gerald’s front legs to hit Eric in his middle.

Good grief, what was she doing? She threw both stuffed toys on the bed and moved backward towards the door, dragging the vacuum cleaner with her. The other soft toys crowded the bed with their benign shaggy aura but Eric was practically pouting. She squared her shoulders and put her hands on her hips. ‘You know what, Eric?’ she said. ‘You’re going in the wash.’

The washing machine whirred in the kitchen downstairs as Chris and Kathy lay in bed. The curtains were closed and only a pale afternoon light filtered through the gaps at the side. Kathy nestled into the curve of Chris’s side and ran a finger over his profile. He smiled and kissed her forehead, and then rattling shook the floorboards beneath them.

‘What’s that noise?’ he said, sniffing a strand of her hair.

‘Just the washing machine.’

‘Sounds like someone’s wrestling with it.’

‘It’s old. I should replace it, I just haven’t got round to it yet.’ She brushed her lips over Chris’s cheek, near his ear. ‘It’s on the to-do list.’

‘The to-do list?’ He chuckled.

‘Yeah, what’s wrong with that?’

‘Nothing. Nothing at all. You’re so organised.’ He squeezed her breast.

‘You don’t like that?’ Kathy said, inclining her head.

His finger ran down her navel to the fuzz below. ‘I love it.’

‘Oh, no!’ Kathy said, sitting up and pushing his hand away.

‘What?’

‘I’ve got to dry the teddy before Ellie gets back!’ She threw her legs over the side of the bed and reached for the shirt Chris had discarded in a hurry earlier.

‘The dryer,’ she said, glancing back at him, still splayed on the bed. ‘I forgot to programme it.’

In the kitchen, the machine was ticking down the last of its cycle. Eric’s face was distorted and angry through the damp of its glass. The black paint on his button eyes had chipped and for a moment she thought he might be blinking at her. No, it had to be a trick of the light. She turned the dials and the machine churned as it started up again, as if gathering strength.

She peered through the glass into the drum. Eric stared back at her.

‘What?’ she said. ‘Got a problem?’ She knocked on the glass, scowling, unaware that a naked Chris had padded in behind her on his bare feet.

‘Who are you talking to?’ he said, circling his arms round her waist from behind, his fingers pressing into her soft middle.

‘Him,’ she said, pointing at the drum where Eric was being thrown round and round.

‘You need to get out more,’ Chris said, laughing and kissing the back of her neck. She shrugged, smoothing down the hair on his arm. He turned her round to face him, pushed her up against the kitchen counter and gave her a long, wet kiss.

His breath was hot on her face as his hands ran down her body. She gripped the counter, glancing up at the kitchen clock. ‘There’s no time,’ she said, pushing him gently back.

Chris leaned his head on her shoulder, breathing out a weary sigh. ‘There’s never enough time,’ he said.

Ellie was not happy, not happy at all.

‘But you promised, Mummy!’ Her face was round and wet.

‘I know, sweetie, but he was really stinky.’ Kathy closed her eyes and shivered, remembering the smell. It still cloyed at her nostrils.

‘He didn’t need a wash.’ Ellie pouted and wrapped her small, pudgy fingers round Eric’s damp body.

She sank her nose into his fur and her frown disappeared. ‘Oh! I can still smell him!’

Kathy yanked Eric from her daughter’s face, sticking him under her own nose. Damn it, her daughter was right. Eau-de-Eric was still in there, musky and burned. But there was something else too.

‘Give him back!’ Ellie said, stamping her foot. Her little arms were raised up in the air, straining to reach him.

Kathy batted her away, sniffing again. There. There it was. A hot summer evening, a barbecue, the smoke from sizzling fat billowing upwards into a deepening blue sky. His fingers were wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle and he’d flicked something at her, a piece of meat or charred vegetable – she couldn’t remember exactly what – and then he’d pressed the scalding skewer on her arm. Yes, she could still feel it. Ellie had been in her arms, crying and sucking her shoulder because she’d missed a feed. She’d almost dropped her as she’d flinched in pain.

‘He needs to go back in,’ Kathy said.

‘No, Mummy, no!’ Ellie’s bottom lip quivered and her hands clenched into fists.

Kathy marched back into the kitchen, shaking off her daughter who was tugging at her clothes. ‘Get off!’ she shouted. It came out a little too sharp, more so than she’d intended.

‘Mummy, no!’ Ellie stumbled as she followed her.

But Kathy could still feel the slabs of stone chafing at her knees as she fell on to the ground that day; the shock of the glowing skewer’s sting against her bare skin. She had cradled Ellie’s head, protecting her from the fall.

‘Please, Mummy, don’t!’ Ellie’s voice was choked and barely more than a whisper.

Then the washing machine’s door wouldn’t close. Eric’s arm kept flopping out and getting in the way. It hung limp, his head half out and turned upwards. Ellie reached to drag him out but Kathy shoved her aside with her body, forgetting that she was bigger, an adult tussling with a mere child. ‘Watch your hands!’ she said. There was a rip, like the sound of paper tearing. Stuffing spilled out of the seam between Eric’s shoulder and arm.

‘Mummy! You’re hurting him!’ Ellie’s face shone with tears and shock as she crept closer.

‘He’s a toy, Ellie! A toy!’ Kathy shouted as she chucked the teddy back into the drum, ripped shoulder and all. She pushed Ellie aside, sending her careening backward over the cold stone kitchen floor. Her foot shot out as she kicked the door shut and hurriedly twisted the dials. The machine started up and Kathy wiped an arm over her face. Her hands were trembling.

Ellie got up from the floor. She paused, her eyes lowered, and when she looked up she’d rearranged her features into an impassive mask. There was nothing there. No flush. No tears. She smoothed her hands down her dress – her favourite lilac pinafore dress, the one with ebony edging – and watched in silence as Eric’s paws clawed at the glass beneath the rising water. Tick, tick, tick, they went.

Ellie turned her gaze from the drum to her mother.

‘I hate you,’ she said and fled up the stairs to her room.

Chris became elusive. There were fewer weekend visits and he made a point of removing himself when Ellie was home. No, it wasn’t that he wasn’t warming to Ellie, he told Kathy, how could he not with her head of honey curls, rosebud mouth and plump, peachy arms? It was just that he couldn’t deal with her quiet, determined hostility. She would cast long, sideways glances at him, sitting still with Eric on her knee, turning the teddy’s face towards him as he ate or watched TV.

He had told her about the time when he’d gone to the loo and he’d felt strangely self-conscious sitting on the cold plastic seat. When he’d looked round he’d almost jumped out of his skin seeing Eric sitting there in the bath, his chipped black eyes fixed on him. Why would Ellie do that? he asked Kathy. What was the point? Plus, there was the name, Eric. Yes, he understood, of course she missed her father. But still, given what was going on, it was kind of creepy.

And now it had been several days since Chris had last called. Oh, there had been text messages and the odd email but he was always busy, always off somewhere or coming back from somewhere else, always working late or working early or waiting for a delivery.

Give it time, Kathy’s therapist said, but time felt all too malleable, the past dragging the present to itself when all Kathy wanted was a forward trajectory.

And so here they were, Kathy and Ellie and Eric, always Eric, with his bandaged shoulder. Kathy had offered to repair him in a fit of guilt but Ellie had refused. After all, Kathy had ‘attacked’ him – Ellie’s words, not Kathy’s – she couldn’t trust her mother to do the right thing and so she insisted on keeping the bandage in place. It felt like an affront, as if Ellie were pressing a point, and Kathy felt deep shame each time she was confronted by the damaged Eric. So much so, that she eventually relented and agreed for him to have his own plate and cutlery at table.

‘He needs to get better,’ Ellie said. ‘He’s hurt.’

And wasn’t it always Kathy’s way to give in anyway? She was working on it, she had to change but it was one step forward, two steps back. Habits are hard to break, her therapist agreed. Hadn’t she done the same with Eric – the real Eric – right up until the night when he fell under a car and was dragged along the road after a late-night drinking session with the boys? Kathy had seen him laid out, his chest a deep concave where the breastbone had been crushed, piercing his heart. What heart? she’d wanted to shout at the hospital staff standing to the side with their hands in their pockets.

Ellie was kneeling on her bed, her stuffed toys lined up in a row in front of her, her back to the door where Kathy leaned against the doorframe. She hadn’t noticed her mother tip-toeing up the stairs, but then she didn’t seem to notice her mother much these days. Kathy was always creeping around her now, her movements slow and deliberate.

Ellie was whispering, quiet words rustling the air, her elbows working up and down, pausing only to wag her finger at Gerald and Ollie and all the other soft toys, whatever their names were. She was busy with some sort of demonstration. There was something in front of Ellie, something all the other animals were supposed to watch. ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Come back!’ Kathy heard Ellie remonstrate. And then: ‘But I love you really, I love you.’ The words fluttered, gentle as butterfly wings, followed by the burst plops of Ellie’s lips kissing the air.

Kathy felt wet on her cheeks. She wanted to wipe the tears away but hesitated, worried that any movement on her part might break whatever magic Ellie was conjuring up on the bed. A sob welled up big and bold inside her and Kathy clamped her hand over her mouth. Ellie’s head flicked to the side. Nothing moved in her face as she registered her mother.

‘Go away,’ she said.

Kathy shook her head. ‘Sweetie, you need to talk to me. Whatever it is.’

Ellie shifted on the bed, moving her legs round, and Kathy saw she was cradling Eric in her lap.

‘Eric is hurting,’ she said. ‘You hurt him.’

‘Oh sugar.’ Kathy wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘It’s not what you think. It wasn’t like that.’

Ellie’s little fingers stroked his bandages, the tips barely touching the material.

‘Eric says you’re mean.’ She turned the teddy’s face sideways, and Kathy straightened up as she felt his black eyes drill into her. At this angle, his stitched snout was a lopsided grin.

‘Teddies don’t speak, sweetie.’

‘Eric does. He talks to me.’ Up and down the little fingers went, caressing the broken shoulder.

‘No, Ellie.’ Kathy choked back another sob. ‘He doesn’t.’

Her daughter shrugged, turning back round to face her stuffed animals.

‘Look at me, Ellie.’

The whispering started up again, small exhalations brushing against each other.

‘Ellie.’ Kathy’s voice was hard and sharp as she drummed her fingers on the doorframe.

‘Eleanor!’

Her daughter’s shoulders bunched tight and her whispering quickened as Ellie leaned forward, as if protecting Eric from her mother’s voice.

‘Enough now, Eleanor!’

Kathy strode forward and grabbed her daughter by the shoulder. She was stiff to her touch and fell backward, rigid and flat on the bed, still clutching Eric. The eyes, Kathy thought, they have the same eyes, distant and inaccessible. She had to separate them.

‘Give him to me!’ Kathy said.

‘No.’ Ellie pressed Eric to her chest, turning away from her mother.

Kathy grabbed him by his bandaged shoulder and started to pull but Ellie tightened her grip and she found herself peeling off one finger at a time. It was no match really, her adult hands were so much bigger, so much stronger. When she’d prised him loose, Kathy held Eric aloft – how heavy he was all of a sudden! – and hurried out of the bedroom, her fingers circling his neck.

Ellie came scrambling after her, tearing at her mother’s clothes, but her mother was too tall, her arm stretched up too high. As Kathy looked down, she saw Ellie’s mouth twist as she clamped down on her leg.

‘Ow!’ Kathy screamed, thrusting her leg sideways. ‘Get off! Get off, you little bitch!’ The honey-dipped hair, the pudgy arms, the milk teeth were all just a blur, something separate to her, morphed into some grotesque animal battling with her leg. The hallway stretched out in front, the mirror of the vanity cupboard in the bathroom at the end reflecting overhead lights. Kathy dragged herself towards it, still clutching Eric, her daughter still clamped to her leg. She bent to push her daughter away but Ellie’s mouth caught her hand instead and she felt the trickle of warm blood.

Blood spattered on the cupboard’s mirror as she flipped the door open, her fingers grasping blindly for the sharp point of the nail scissors. Ellie’s teeth were deep into her leg as she started stabbing Eric, plunging the scissors into his eyes, those beady, dead eyes, and tearing at his middle. Stuffing spilled out, red-tinged fluff billowing on to the floor. Again and again, she stabbed and ripped until all that was left was a flattened, empty rag, a caricature of a teddy.

When it was over, when her ears finally tuned in to her daughter’s muffled sobs, Kathy let the scissors drop into the sink. The metal clattered against the sides and she slumped against the basin, Eric hanging limp and ragged in her hand.

Ellie clambered to her feet. She spat out her mother’s blood and wiped her arms over her cheeks, smearing them in red.

‘Oh God,’ Kathy said, sinking to her knees. ‘What have I done?’

Ellie said nothing, grabbing what remained of Eric and running back into her bedroom.

Fluff floated around her as Kathy placed her hands over her face and sat motionless. She heard the fridge hum downstairs, the distant ticking of the kitchen clock. She breathed in and stretched out her leg, observing the teeth-marks on her skin. Beneath the blood, between the sticky fluff, she could just make out a series of curved, symmetrical bite-marks. And then from the bedroom; again, that insistent, urgent whispering. Kathy hoisted herself up, leaning on the sink, not daring to look at her reflection in the mirror. Could shame burn itself on someone’s face?

She hobbled to the stairs, keeping her eyes trained on the banisters. Out of the corner of her vision, she caught a glimpse of Ellie in her room, back on the bed, elbows working furiously and a large bandage trailing on to the carpet.

Downstairs, Kathy let her hand hover over the phone. She was thinking of Chris but he seemed very far away, just a distant memory, something she could never reach. She tried to recall his face but could only dredge up the outline of his features: his square jaw, his brushed-back hair, the gentle slope of his forehead. It was just a sketch really, all the details were missing. And then she heard the footsteps on the floorboards above her. The familiar tread. The dreaded pause at the top of the steps. The thud-thud-thud of big feet, strong feet, coming to rest on each step. And as the footsteps came closer, she didn’t even look up. She knew who it would be.

Paul Bassett Davies

PAUL BASSETT DAVIES

Paul Bassett Davies has written and directed for stage, TV, radio and film. He began in multimedia theatre, and his one-man shows won awards at the Edinburgh Festival. He’s written for many well-known names in British comedy, and had his own BBC radio sitcom, as well as writing radio dramas, short films, and music videos. He’s also been the vocalist in a punk band, a cab driver, and a DJ in a strip club. His first novel, Utter Folly, topped the Amazon humorous fiction chart in 2012, and his new novel, Dead Writers in Rehab, is being published by Unbound.

The idea for ‘The Spots’ came to Paul in the small hours of a sleepless night, when the image of a leopard seemed to prowl mysteriously into his mind. It was only after he’d finished the story that he realised the screensaver on his laptop the previous year was a photograph of a leopard.

PAUL ON STEPHEN KING

‘I like this quote from On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft: “If you intend to write as truthfully as you can, your days as a member of polite society are numbered (anyway).” It’s a very useful reminder about honesty and what a writer really cares about.’

THE SPOTS

The first phase of my assignment was to count the leopard’s spots.

Then, to consider the possibility of change. In the words of the Leader, ‘First quantify. Then evaluate. Finally master.’ This remorselessly methodical approach was a key to the Leader’s greatness, and just one aspect of his genius.

There was only one leopard left, of an original four, in the People’s Menagerie, an extensive zoological facility that was located in the palace compound to ensure the safety of the capital’s inhabitants.

Two of the creatures had perished in a visionary genetic experiment. One had been executed. The Leader had suspected the November plotters of intending to make use of the beast in some way: perhaps as a symbol, or a weapon, or even as a potential ally, through whom they might enlist the support of the animal kingdom in their odious conspiracy. There was no material evidence against the leopard, or for that matter against the finance minister and the colonels. None was necessary. The Leader’s acclaimed intuition in these matters was unerring, and almost uncanny. Indeed, some of the populace attributed powers of telepathy to him. This was absurd, of course, and such superstitious beliefs were held only by the less educated members of society, bearing in mind that this is a relative judgement in my homeland, which has the finest schools in the world.

All the suspected plotters were executed, after confessing to their crimes in an impartial inquiry conducted according to the highest standards of international jurisprudence in the basement of the Great Hall of Conciliation. The leopard made no confession, and met its fate with what was reported as perfect equanimity, having been humanely stunned.

So, there was only one animal available for me to study, with no prospect of acquiring other specimens. The four leopards had been gifts from nations with which we had since broken off relations, after conclusive proof that their governments were part of a reactionary global alliance intent on deposing the Leader, motivated by bitter jealousy of his towering achievements. These nations, of which, sadly, there was a growing number, no longer sent us gifts, and we, in turn, no longer allowed them access to our precious minerals.

However, I set about my work with the diligence and humility that has made me, I flatter myself to think, a valuable servant to the man who bestrides our national culture like a colossus.

At first I observed the leopard in situ, peering through the bars behind which it paced and prowled, glancing at me sometimes in a way that made me suspect it bore me no goodwill. But I found it impossible to count the leopard’s spots, let alone consider whether it could change them. Its supple, sinuous movements defied my scrutiny, and when it lay down I was unable to see all of its body, and the spots that were visible were partially concealed or distorted by the folds of its fur, which seemed to undulate and ripple even in its sleep.

‘But why,’ I hear you ask, ‘did you not simply have the beast sedated, and inspect it at your leisure?’

A good question, but such a course of action had been specifically prohibited to me, by the Leader himself, in person.

‘Maximilian,’ he said, using the name he had seen fit to bestow on me, although it bore little resemblance to the one I still thought of as my own, ‘the leopard must not be disturbed in any way. This is vital. My recent researches have confirmed a feeling – call it an instinct – that I have an extraordinary affinity with this noble creature. Our connection, I believe, transcends even the barriers of species, and I am poised on the brink of a discovery that will revolutionise our entire conception of consciousness, and of life itself. I am entrusting you with a very particular and delicate task. I would love to tell you more, my old friend, but I’m afraid I shall have to keep you in the dark for a little longer, much to my regret.’

‘Sir, I understand,’ I replied, ‘and I would never expect you to discuss matters with me that are almost certainly beyond my comprehension.’

‘No, no, Max. Do not belittle yourself. Your intelligence is exceptionally acute, as I know very well, and I will never forget the impression it made on me in our schooldays. It is simply a matter of timing. You shall know everything when the time is right. Until then, please indulge your old friend and protector. Will you do that? Say you will!’

He treated me to his most boyish and expansive smile, which no one could resist. His charm was legendary. Even after all those years it still affected me powerfully, and I believe I may even have blushed a little.

I bowed my head. ‘There is no question that I will do exactly as you ask, you know that, sir.’

‘Good!’ he boomed, and chuckled as he took my hand. ‘I knew I could rely on you.’ He moved closer and dropped his voice. ‘I wish I could say the same about more of my old comrades. Do you catch my meaning?’ His grip tightened on my hand.

‘I do, sir.’

‘Excellent. So, please conduct your observations without disturbing my feline friend in any way at all. Understood?’

‘Understood.’

‘Good. I look forward to receiving your report at your earliest convenience. By the end of the week, let’s say. You may go.’

The researches to which the Leader referred were typical of his relentless thirst for knowledge. He sacrificed much of his precious time and energy to the pursuit of science, and he used his immense learning to improve the lives of the ordinary people with his remarkable discoveries, inventions and breakthroughs. Some of these were considered by foreigners to be controversial or even harmful. Naturally, most of the populace were ignorant of the slanders propagated by the media lackeys of our enemies. Information from outside was controlled scrupulously, to prevent it contaminating the pure, indomitable spirit of our nation, particularly its virile but impressionable youth. Nonetheless, a few of us were able to access external media sources, and we were profoundly shocked by the calumnies heaped upon the selfless benefactor of our nation.

He strove only to increase his wisdom, and this effort had recently led to an interest in metaphysics, after reading the Metamorphoses of Ovid. It goes without saying that he didn’t read the material himself; he simply listened to a summary delivered by one of the scholars he engaged for this purpose. His natural intellect was so capacious that all he required to understand even the most abstruse academic work was a brief précis. Indeed, he could never have accumulated the vast number of honours, awards and citations that were bestowed on him if he’d done all his own reading. Or writing, for that matter. He provided the original ideas for the various theses, papers and studies that were published under his name, and the details were completed by others.

I believe the Leader’s interest in the leopard was a result of his growing immersion in metaphysical ideas of transformation, and was thus the stimulus for the work in which I was now engaged. However, this work, as I have mentioned, was proving difficult under the strictures he had imposed on me.

I came up with the idea of filming the leopard with multiple cameras, so that I could then study the footage in slow motion. But I encountered a problem with this scheme. Any cameras that could be used for surveillance purposes were under the control of the Ministry of Culture. When I enquired about borrowing some of them I was rebuffed. After some persistence I gained an interview with the liaison officer, who put his finger to his lips, gestured for me to follow him into his private bathroom, and ran the taps. In a strained whisper he told me there were very few cameras to spare, owing to the temporary security crisis of the last two decades. Most of the cameras were broken, and parts would be unobtainable until the economic miracle began to have an effect. This would doubtless take place soon, once the irregularities that were inevitable in a scheme as revolutionary as the Leader’s magnificent five-year plan had been smoothed out, certainly by the end of its second triumphant decade.

I returned to the leopard’s enclosure armed only with my notebook and pencils, as before, and began my task anew. Counting, and more counting. And trying to fight a growing sense of panic.

The end of the week found me facing the Leader in his private box at the People’s Skating Rink, which was closed to the public in winter as a precaution against syphilis, which the Leader had proved to be spread by shivering. As far as I could tell we were the only people there. I could see no bodyguards, advisers, or assistants.

‘What news?’ the Leader asked, clapping his heavily gloved hands, and smiling at me jovially.

‘I have failed, sir,’ I said, bowing my head. My breath made clouds in the air. The heating in the private box wasn’t working. ‘I have been unable to count the leopard’s spots.’

The Leader said nothing. Eventually I raised my eyes. I saw he was deep in thought. I knew he would not rebuke me directly. His soul was too large for anything mean or petty in that way. The furrows on his brow, while expressing sorrow, disappointment and a certain impatience, also conveyed his great compassion for the failings of others.

He gazed earnestly at me. His eyes were dark and fathomless. He put his arm around my shoulder.

‘Walk with me,’ he said.

It was unclear what our destination might be, as space was limited in the box, but it transpired that the Leader wished only to walk around in circles. ‘Dear Max,’ he said in a low voice, ‘what are we to do? How can I help you fulfil this task you have so kindly agreed to undertake?’

His question was rhetorical. I knew better than to attempt a reply.

‘I have an idea,’ he said finally, coming to an abrupt halt and dropping his arm from my shoulder. He gazed into the distance. ‘Perhaps you should get into the cage,’ he murmured.

‘Into the cage, sir?’

‘Yes.’

‘With the leopard?’

‘It’s the only way!’ he said, turning to me with a smile. ‘The animal is playing games with you!’ He chuckled. ‘I believe it knows what you’re up to, and is deliberately thwarting you out of sheer mischief!’

‘Mischief, sir?’

‘Of course! It’s a cat, after all. You know how playful they can be.’

I nodded slowly. ‘So, you recommend that I get into the leopard’s cage, in order to count its spots?’

‘Recommend? I insist, dear Max!’

I inclined my head slowly.

‘And now,’ he said, ‘I must be off. I can hear my chopper.’

The approaching clatter of helicopter blades obliged him to bellow his final words to me.

‘I’m sure you won’t mind walking back,’ the Leader said, ‘as I know how keen you are on getting your exercise!’

He cast a thoughtful look at my shattered leg and my cane, clapped me on the shoulder, and strode away.

I fled the capital immediately. I didn’t go home, or to my office.

As soon as I heard the helicopter lift off outside I tore at the lining of my jacket and extracted one of the diamonds I had secreted there over the course of many years.

Its value was easily sufficient to procure the services of a passing motorist when I reached the road. The man agreed to take me all the way to the coast, after I assured him I knew how to evade any possible checkpoints. I was confident of this, as the system by which the roads were patrolled was one of the many responsibilities I undertook for the Leader in my role as his trusted adviser and general factotum.

Naturally I withheld this information from the driver, although I doubt if he would have paid attention to anything I said to him after I’d shown him the diamond. His eyes grew wide, and I had to remind him to keep them on the road each time they strayed towards the gem I clutched in my fist. He knew exactly how much a stone that size was worth, like everyone else in a country where the value of the official currency was a kind of fiction in the mind of the Leader.

It took thirty-six hours to reach the port, which was full of soldiers, as I had expected. It took a further two days and nearly all of my diamonds to secure lodgings, in the most disreputable part of town, and to arrange for a passage in a ship. Every step I took required a considerable bribe to buy the silence of those I dealt with.

The ship’s captain seemed to know his business, although he appeared to be little more than a ruffian. This reassured me. Signs of unusual intelligence or sophistication in anyone I encountered at this stage of my flight would have worried me.

As I waited another day for the ship to load its cargo I had plenty of time to think. Had the Leader intended all along to kill me? If so, why the elaborate and baroque charade with the leopard’s spots? Or was the experiment genuine, and my fate sealed by my failure to fulfil my task? But I couldn’t hope to fathom his mind. I gave up trying, and simply waited.

Finally the ship was ready. I received instructions to meet the captain an hour before dawn in a secluded spot behind some warehouses, no more than a hundred yards from the pier.

The captain was waiting for me when I arrived. Cautiously he led me to the ship. It had no lights showing, and loomed above us, a dark shape barely visible against the moonless sky.

It was very cold, and a sudden thought struck me. ‘Will I have a cabin?’ I whispered. ‘If not, I may need to borrow some extra clothes.’

‘Never mind that,’ the captain growled, ‘just get up those steps.’

I felt a violent shove in my back and when I turned around I saw that the captain had been joined by another man, who crowded in behind me.

I turned to the captain. ‘Who is this?’ I hissed.

I was aware of a swift movement at the edge of my vision. A blast of white light erupted in my eyes. There was an agonising pain in the back of my head, which faded quickly as inky blackness embraced me.

We are at sea. I have been allowed to keep my pencils and my notebook, in which I write these words, and I understand why. I understand everything. I am inside a shipping container. It has been modified to create two compartments, separated by steel bars. I am on one side of the bars. On the other side is the leopard.

There is plenty of light. Almost too much. On the ceiling of the container a series of arc lamps blaze perpetually. At the top of the steel bars is a mechanism containing an electric motor, gear wheels and a pulley system. It is clear that this machinery can be operated remotely, and that its purpose is to raise the bars that separate me from the leopard.

My body tells me I’ve been here about three days. On five occasions a small hatch in the wall behind me has opened and a plate of food has been shoved through. But the leopard has not been fed.

My mind is wonderfully clear and focused. Finally I can begin to count the leopard’s spots. Perhaps my task is made easier by the leopard’s hunger, which may be causing it to move more slowly. I have no doubt, however, that the beast has more than enough energy to spring at me the instant the bars are raised, and tear me to pieces.

It is this knowledge, of course, that is assisting my concentration. And now I see it all. The Leader was always in earnest about counting the leopard’s spots. I should have known. He can be playful, but he is never frivolous. When he saw that I faltered in my task he knew what he had to do. He told me my fate and he knew I would flee. He would have known that I had diamonds in my possession. Everything was arranged. The passing motorist, the soldiers, my lodgings, the captain. All were part of the plan. This is his genius. He knows the human mind, and he is methodical.

I will not fail you, my Leader. I know you will read these words, or that they will be read to you. Perhaps you will feel sorrow at what you have been obliged to do to your old friend. I know you are capable of it. I have seen you weep over the deaths of other old friends. But please don’t waste your tears on me. I applaud you. I serve you, and your purpose, whatever it may be, to the very last and without question or regret.

But these are not the words you are waiting for. All that concerns you is the result of my task. When I have completed it I will hand over the notebook, or perhaps just push it through the hatch, so that the legibility of my work is protected from any spatters of the blood that will inevitably decorate this container when the time comes.

But enough! Now I begin. One. Two. Three . . .

Michael Button

MICHAEL BUTTON

Michael Button was born in Glasgow and lives in east London with his husband and dog. During his life, he has done a number of things for money – software development, DJing and teaching (swimming, English as a foreign language, probability theory) – but has recently dedicated himself to his true love: making up stories.

‘The Unpicking’ is his second published story. Michael drew inspiration from two main sources – the recurring motif of marionettes in the work of the American horror writer Thomas Ligotti, and Michael’s favourite childhood character, Enid Blyton’s diabolical Naughty Amelia Jane.

He is currently working on his first novel.

MICHAEL ON STEPHEN KING

‘It’s hard to overstate the influence of Stephen King’s writing on my work. His short story “The Mangler” is a particular favourite – technical dazzle, nasty violence, black humour and a true shocker of an ending.’

THE UNPICKING

ONE . . .

Nobody was the first to emerge from the toy chest, then came Sophie, Naughty Rupert and Bunny. Last was Annie-In-Rags, the largest of the toys, a doll made from strips of rough denim that trailed over the edge of the chest behind her. Gangle-limbed and goggle-eyed, they formed a circle in the dim glow of His nightlight.

‘Does He sleep?’ whispered Naughty Rupert, a yellow bear. He wore natty herringbone trousers and a scarlet cardigan that was fastened with two brass buttons.

‘Of course He sleeps,’ said Sophie, daringly louder than Rupert. ‘It’s long past His bedtime, and you know what She’s like.’

They all knew what She was like.

Bunny flailed around. He was thrilled by the hint of danger, a stupid grin plastered over his face. His white furry limbs flapped on the carpet and against the side of the bed.

‘Stop that,’ demanded Sophie. ‘Just because He sleeps now doesn’t mean He can’t be woken up.’

Bunny obeyed but the grin didn’t fade – he was always pleased to be spoken to.

‘Oh, what to do?’ said Sophie. She was not the longest serving of the group. Bunny and Annie-In-Rags had been around before her, though determining which of those two came first would require getting sense out of them – something Annie might occasionally offer, but Bunny never, ever did. Indeed, Sophie wasn’t even one of His toys. She had been discarded by one of His older cousins, and had somehow ended up in the toy chest. He never played with Sophie, so she spent her days in the dark, squashed between spinning tops and alphabet cubes and other remnants of His toddler days.

Still, despite her relative newness, her lack of favour with Him, Sophie was the leader. She was a prim, rosy-cheeked doll. Her hair was wound in tight black curls and she was dressed in a polka-dotted pinafore, with a large straw hat that tilted upwards. Sophie looked around the group for ideas.

‘Baalllll?’ said Annie-In-Rags, in that drawl that so annoyed Sophie.

Bunny hopped up and down with excitement, but Sophie just fixed her hard little eyes on Annie’s huge face. Before Sophie could offer one of her withering put-downs, Naughty Rupert interrupted.

‘Oh ball is boring. We play ball all the time. Let’s go on an adventure!’

Bunny looked confused, though Annie wasn’t bothered at being contradicted. ‘Adventooor!’ she said.

Nobody said nothing. He had arrived only last Christmas, but he claimed to be an antique, when he deigned to talk at all. He was a wooden marionette, pierrot-style, clad in clothes of royal blue paint. Far too clever for his own good, thought Sophie. She barely admitted to herself that she envied his shiny limbs, his rictus grin.

‘No,’ said Sophie flatly. ‘Must you be so stupid? She might see us if we leave the room.’ She paused, then said, ‘Hopscotch. We’ll play hopscotch.’

Naughty Rupert tilted his head to the left. ‘Hopscotch? Sounds boring.’

Sophie didn’t miss a beat. She took one step forward and threw her plastic fist hard into the bear’s head, which flew back, then snapped forward, then back again.

‘I’m not hearing any better ideas, Rupert,’ she said, then added, ‘dearheart.’

The other toys all looked at their feet. Even Bunny’s enthusiasm was dampened momentarily. ‘Hopscotttt,’ said Annie-In-Rags. They trudged towards the plastic mat laid out at the foot of His bed. But, before they could start, Nobody piped up.

‘I’ve an idea,’ he said. All the toys turned to look at him. There was no defiance in his voice, just plummy assurance. ‘Let’s have an Unpicking.’

‘An Un-what? Never heard of it,’ said Sophie. She turned back to the hopscotch sheet. But the rest of the group were looking at Nobody.

‘Haven’t you?’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to it, really. And it’s fun. Certainly more fun than . . . hopscotch.’ The tiniest hint of acid trickled into his words.

Naughty Rupert chuckled. Annie’s eyes darted between Nobody and Sophie. Bunny did a little jump.

Sophie was defeated.

‘Well. Go on then. Tell us the rules,’ she said, as if her permission was needed.

‘Oh. An Unpicking doesn’t have rules. And we don’t need any balls, or mats, or skittles. We do need someone to be the Baby. I think Bunny would make a good Baby.’

Bunny did a dance, ears flopping up and down. Nobody advanced in an ungainly gambol. He came right up to Bunny’s face. He moved his head about. Inspected Bunny’s fat body. Bunny’s limbs spun manically. He hadn’t noticed Nobody’s dangerous tone, or the strange stillness that blanketed the room.

‘And then all we need,’ said Nobody, fingers plucking at a loose thread dangling from Bunny’s underarm, ‘is a way in.’ And he pulled sharply.

Bunny gasped in shock or pain, still not sure as to what kind of game this was. But then the other toys were about him, fingers of cloth or wood or plastic tearing out stitches, grabbing fistfuls of stuffing: a silent frenzy of fabric.

TWO . . .

By the time they were done with the Unpicking, all that was left of Bunny was a tangle of thread, some folds of empty fur, and balls of the foam that had given him form. The other toys sat about on the carpet, drained from the activity. Annie-In-Rags absent-mindedly twirled one of Bunny’s ears about her wrist, humming a three-note melody. Nobody lolled on the floor, knocking one of Bunny’s eyes back and forth between his glossy four-fingered hands. Even Sophie seemed at an ebb, limbs awkwardly arranged, eyes staring upwards at the glow-in-the-dark planets on His ceiling. Only Naughty Rupert seemed perky. He pattered a soft tattoo on the carpet with his paws, then he chuckled to himself. Annie gave him a look, but then she saw that Sophie and Nobody were not paying Rupert any attention. In fact, they seemed to be deliberately not looking at him. She thought it best to follow suit.

In the bed, underneath a duvet of multicoloured balloons floating in an azure sky, He let out a soft sigh then turned to His other side.

Naughty Rupert chuckled again, then abruptly stood up. He was famously nimble, not constrained by harsh joints like Sophie or Nobody, and his feet were large enough to provide some balance. He stalked towards the door. It was open a sliver. Light from the upstairs hallway stabbed a knife of yellow on to the carpet. Rupert wedged a paw between the door and frame, gripped the jamb with his opposable thumb, and, with all his might, pulled the door open a crack more.

‘What are you doing?’ hissed Sophie. ‘If She’s still awake, She’ll see, and then we’ll all be for it.’

Naughty Rupert smirked at her. After Nobody’s plan for their evening’s entertainment had gone so well, Sophie knew her authority had been diminished. He slipped through. The other toys, nervous now, hurried up to the door. They watched as Rupert stole along the hallway, moving quickly, glued to the flock wallpaper. The door at the other end of the hallway was also ajar, but beyond was darkness.

Sophie, Nobody and Annie-In-Rags watched Rupert from the doorway. Their manifold forms were tense with fear. Sophie’s apprehension was so sharp she couldn’t tell it from excitement. Never before had a toy left His bedroom in the night, except the time, back at the old house, when Big Ted got carried away at hide-and-seek. He had fallen down the dumb waiter and, on his attempt to return to His old bedroom, been set upon by the ginger tom, Winston.

Naughty Rupert reached the top of the stairs. Each stair was half his height, but he leapt down the first like a circus acrobat, then another, then another. The stairs were made of dark wood, polished and gleaming in the light from the hall lamp. Rupert didn’t stop at all, though his furry feet slipped once or twice. He reached the landing, turned to go down further, and disappeared out of sight. The other toys waited. They listened. They heard nothing.

‘Maybe Winston’s got him,’ said Nobody, with a tremor. The toys waited some more.

Nothing.

Not a sound.

Not a peep.

Until . . .

A soft bumping from the bottom of the stairs. Then again, and again, a fraction louder each time. Naughty Rupert reappeared on the landing. He was bringing something with him. It was a plastic Tupperware box with a label on it that read SEWING, though, of course, none of the toys could read. On top of the box was a pair of black-handled scissors. Rupert dragged the box across the landing behind him, then lifted it up each stair, following behind with an awkward vault.

The others were agog at his audacity. What a brave toy! What a naughty toy!

But then, with two stairs to go, Rupert made a mistake. He placed the sewing box on the penultimate stair. Aware that the other toys were watching him, he put a flourish into his leap upwards. His paw slipped. He grabbed out. His paw found the sewing box, but he only succeeded in pulling the box back with him. Then it and Rupert tumbled down, down, down. Rupert’s slide stopped halfway. The box and scissors clattered past him before coming to rest on the landing. Annie moaned in dismay before Nobody slapped his hand over the gap in the denim that functioned as her mouth.

From the dark, in Her bedroom, She spoke. ‘What is that noise?’ The toys heard Her getting up. ‘Oliver. If I catch you out of bed again, I swear you’ll wish you’d never been born.’ In horror, Sophie, Nobody and Annie turned to look at Him, but, mercifully, He was sleeping just as soundly as before. Still, Annie-In-Rags wasted no time scuttling back to the safety of the toy chest, and then, Sophie noticed with a grim satisfaction that undercut her dread, so did Nobody. Only Sophie, alone, stayed at the crack of the door.

From Her bedroom, She emerged. She wore a silk dressing gown, once fine, but now with a rip at one elbow and stains on the lacework. There was a lit cigarette in one of Her hands that she waved like a dagger. ‘Where are you?’ she called. She moved down the hallway. Sophie, exiled during the daytimes, had not seen Her in some time. There was something different about Her, Sophie thought. Black circles had spread like mould around Her eyes, and pale brown spots crept up Her hands and arms.

Then She noticed Rupert lying on the stairs, dazed and still. ‘Oh Oliver. When will you grow out of these silly jokes and be a proper young man? Why must you make it so hard for me?’ She glared at the door of His bedroom. But, just as Sophie was about to squeal in terror, Naughty Rupert actually moved. He sat bolt upright. He cringed. And, then, he started to scarper down the stairs – as if his six-inch legs could outstrip those of a fully grown woman.

She looked at Rupert, brow furrowed. Took a step down the stairs towards him.

Too fast.

Her back foot caught in a flap of carpet. Her mouth got halfway to a scream as She flew the length of the upper flight, sailing clean over Rupert. With a sharp snapping sound, She crashed in a tangled heap on the landing. Her neck was angled hideously. Her bloodshot eyes went as glassy as Nobody’s. Everything was silent again.

As if nothing had happened, Rupert carried on down the stairs, gathered the sewing kit and scissors from about Her still body, and recommenced the laborious journey upwards.

In the bed, He hadn’t stirred at all. His strawberry-blond hair fell in ringlets about His pillow.

Sophie stayed where she was. She was fascinated by the way She lay. She looks like me, Sophie thought, me when I make myself still when He opens the toy chest. But somehow, without truly understanding why, Sophie didn’t think that She could make Herself move again, no matter how hard She tried.

Sophie was still engrossed by the sight of Her body by the time Rupert had got his treasure back to the bedroom. Annie and Nobody had rejoined them, too.

‘Now,’ said Naughty Rupert, with an evil giggle, ‘Let’s make Baby all better.’

THREE!

Naughty Rupert started the work, but the others soon joined in. Ears and arms and legs and eyes were reaffixed, clumsily sewn together. The needle was too big for the toys to manipulate properly, so Sophie made Annie hold it while she pushed it through, and Nobody pushed it back again from the other side. It took a long time, and when they stopped, the first glimmers of dawn were visible through the curtains. The toys had never stayed out so late before.

Now, Bunny was able to move again. But they hadn’t sewn him back together the way he’d been. His ears were fixed to his shoulders. An eye had been attached on to his groin, which Annie found hilarious, and even Sophie couldn’t help tittering at. Stuffing was glued to his head – mad, candyfloss hair. And he only had one leg, a pathetic empty fold. He still had that grin, though he couldn’t stay upright, even when Nobody helped him. He just lay on the floor, spinning around in an ineffectual circle.

The toys watched him. Unspooled thread and needles were scattered about the room.

‘Funnnnn,’ said Annie, and, for once, the other toys agreed with her. But though the evening’s events had been exciting, as exciting as anything they’d ever done, there was still a restlessness to the toys, as if they hadn’t really been sated, as if this night had only increased their appetite for more.

‘Ball?’ suggested Naughty Rupert. But from the weariness of his voice it was obvious his heart wasn’t in it.

‘No,’ said Sophie. ‘Something else.’

But what else? Annie shrugged her doughy head. Nobody tried to suggest a game of Chinese whispers, but he couldn’t pique anyone’s interest – he squandered his best shot too early, thought Sophie. Even Rupert seemed dejected – the climb had taken it out of him. All three looked to Sophie. She knew her moment had come.

‘An Unpicking. Another one.’

The toys looked from one to another, suddenly alert. Nobody and Rupert turned their heads towards Annie, but she was not as foolish as Bunny, and she scrambled away. Besides, she was the biggest, and who could say that she wouldn’t take the head off one of the others, even if they did all gang up on her.

‘No,’ said Sophie. ‘Not one of us. Him.’

And they all fixed their attention on Him, their freckled one-time master, eyes twitching in dreams. They rose as one. Gathered needles, scissors, toy drumsticks. And, without a mutter, without a whisper, they took their makeshift tools, and they circled His bed.

Stuart Johnstone

STUART JOHNSTONE

Stuart lives and works in Edinburgh. He was selected as an emerging writer by The Edinburgh UNESCO City of Literature Trust and appeared at the Edinburgh International Book Festival in August 2015. This, he considers to be simultaneously the most amazing and terrifying experience of his life.

He has had short stories published and is working on his second novel. The first was considered and promptly rejected by some of the most prestigious literary agencies in the world!

The idea for ‘La Mort de L’Amant’ came from a debate he had with his university lecturer while studying creative writing. She maintained that clichés should be avoided at all costs. Stuart argued that, in fact, they had their place. In ‘La Mort de L’Amant’ he aimed ‘not just to embrace them but to use these lovely quirks of language, or southernisms’ to form the spine of the story.

STUART ON STEPHEN KING

‘Easily the two most influential books for me growing up were Stephen King’s The Stand, and Richard Matheson’s I am Legend.

I was drawn to the bleak and absorbing worlds created in both and the complex nature of the characters’ struggles. Both books I have gone back to time and time again; truly inspirational. It was no surprise later to read in On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft what a significant influence Matheson was on Stephen King.’

LA MORT DE L’AMANT

As rare as Louisiana snow, she used to say.

Texans like their little sayings and she just kept rolling them out. One after another on a conveyor belt of clichés; one for every occasion. Southerners think they add colour to a conversation but he reckoned they were more like stabilisers on bicycles, just there to prop up lazy communicators.

Well hell, he should have bought a lottery ticket today, he thought, tracing a swirl into the frost on the thick wooden handrail with his finger. He wasn’t sure what a snow cloud looked like exactly but the sky had an attitude about it, like it was really pissed. Meaner than a wet panther, she would probably have said.

He hugged his jacket to himself and pulled up his collar to stop the sharp morning breeze getting at his neck as he peered over the edge. The roar of the river falling on to the rocks was deafening. Louder than . . . something-or-other she would have said. A cold gravity-defying spray made its way back up to the bridge from the bottom and collected on his closed eyelids and cheeks. He breathed in the wet invigorating air and considered how refreshing it was, how the heat of the south seemed to slow everything to a lazy hazy blur.

But not this morning.

The sound of tyres on dirt snapped him from his damp reverie. He opened his eyes and turned to see a patrol car approach up the dirt track and park behind his truck. He pushed his hands into his jacket pockets and smiled at the young officer, who was housing his nightstick in his belt as he stepped from the vehicle.

‘Mornin’,’ the young man said.

‘Morning to you, Officer.’ My God, he thought, they really are looking younger all the time. This kid can’t be much older than twenty. The policeman was short and thin but the starch in that dark blue uniform added stature. He wondered if his mother had ironed that crisp shirt; it was impeccable. The gold star on his chest was as bright as the toecaps on his shoes and if he was old enough to be shaving he’d gone right to the bone. Shiny boy, he thought.

‘How ’bout this weather, huh?’ the young man said, approaching and leaning forward a little, not disguising the fact he was trying to get a good look at the older man’s face.

‘Yeah, it’s something.’

‘Cold enough to freeze the tit off a frog. You know I reckon it might just snow, can you believe it?’

‘I was just thinking the same, Officer.’

The young man stopped short of the wooden bridge, his thumbs tucked into his utility belt, and watched the older man looking out over the edge. An awkward silence settled between them. The older man was the first to break.

‘Is there something I can help you with, Officer?’

‘Actually, sir, I was kinda wonderin’ that myself.’

‘I’m not sure I follow.’

‘I mean I was wondering if there was something I could help you with?’ the young man said, his voice rich with genuine concern.

‘I’m fine, thank you. Just enjoying the view,’ said the older man, nodding at the precipice in front of him. His hands were tucked snugly into his jacket pockets, the fingers of his right hand nervously tracing the lines and curves of the cold metal within.

‘She’s something, ain’t she? Hell of a view. The name’s Charlie by the way. Well, it’s Officer Daniels but Charlie’s fine unless my boss can hear. She doesn’t like us gettin’ too familiar.’ Charlie laughed. ‘Are you sure you’re okay, mister?’ he said, stepping up on to the bridge to get a good look at the older man.

‘I’m fine, really. Couldn’t be—’

‘It’s just that you look like you’ve been crying.’ Charlie’s hands shot out defensively. ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Hell, if my girlfriend puts on a sad movie I’m like to bawl like a baby stubbed his toe.’

‘Oh this?’ said the older man, wiping his cheeks. ‘Just spray from the falls, but I appreciate your concern.’

‘It’s just that this bridge we’re standin’ on, it’s sort of a popular spot for people who wanna . . . you know . . .’ Charlie sent a curved hand over the handrail with a whistle.

‘Suicide spot?’

‘Yes, sir, three or four every year. That we know of. I mean you end up in there, the rocks are gonna tear you into pieces, then whatever the gators don’t eat ends up washing out into Vermilion Bay and by then there’s barely enough to tell if you started off a man or a woman. Locals call this bridge, oh what is it now? Um, La mort-day-lay-mant. It’s like lover’s leap . . . or something. I don’t know for sure. I don’t speak much French.’

Lover’s death, the older man corrected in his head.

Shiny boy, but not too bright.

‘Anyway,’ Charlie continued, ‘I saw your truck and thought I’d best check everything was okay.’

‘That’s very dedicated, Officer, but I’m just fine. I’ll be on my way shortly.’

Charlie nodded absently, his thumbs still in his belt, his gaze out over the precipice. ‘Okay,’ he said at last and started back to his patrol car.

The older man relaxed the grip in his pocket.

‘Texas plates,’ said Charlie, not quite making it back to his vehicle.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Your truck, it has Texas plates. You don’t sound like a southerner, if you don’t mind my sayin’.’

‘No, sir; Wisconsin born and bred. Married a Texan. I suppose I’m southern by association.’ The older man laughed this time, but Charlie didn’t seem to catch the joke; his attention was focused elsewhere.

‘Can I ask you, sir, what that is on your back seat?’

‘Huh?’ the older man stuttered. His hand again found the pocket.

‘Wrapped in the tarp, what is that? A deer?’ Charlie squinted through the dirtied window of the truck, trying to discern the wrapped bundle.

‘A deer? Oh yeah, right.’

‘Sir, are you aware hunting season’s done?’

‘Um . . .’

‘In Louisiana season ends January 31st. Sir, I’ll have to write you up if—’

‘I hit it with my truck,’ the older man cut in. ‘I don’t even own a rifle. Damn thing just ran out in front of me. Nearly rolled the truck trying to miss it, but the son of a bitch just seemed to run under the wheels. I didn’t want to just leave it there in the middle of the road.’

Charlie’s breath fogged the side window and he cupped a hand to his eyes to block the low winter sun. ‘Yup, they’ll do that, dumb as a bag of hammers.’

Dumb as a bag of hammers. The older man’s molars ground like rusted gears. That might just have been her favourite. Everything and everyone was dumb as a bag of fucking hammers. Or rocks; sometimes the hammers were substituted but every day was the same, someone was dumb as something.

Young Charlie was talking, but the older man was thinking about the time he tried to point out the irony of the continued use of this tired expression, her inability to articulate her feelings without the crutch of a cliché when she was talking about how unintelligent someone was. There you go actin’ all superior again, she’d said in response.

‘I know it’s an inconvenience, but I really wouldn’t be doin’ my job if I didn’t ask . . . Sir?’

‘What’s that now?’

‘Your truck, can I take a look inside?’

The older man’s hands reacted independently. One began scratching at the stubble on his chin, the other fluttered inside the jacket pocket.

The moment moved as if through molasses, no answer was forthcoming.

‘It’ll only take a second then I’ll get on my way. Do you mind?’ said Charlie at last.

‘Well, that depends there, Charlie.’

‘Depends? On what?’

‘Well, are you really askin’ me, or are you tellin’ me?’

‘There a reason I can’t get in your truck, sir?’ Charlie’s thumbs had returned to his belt, his weight impatiently on one hip.

‘None in particular. I’m just a man who likes to exercise his rights that’s all. I don’t care to surrender civil liberties unless I absolutely have to, son.’

Son? Did he really just say son? In what way was that helpful? the older man thought. His hand shook inside his pocket. He drew a hidden thumb across a hidden handle. His heart began beating in his neck and he was sure the shiny boy could see it.

‘Control to patrol two . . .’ The radio on Charlie’s shoulder crackled. Charlie reached to his shoulder to answer but his eyes were fixed on him.

‘Go ahead for Charlie.’

‘Charlie, how far are you from Bob Acres? We got a situation.’

‘Ten minutes maybe, what’s going on?’

‘The Lemieux brothers.’

‘Goddammit,’ he said to the sky before speaking back into the radio. ‘What is it this time?’

‘We got calls coming in; seems they been up all night drinking and now they’re on the front lawn trying to kill each other. I got other units en route but can you start heading?’

‘Sure, Sheila, I’m on it.’ Charlie swatted the air with a left hook and fished his car keys from his belt. ‘I swear those boys are gonna be the death of me. You sure you’re okay?’

The older man nodded and watched as the patrol car spun and sped off; the emergency lights creating blue halos in the morning mist. He drew his hands from his pockets and placed them gently on the frozen handrail of the bridge. They were shaking, he noticed, shaking like a hound-dog trying to shit out a peach pit.

Neil Hudson

NEIL HUDSON

Neil Hudson is a writer from Birmingham, United Kingdom who has typed stuff on a keyboard for Vice, Wonderland, Sick Chirpse and other places on the internet people go to avoid doing work. Having last year completed a Degree in English Literature and Creative Writing, he is currently working through his Creative Writing MA alongside finishing his first book.

While Neil has no real experience of living in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, he does reside in the Irish Quarter of Birmingham where they annually hold the St Patrick’s day parade – this has allowed him a unique view of what life may look like on ‘the day after’!

The central character in ‘The Bear Trap’, Calvin, is named after Bill Waterson’s beautiful comic strip, Calvin and Hobbes. Mr Waterson’s Calvin had an animal companion too. His was considerably friendlier . . .

NEIL ON STEPHEN KING

‘It is a stretch to choose one favourite King book as I’m a huge Stephen King nerd . . . However, Pet Sematary is the first adult novel I ever picked up and it tears the heart out of my chest every time I read it. I’ve been checking the bedroom closet for Zelda ever since.’

THE BEAR TRAP

The genny was almost out again. It’d started to splutter and strain, which was generally never the best of signs. The bright, avocado paint that had formerly clung to its chassis had shed like snakeskin, presumably shaken off by the furious seizures it underwent any time it was being used. Now the machine simply looked like a dull hunk of metal. Calvin regarded it with his brow all crinkled up, making his twelve-year-old face comical with concern.

‘Dang it,’ he muttered. ‘Dang it to heck and back.’

The generator stood in the middle of the big red barn next to their farmhouse. Theirs had become a relative term recently. It’d been over a year since Pops had left the farm to go get Uncle Jake, tearing off along the untended strip of dirt that connected their house to the freeway in his sand-worn Volkswagen, mumbling something about Russkies as he left. Tears had been spilling down his cheeks, but he’d not gone to Calvin for any comfort before slamming the screen door.

Just hours after he’d departed the soot had begun to fall from the sky, thick and terrifying. The ash had hammered down so furiously that when Calvin summoned the courage to peer outside, looking out on the front yard had been like staring through static on a TV that’d lost reception. Calvin had been plenty relieved when the ash had ceased raining down six weeks later. Seeing the world outside like that had put a fright in him so bad he’d pretty much stayed in the basement the whole time, eating beans straight out of the can with a loaded BB gun set across his lap.

Finally, it had stopped.

The ash storm had left the ground thick with black dandruff, which shifted and swirled in tight little curls when the wind kicked up. It had been dark ever since. Clouds so obstinately impenetrable not a lick of sunshine shone through. It’d been hard for Calvin to get used to every day looking like midnight in winter, but he was an adaptable young fellow and made sure he carried a torch with him most of the time. It had a hand-crank on it so didn’t need any batteries, just a little gumption. He had a radio that worked the same way, but hadn’t gotten a single clear station on it since everything went to heck. Every so often a preacher’s voice would burst through the static, squawking about revelations and raptures. Calvin had an idea that the preacher wasn’t part of no legitimate radio show. He thought this because occasionally the self-proclaimed minister would start snickering darkly during his sermons, like maybe someone had whispered a particularly wicked joke in his ear. Calvin had not liked that, and the radio got switched on less and less as time went on because of it.

He thought a lot on where Pops and Uncle Jake might be. Pops was not, what he’d heard one of his schoolteachers refer to as, a ‘positive parental figure’. Miss Bailey, under whom he’d taken second period English, had claimed this, and Pops had made some fairly enthusiastic suppositions about her parentage by way of response. Nevertheless, there was no getting around it – Pops liked to tie one on. He’d often been known to disappear for days on end before moping in like a sore grizzly, ruffling Calvin’s hair with hands that stank of cigar smoke and Scotch.

‘Gas,’ he said, stalking off to the corner of the barn where it was kept.

He supposed he couldn’t stay mad at Pops, even though Calvin was sure wherever he was, he was off having fun without him. Uncle Jake was probably talking his ear off, or they were playing ’nopoly. Pops said when him and Jake were playin’ a game of ’nopoly, why, most occasions they’d just up and forget the time. It did seem to run away from them so.

‘Alley-oop!’ Calvin grunted, heaving the gas canister from its place next to many, many others on the shelving unit Pops had set up. Pops called himself a Prepper. Far as Calvin knew, that meant someone that liked to keep stuff handy just in case. Well, just in case had come around. In spades.

‘Tiglet! Open all hatches!’ Tiglet, Calvin’s third favourite bear, sat atop a dented bucket in the corner. He did not open the hatch; just sat there, staring at the genny like all the work in the world was going to do itself. One of Tiglet’s eyes had started to come loose, and Calvin knew he’d have to get handy with a needle and thread if he wanted Tiglet to keep his eyesight 20/20.

‘Man, you sure are lazy, Tiglet. If Fozzo were out here, why you know he’d pitch in. That bear’s got a good work ethic. It’s okay, though. Y’all just sit there, relaxing. Make old Calvin do all the work.’

Tiglet did not seem to mind this course of action one bit, and stubbornly continued sitting on his bucket. Calvin unscrewed the genny cap his own self, as he knew he’d have to. There wasn’t a bear on this whole farm, he thought, that knew how to do an honest day’s labour.

He finished topping off the genny and lugged the significantly less weighty can back to the racks. It took only four tugs on the ripcord to get the generator chugging along, making that nice steady noise Calvin liked, the one that meant he could turn the lights on and cook his meals up good and hot.

‘Job done,’ Calvin said, gathering up Tiglet. He exited the barn and latched its big red door behind him. Calvin ambled over to the farmhouse, swinging the bear merrily by one arm. He could see Fozzo sitting on the porch, probably waiting for him to make breakfast. Well, that bear could have cereal as far as he was concerned; eggs were for workers, powdered or not.

‘Stay right where you’re at, boy.’ A voice spoke behind him.

Calvin spun on the spot, almost dropping Tiglet into the ash and filth that coated the ground.

‘Goddammit, boy, I done said freeze!’

Striding over was a man dressed in rags. A bandana covered the bottom half of his face, and a John Deere cap most of the rest. His eyes peered from the gap in between, creased and as blue as penny marbles. Calvin noted that the man looked as though he’d run his whole outfit through a wood chipper before deciding on getting dressed that morning.

‘Where your folks at?’ barked the man through the rag that covered his face.

Calvin stared, his fingers tightening reflexively around Tiglet.

‘You deaf? Don’t you make me ask twice.’ The man drew back his raggedy coat; an AR-15 peeked out.

‘My pops is with Uncle Jake,’ Calvin managed, as loudly as he could.

‘They gone then,’ the man said, looking around the property, as though he were considering putting a bid on it.

‘They’ll be back, soon too. You better scoot, mister. Pops has got a fierce temper, you wouldn’t wanna be around for it.’

‘Yeah, well I guess he ain’t met me yet,’ the traveller said indifferently. ‘Where’s your food at?’

‘I got cereal, you want some of that?’ Calvin gestured animatedly towards the house. The cellar within was stocked well enough, but nowhere near as overflowing with bounty as the barn, the shelves of which groaned under an amount of pickled and canned goods so extensive it could’ve fed a small town.

‘Sure. You show me what you got in there, kid,’ the traveller said, unhooking his gun from the underside of his coat and fitting his finger insider the trigger guard. ‘No tricks. This gun’ll turn a grown buck to hamburger – think on what it’ll do to your face.’

‘I ain’t no liar. We got cereal, I was about to fix Fozzo a bowl till you showed up.’

The traveller shooed him on to the porch with a wave of his gun barrel. Calvin scampered up the steps, grabbing Fozzo on the fly. Calvin had only seen one other person since the mess of ash had fallen: Chrissy Draper, who’d run the farm north of theirs. She’d walked past in the night while it had still been pouring soot, wailing and hollering. Calvin had gone out to ask her if she knew where Pops was, but she’d been naked and crazy. He knew better than to bother naked, crazy people. Calvin held the door open for the man to walk into his home. Hospitality, Pops used to say, was something a man should take pride in. Not that he’d been a particularly studious practitioner of the art himself.

‘Whoo-ee, you got a nice place here, all right. Boy, this is like a goddamn oasis!’ The man did a little jig on the spot, waving his gun about in the air like some fool.

‘If I feed you up, will you get on your way, mister? I surely don’t want my pops to get back here, seeing I’ve been feeding half the county.’

The man pulled down his bandana, releasing a filthy beard that looked like it hadn’t seen soap nor water since it’d started sprouting. Calvin thought he saw something move in there – maybe a bug or a tick, he thought. The man bellowed a hollow, jagged laugh.

‘You don’t know how right you are, boy. Why, I bet we do make up half the population of this whole county, right now. Maybe the state.’ The man wiped his eyes with the bandana and shoved it into his pocket. ‘Sure, kid. I’ll eat and be on my way. I’m certain that there’s a place just like this, with food and warmth and whatnot, just down the road a ways. I’ll shack there.’ The man’s eyes were narrow slits, they told Calvin that, like as not, this filthy stranger had no intention of upping his sticks any time soon. Not now he’d found a place so nice to set them.

‘Okay, I’ll fix you something then,’ Calvin said, leading the man into the kitchen. Tiglet and Fozzo were too small to sit at the kitchen table, the seats on the wooden chairs were too low. Calvin had had to construct makeshift seats by arranging old books into a kind of throne arrangement for them, one each, on top of the table. Pops definitely wouldn’t have approved, but there really was no other way to seat them that Calvin could think of.

‘What’s with all the bears? You got the fag gene in you?’ the man said, then spat something thick and green on to the clean hardwood of the kitchen floor.

‘You ain’t got no manners,’ Calvin muttered.

‘What you say?’ said the man.

‘Nothing,’ replied Calvin, as meekly as his pride would allow.

‘That’s what I thought.’

Calvin opened a cupboard and rummaged around, selecting his least favourite cereal. He put it on the table and brought over a bowl, spoon and some powdered milk he’d mixed up the day before.

‘That’ll do for a start,’ said the man, pouring a mountain of flakes into the bowl, haphazardly sloshing milk over it, getting most on the table.

‘That sign out front; what it say?’ the man asked.

‘You can’t read?’ Calvin replied.

‘Don’t get smart. Punks that get smart get hurt,’ the man said, through a mouthful of bran fibre.

‘It says: “Beware of the Bear”,’ Calvin muttered. The stranger sat at his table burst into gales of laughter. Cereal sprayed from his braying mouth, splattering the table and floor.

‘You are a funny little retard. I can tell your daddy sure did love his sister a whole lot. Do you have to concentrate much when you walk?’ The man tittered like a baby being tickled.

It seemed to Calvin that something might have broken up in the stranger’s head. He remembered Mrs Draper and hushed himself. No use arguing with crazy. You’d be a fool yourself to try, he thought.

Calvin poured a glass of bottled water for himself, and one for the stranger. His jaw clenched, and Calvin had to keep in mind to loosen it. He got the impression the stranger would notice any hostility, and might react in a way Calvin might not be best pleased with.

‘You seem pretty well stocked here,’ the man said, looking over the kitchen, his eyes covetous like a magpie’s. ‘I could get used to good living like this.’

‘This is mine and Pop’s stuff,’ Calvin said, his eyes downcast.

‘Share and share alike, that’s what my pa taught me.’ The stranger grinned. ‘But then, the good book itself says: “Stolen waters are sweet.”’Calvin laid down a bowl in front of Fozzo, and another in front of Tiglet. He shook a small amount of cereal into each of their bowls. No use in overloading them. After this nasty business was done with, Calvin had decided that he, Fozzo and Tiglet would celebrate with enough eggs to choke a horse, laziness be damned.

‘This bear thing you got going on? ’Bout the dumbest thing I ever saw. Gimme that!’ The man reached across the table and snatched up Tiglet. The man lifted the bear to his face to inspect it.

‘Looks like you gonna have to get a cane for this fella,’ the man added, plucking Tiglet’s dangling eye from the thread and tossing it over his shoulder. ‘He’s as blind as a bat.’ He yanked on Tiglet’s remaining eye, pulling it off, tearing the worn fur underneath so that a plume of stuffing came with it.

‘Stop, mister! That’s my third favourite bear!’ Calvin shouted.

The man laughed again, it came in harsh, hacking fits and ended with him spitting at the floor again.

‘Where’s your favourite bear, kid? This him?’ The man slapped Fozzo, who tumbled to the floor. Calvin picked him up and brushed him off, placing him back on top of the seat he’d made.

‘Diablo’s my favourite, and he’d be mad he seen you do that.’

‘Well, Diablo can take a sizeable stroll off of a short pier, son. Now, where your daddy keep his good whiskey? I know you got some around here somewheres.’

‘Out back. You want me to show you?’ Calvin asked.

‘Why not, I could use a jar to help me settle into my new abode.’

Calvin picked up Tiglet’s glassy eye and placed it next to the bear on the table. He could fix that later; what the stranger had coming to him wouldn’t be fixed with no amount of needle and thread. The man got up off the chair and walked over to the door that led out back. Calvin opened it and, as manners dictated, let the man out ahead of him. It was middle of the morning, but as far as the sky was concerned it was night. Had been for quite a while now. There were no stars to see by, no moon to shine down either. Well, maybe they were up there somewhere, but Calvin hadn’t had acquaintance with them since Pops had gone.

‘I can’t see two inches in front of my face, boy. Where’s this whiskey?’ the man hollered.

‘Keep going forward, mister. He keeps a still in back – you’ll see it soon,’ Calvin answered, making sure to stay a few steps behind.

They kept going forward, Calvin standing off to the left: close enough so the man didn’t think he was up to mischief, far enough so that he didn’t have to worry about getting any blood on hisself. That was when they heard the rustling of a chain being pulled. It was a big chain, Calvin knew. Not the kind you’d use to chain up a Pomeranian. No, you could use this chain to tow a truck if needed.

‘The hell was that?’ whispered the man.

The tremor Calvin heard in the stranger’s voice would’ve made Tiglet happy, of that Calvin was certain.

‘You got a light? Turn that thing on.’

‘Sure thing, mister,’ Calvin said.

The dust in the air cut the light from the torch by quite a ways; but not so much that Calvin didn’t see the black bear rear up ahead of them. Pops had fed him up to near five hundred pounds; ’course, he’d lost some of that over the last year. Diablo’d had to make do with dog feed and whatever Calvin could find in the barn that served purpose.

‘That . . .’ The man screamed and fumbled unsuccessfully for his rifle. In truth, he’d probably had more to say but the bear took his jaw at the hinges with one swipe of his paw. Calvin was disappointed to find he’d not kept distance enough to spare his clothing. ‘Dang it!’ he said, moving back a few more feet.

Diablo moved quicker than he’d any right to, being chained out in the yard for such a time. The stranger tried to scramble away on his belly. Which would’ve been quite the feat, all things considered – but the bear was on him. Calvin thought he heard the man’s ribs snap as the bear sat astride the freshly bloodied trespasser. Diablo crooked his neck and dived forward to take a chunk from the stranger’s shoulder. Jeez, thought Calvin, I’d be bawling some now, that were me. ’Course, not having a mouth to holler out of cut any complaining by a considerable stretch. The man flopped and thrashed under the bear, like an adder on a hot griddle. Blood streamed readily from the gaping, red pit that used to be his face.

But still, he lived.

Calvin was pretty sure that continued to be the case when he turned around to walk back to the farmhouse. He always thought it best to leave Diablo in peace to eat his meals. He might not be as congenial as Fozzo or Tiglet but still that grumpy old cuss was certainly his favourite.

Now, Calvin thought, where did I leave those eggs?

Content

Six Scary Stories

About Stephen King

Introduction to SIX SCARY STORIES By Stephen King

Elodie Harper

WILD SWIMMING

Manuela Saragosa

EAU-DE-ERIC

Paul Bassett Davies

THE SPOTS

Michael Button

THE UNPICKING

Stuart Johnstone

LA MORT DE L’AMANT

Neil Hudson

THE BEAR TRAP