Adri Sinclair's Blog - Posts Tagged "thriller"

Oooh Exciting stuff today! Tom Hodden has been a good friend to me for a time now. He has been supportive of our little hang out here too, and when he saw my call for Author's to come forward - Tom didn't hesitate to put his hand up and offer to help.
So a hearty, friendly welcome Mr. Tom Hodden!

If you'd like to read more of his work, you can find it here - he has quite the selection of reads!

- And you can stalk him here! 

---------------------------- Happy Reading! -----------
Most people would think this was the perfect night to snuggle up to somebody warm and bask in the glow of the television. Or to stay late in the pub and keep the cold away with a few drinks, or more than a few judging by how little those girls have on as they stagger from one bar to the next, saying too loudly the kind of stuff they would regret if they could remember it the next morning. That is a bad omen. For some reason drunks always feel the need to follow me. To heckle. Like they have something to prove.

Like I don't have enough trouble on my round.

Yeah, most people would see this as the perfect night to do anything else. But with the clear night full of stars, and a light frost painting the town silver, I think this is the perfect night for a walk with the ghosts.

I start in the market place. There are three pubs and a Chinese place around the square, and it is the quickest route between a lot of other bars and locals, so it is pro bably best to start here before the bells ring out for last orders. The Guild Hall is raised over the market place on a few pillars of stone, and more of solid oak. It is a venerable old building, painted a pastel shade, and the little bell at the crown polished to a shine though it has not rung in decades.

Few people pass under the hall at night, they skirt around it. Even if it is the most direct route, people veer away from the shadows beneath the hall, and few even know why instinctively add a few extra meters to their walk. The kids who insist on carving their names into surface that can be despoiled show an unusual respect to the pillars with out knowing it.

I step from the red brick of the road to the flagstone of the market place, from the amber street light to the inky shadows and I step towards the heart of the sheltered square. I can instantly feel Wendy watching me, though it takes me a few seconds to blink her into focus. She is stood where the shadows are darkest, dressed in the boots, trousers, shirt and jumper of a farmer, several decades out of touch. Her hair is tied back so it looks short, and a cigarette hangs from her lips. She looks bleached of colour, faded grey and caked in dust. Her skin is pale, her hair is near white, with only a hint of the red and brown that it carried in life. Even tired, weary, and creased in worry her face holds a gentle beauty.

She stares at me, suspicion in her eyes.

“Hello Wendy.” I smile as I greet her. I try to look harmless. “You don't have to wait here.”

She looks at me, but she shows no sign of hearing me.

“He isn't coming. You can walk on.” I try to make it sound like she can walk on home, but she won't have to go that far. A little way from her anchor point and she will fade into the Light. I offer her my hand. “Do you want me to see you home?”

“My husband will be here soon.” She says firmly, but cheerfully. “I have to wait for him. To walk him home.”

I wonder for a moment how hard I should try to get her to move on. Part of her knows that her husband did arrive back in fifty four, and that with a stomach full of bitter and a head full of gossip he figured she had been playing away. He didn't mean to kill her. The punch to the back of her head was just to knock her down, but she cracked her head on the stone. Knocked herself out and never woke up.

Sometimes she remembers. The Police get called when people hear the shrill shrieks of shock and anguish. But she will never leave. She becomes a scream in the night, no body or shadow, just the sound. The next time the moon is full, there she will be, waiting for her husband, clinging to the last few moments before her murder. When her life was full of happy expectation.

“You sure you want to stay?” I ask. I offer my hand again. She has to take it willingly.

She looks at me. “I wont go.” She says with ersatz joy. She steps away from me.

I take my hand back. She is still tied to her spot, and there is nothing I can do to make her. Instead I reach into my pocket and toss her a paper bag. “Here, at least keep a little of the cold out.”

“Kendal Mint Cake?” She takes one of the cubes of mint fondant out the bag and puts it in her mouth. For a second, just a second, she is rose cheeked and flushed with all the colour of life. She looks at me. “My favourite.”

I smile. “See you soon Wendy.”

She is as happy as she will let herself be when I walk on. It is all I can do. I pass the vast brick buildings. I pause as a woman comes out of one of the pubs. She is not drunk. She has not quite joined any of the conversations. She has been hanging around in the crowd, surrounded by people but still all alone. She holds a plastic bag from the off license, four cans of a particular brand of lager. I pause and glance past her to the bar, wondering who she is in a hurry to avoid. A tired looking man, stout, older, ruddy faced from a few too many totes, is staring after her, his eyes full of apologies.

“Lisa.” I say her name as she is about to walk on. She looks back at me, frowning, trying to work out how I know her name.

“Maybe you should leave Mark tonight. Remember him another way.” I try to smile. “And maybe not make yourself feel so alone? Eh?”

“Do I know you?” She demands.

“Not exactly. I...” I breathe in. “But I know of you. And... I know nobody else in the world feels the same loss you do, or can begin to imagine how much pain you have been in, I lost people too. And I don't think... I just don't think the best way to remember him is to wait by the ring road and punish yourself.”

She swears under her breath then tells me it is none of my business. So I walk on. I make a mental note to keep an eye out for her later.

On one side of the road is a brewery that still makes beer. Across the road is another brewery that is now a super market. As I pass a cross roads, I am in a street of terrace town houses. Most are Regency, stone and brick with tall sash windows and decorative flourishes. It is a wide street, with scattered trees and a park that does not fit. It is a green, with a trim lawn and some flower beds. Once there was an abbey here, long ago lost to ruin and consumed by the earth. The terraces cottages that bend around it are much older than the town houses. They are poky and compact, with dense little gardens, that butt right up to the hallowed ground that not even the weeds will encroach.

The Brother whose name is lost even to himself watches me from a corner. As I approach he withdraws, hoping the shadows will claim him. There is little of his spirit left now. A hint of a cowl in the shadows, a suggestion of a firm jaw and eyes that have seen too much of this world. He is little more than an ink stain on the fabric of the world.

I offer him my hand. He stares at me, scowling.

“You are tired Brother.” I warn him. “Every month you grow a little more frayed, a little less present. Why do this to yourself. Why force yourself into oblivion?”

He turns his back on me. Perhaps he does not remember. Or perhaps he remembers too well, and knows what awaits him when he moves on. I can think of nothing in Heaven or Hell that could be worse than waiting to fade slowly.

“Please. Let me ease the burden. Take my hand. Walk a few steps from here and know your peace?” I say.

He folds his arms, resolute that he shall not pass. The blood that covers one of his hands has not faded. The spots and stains upon his fingers are jet black in the moonlight. He stares at them, then hides them in his sleeve, his head bowing.

“There is nothing for me beyond this mortal coil.” He says resigned to his fate. “Leave me.”

My feet drag to my third stop. It is a long walk, right the way back past the market place, up the high street towards the station at the top of the town. To the underpass beneath the railway that links the front of the station to the Mall, the splendid cluster of Victorian houses. They were once solidly middle class, tall but thin, with servants entrances down in the cellar. They are showing their age now, a little saggy around the seams.

The underpass is a simple passage of yellow Faversham bricks, flanked at either end by steep flights of steps. The walls are covered in graffiti and the floor pocked with gum. There are long lights, fixed to the arch of the ceiling, yet the passage still fills like it is filled with shadows and echoes.

I emerge up into the Mall and approach one of the broad oak trees that segregate the through road from the terrace. In the shadows of the oaks is Jack. He is a man who has been distorted by the myths and the legends around him. The whispers of those who never knew there were mortal remains of the bogey man around whom they weave ever more intricate tales of darkness and horror.

There is little of his mortal form left. What lurks among the skeletal shadows of the trees now is a gnarled and corrupted caricature of a man. He is tall and jagged, with a crooked frame, talons for fingers and a top hat that he wears like a crown. His face is ghoulish leather, his mouth filled with yellowing fangs and uneven teeth. His eyes bulge.

I steel myself as I approach and hold out my hand. He stares at it for a moment, then he lunges for me, raging. With one hand he whips a cane at me, with the other a cleaver stained with rust and gore. He snarls and howls and spits.

But he stops at the edge of the shadows. He can feel the ties of his anchor.

I step back. Still holding out my hand.

“If you hate me, come for me.” I say.

He breathes through his nose. Clouds of silver mist sparkle in the night. He backs away. He bares his teeth and he meets my eyes. He waves for me to step closer. I look at his cane and his butchers knife. I do not know what stories the kids tell about him these days, but I do not want to find out first hand.

“Do you even remember being Jack Jones any more?” I ask.

He does not react to the name. It has lost all meaning to him, along with his memories. The myth, the legend, the nightmare has replaced them. There is nothing I can offer him. I am thankful that most people will avoid his territory on instinct. I offer my hand, but he refuses to step any closer. I leave him be before I agitate him to another rage.

The town is old. Few bombs fell here during the war, few fires have raged. The town is a patchwork of buildings of all vintages, of varying styles. It looks like it belongs on the front of a chocolate box because it has so many nooks and crannies that seem almost timeless. Despite all that history, all the fires, the plagues, the murders, accidents, and all the dirty little secrets of the past, there are only ever twelve or thirteen ghosts on my rounds.

Mark is the most recent. He stands on the ring road, near the bridge over the railway. There are still flowers and a photo cable tied to the fence in the grass verge, mourning his passing. He stands at the kerb, staring at the stretch of road where his life was cut short, forever wearing the jacket and jeans he died in. He had been a kid on a motorbike trying to be too clever. He mounted the pavement to undertake a lorry he must have thought was driving too slow. But when he tried to hop back from the pavement to the road he got it wrong. The bike went out from under him and he fell into the road. The lorry braked hard, but Mark was just too close.

That was a little over a year ago. It has not been an easy year for anybody. His family, his friends, the driver of the lorry. Everybody wants somebody to blame, somebody to scream at in righteous fury. To burden with all the guilt, the grief and the loss.

Mark is no different. There are only two people left in his world, and he can't blame himself.

“Mark.” I hold out a hand to him. “I think you know what you have to do.”

“No.” He shoves me away. “I won't go. I... I won't leave them.” He grabs his head in both hands. “I know they come here. I hear them talk when they replenish the flowers. I think maybe I even call out to them.”

“But you aren't sure.” I tell him. “It is growing harder and harder to think straight. Everything else is fading away, but the anger, the pain, the grief, that is all staying raw.”

“I know they can feel me here.” He points a finger at me. “They can hear me when I call. Sense me somehow. Just a presence, but at the same time, more than that...”

“Which is why you have to do this.” I try hard to keep the tone of my voice low. “All the while you are here, they can't let go. They can't move on. All your grief and pain stays here. Wounds won't heal if you won't move on.”

“I am not dying while my family needs me.” He screams. “I am not going anywhere while she still clings to me.”

Oh dear. “She?” I ask. “The cat's mother?” I see his snort. “Oh. Your wife.”

Lisa. His wife. They married in haste, and were repenting at leisure. Young love bound them together forever, before either really knew what the word meant.

“She might have been throwing herself at that four eyed ugly pea-” He starts to rave.

“But not now.” I cut him off. “Oh no. Not while she is suffering from guilt and greed. Not all the while it hurts.” I step closer. “Mark. Ask yourself if that is what you truly want. Is that who fell in love with? Somebody who would rather she were in pain with him, than happy without him?”

“Yes.” He thumps his chest. “That is what the promise meant. Together in sickness and health. For better or worse. Rich or poor. Sick or healthy.”

“Until death did you part.” I say coldly.

“Does it have to?” He whispers. “She comes back this way from the pub. If.. If I...”

“No.” I throw all the power I can behind the word. “Do not do that.”

“But I could.” He looks down the road. The pubs are closed. Lisa has no crowd to hang around with. She is walking slowly, nursing the cans in her plastic bag. He looks past her to the cars and lorries that still rush past at regular intervals. “If she were here I could...” He holds up his hands. “I could ring her bloody neck and choke an apology out of her. Make her wish she never looked twice at that gangly, ugly, horrid...”

I give him a shove. “You can't want that.”

He stares at me. “Why? I can't get caught now.”

And that thought sickens me. That the only thing stopping him from being as terrible a monster as Jack in life was the fear of being caught. It knots my stomach. I look across the road. Lisa has stopped on the far pavement. She is hypnotised by the passing traffic. She pulls out one of the cans and starts her little ritual.

“Hello Mark. ” She whispers to herself. “I hope where ever you are you are feeling better than you were that last night. Happier. I...” She opens the can. “This one is for you mate.” She turns the can over and watches the Australian Amber pour out over the kerb.

“I bloody meant it that night.” Mark hisses. He raises his voice to a shout. “I was going to kill you!” He slams his hands on his chest. “You know that? I was going to find you with him and I was going to kill you.”

She pauses. She stares into the pool of amber light, but sees neither him nor me. She just stares, trying to listen to something over the traffic she can't quite make out. Feeling like her grave has been danced on.

“Do not do this Mark.” I shove him back. “Don't you bloody do this.”

He does not hear me. Not any more.

“Lisa!” He screams. “Lisa!”

I put a hand over his mouth and stifle him. His eyes are wild. Across the road I can see Lisa staring into the shadows, his eyes are wild. Across the road I can see her looking around, trying to pick the word from the echoes of the night. Her mouth spreads into a nervous, terrified smile.

“Mark?” She drops her cans and darts out into the road. She darts out so fast I don't have time to shout a warning or to make her see me. She just steps into the road as the car rushes by. She spins against the side of the car and falls to the floor, her head cracking on the kerb.

I don't hear the squeal of brakes, the Police car that had been coming the other way grinding to a halt. I don't hear the snap of her head on the concrete, or the shocked retching of the young lad who had been behind the wheel.

I just hear the wicked laugh Mark lets out. “Oh yes!” He cries with laughter. “Yes!”

The police, the driver, the woman from another car, are all at the edge of the road fussing a broken body. But Lisa is stood on the pavement, staring at us. Then down at the men and woman trying to bring her body back to life. Her face is a mask of confused pain.

“Yes!” Mark struts forwards three steps, into the road. He stops suddenly, as he feels the end of his tether, as he reaches as far as he can from his anchor point. His smile freezes. “Get here.” He screams at Lisa. “Get here now!” He waves at her. As he starts to swear loudly she just shakes her head and backs away a step. He glances at me. He tries to walk forwards, but he knows another step would bring him to the light. “No.” He gives me an accusing look. “No. No. You can't do this.”

“I didn't.” I snap at him.

“No.” He shakes his head. “Can she reach me? Can she get herself here? Lisa! Come here now!”

I walk past him. None of the crowd around the body see me as I skirt around the edge of the incident. I put a hand on Lisa's shoulder.

“I...” She points at herself. “I didn't mean that to happen.”

“I know.” I try to smile at her. “I'm sorry. You should not stay here. Not to see this.”

“I thought he called out me.” She says, dreamily. “For me to say sorry to him. For him to be sorry to me. For things to be right.” She looks across the road. “Sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. But... I couldn't stay. I couldn't spend another night afraid.” She grips my hand tight. She fights the tears. Her entire body is shaking. “I never wanted this. But I couldn't be his. Not another day longer.”

“Then come with me.” I say gently.

“Where?” She looks at me.

“Not far.” I walk her back down the path a way. Her tether snaps. She dissolves into light and embers, as she fades from this world. I look back at Mark. On his side of the road he is screaming at me to bring her back. He is screaming that he will kill me.

I wave for him to come get me. But he won't move. He won't take another step. I think he knows all too well what it waiting for him beyond his anchor, and he isn't ready to face it. Not yet. I turn my back and ignore the shouts that follow me into the night. I whistle to myself so I don't have to hear the hell he is making for himself.

------------------------------------------------------                          THANK YOU TOM!! ---------------------------------------------

Shop of Stories - Tom informed me that this piece was a short done of the Minister Of Chance fan group, written for the voice of a specific actor, Sylvester McCoy .
Before that the first draft was shared with horror writers network on FB.

You can find Tom on Facebook where he shares his 'Writer's Green Room' with various other Authors, and spoil us with more of his writing!

Of course, Tom is also a published Author on Amazon, and you just can't go wrong with a selection from his stable!
Amazon for T. E Hodden. 

Shop of Stories, by T. E Hodden. 

Hello there children, and welcome to the Little Shop of Stories. I am afraid we do not have many more of these little visits left, and very soon I will no longer be darkening your Tuesday evenings. The producers say that our little stories will be more at home on a Pod Cast. A radio show on the internet I think, which is of course the natural medium for a show about toys and watercolours coming to life. Apparently children do not want to be scared. My stories might damage them, because they will too worried about the perils and danger that little Silver McBear will face.

Here he is, up on the top shelf as always. Looking dapper today, in a nice grey suit, a shirt, jaunty little hat. He could be a bank manager, back when banks had managers who looked like bank managers, or a school master, something respectable. Not a head of department with a degree in media studies from a technical college with pretensions. They are wrong you know, the heads of department not the bank managers. Children do want to be scared. These stories, this story, gives them the good kind of scary, the safe kind of scary, the kind you can hide from behind a sofa. If you want to damage them you show them the news, or the home my son wants me in now I can't maake it up the stairs. Or...

Or...

Or you fade in to a hospital bed, with a girl on it. Fifteen years old, with the most beautiful eyes in the world, her mothers eyes, staring without seeing because she is being kept alive by the pipes shoved down her throat and in her arm. You let them watch, as she lays there, doing nothing. You don't even have to tell them about the little pill one of her friends, a friend who liked her, cared for her, was always with her, a bloody friend, slipped in her drink, because the friend thought she would loosen up, have more fun, fall in love, if she was a little more open to suggestion. A little more open to opening herself. No. You don't need all the grubby little details. You just need to see her there, with her head swollen up in her skull.

That is not the safe kind of fear. That does not come with a promise that after twenty five minutes Silver will have solved the problems, defeated the evil, and wrapped it all up so that you can sleep easy. You might be afraid of the monsters, but you don't really mind. Because if you see a martian, or a headless buccaneer, or something from the deepest depths of the darkest ocean, then you get a little excited too, as it means Silver will be there to save you.

So, where should we send you today little bear? Well, I have a little briefcase and an overcoat for you, here by the cash register. And a copy of a newspaper with a cryptic crossword. Just right for a long journey, so... Over go to our little theatre, the one with the plush red curtains and the watercolour sets. Yes, I remember when they used to afford guests for this. I would get a customer in my little shop, they would choose a toy, I would give them a warning it may be more dangerous than they know, then offer to tell them a story about it. Now? Now the set ends on the front door of the shop. We don't have a store room, the cash register does not work, and beyond those windows is no longer a little bit of a cobbled street. It is a picture of a cobbled street. It's not even a good picture, which is why the windows are always frosty and sprinkled with snow.

Let me draw back the curtains. And here we are. A little first class carriage in a train. A little old fashioned, the slam door type rolling stock. First class. You really could be a bank manager this week Silver. No other passengers though. Just you, sitting there, doing your crossword, on your way home. So, let camera two zoom in on you, then a seamless merge to the animation and...

Yes. There we are. A dark and brooding countryside rolls past the window. All hand painted, in watercolours. Takes weeks to animate. Weeks and a lot of money. That is why we are becoming a podcast. More to do with the unique way we are funded than the way we-

“Erm, sorry to be a bother.” Says the bear. “But perhaps if you actually started to tell a story, then something would happen and you would not have to fill time talking, waiting for it to happen.”

Really Silver? And what is it you think I should start by telling?

“Well, saying that Silver McBear was on a train to go somewhere would be a good start. If I had somewhere to go, I would have a chance of getting there.”

Ah. Well, as I am pretty sure I already said, I do believe that this story starts with Silver heading home from a hard days work. A long days work at the bank. But where we are aiming for and where we arrive at are not always the same. Where Silver ends up today is at a red light. The brakes of the train grind, the carriage lurches and he sits there patiently. And sits there. And sits there. Until the conductor waddles into the carriage and says:

“Sorry sir. Incident on the line ahead, a tree fell on the tracks. We will be a while they shift it.” The conductor says, apologetic and a little too fast.

“Where exactly are we?” Silver is looking out of the window. It looks like a platform outside, but the concrete is broken and brambles are growing through it. The little yellow station building is all overgrown.

“Wayford sir.” Answers the conductor. Or is it a guard on a train? I can never remember.

“Wayford?” Silver perks up. “The A21 is a mile away.” He knows of course that the station is defunct, abandoned. That there is a mile of dark country lanes between him and the main road, then another mile or two of nothing but the road until he reaches a village with a bus stop.

“I wouldn't think that sir.” The conductor, or guard, the chap in the pressed uniform with brass buttons says. “It is not a night to be thinking of that walk sir.”

Silver nods. He seems to agree, but he is also staring at the platform, at the gate chained beyond. At the wind, at the sleet, at the miserable night.

“You know, I just want to point out that I quite agree with the guard.”

Do you now little bear? Because the guard is gone. The night is cold. You could be here for hours and hours and hours. Or you could get to the main road, take a bus, hop off in the village and get a bag of chips to eat as you walk home...

“No. I mean, there is going to be a monster out there. Or a killer. Or something a whole lot worse.”

A story. If you don't slip out of the train now this will be a very long, very dull story. Or... Or you could be a brave little bear and step into the moonlight. You could have one more adventure. Don't shake your head. Don't make those eyes at me. There you go. Silver comes to a decision in an instant, and as foolish as it seems he is a hardy sort of chap and resolute.

“He certainly is. Fourteen across...”

I said he is resolute. He wraps his coat around himself, and his scarf. Braces against the cold and steps out into the night. The sleet is cold, the moon is full and the wind howls a lament. But before the guard can spot him Silver is across the platform, over the gate, and on his way down a long country lane, flanked on either side by willowy trees that cast spider web shadows over the length of the road.

“I just want you to know I don't like this.”

Hang on.

“Eh?”

That is not right. I didn't write that. Look. Over there in the field. Can you see that in the moonlight. That tree in the middle of the field. What are those hanging from it? Nooses? And... Those can't be bodies? Is somebody trying to spice this up a bit. I admire the effort, but that is not the kind of scary that- Where are you going?

“To take a look.”

No. No. You are meant to walk on, and have a spooky experience when you take a short cut through the graveyard.

“One of those things hanging from the tree is moving.”

So Silver runs. He scampers over the gate to the field and across the stubble and dirt towards a tall, willowy tree with skeletal limbs and rough bark. There are three figures hanging from it by nooses. Three figures in hoodies and jeans, or a short skirt. Scarecrows dressed for a party, for something my granddaughter would wear. Jumbles of sticks as thin as her friends. One spare noose dangles at their side.

That isn't right. By any sense. That is not the story.

“Did you see that?”

What? That isn't right either.

“But did you see it? No. It's gone. But back by the road, just for a second there was something like a bed sheet fluttering in the wind. Like a shroud.

Well. I think maybe we should leave the theatre there for a moment. It suddenly feels very cold in here and... Did somebody just dim my lights? Excuse me! But you did not get rid of us just yet. There is still an episode or three left to film before you strike the sets and leave the lights off. It is cold. Can you see that? My breath is misting. I... Who is there? Is somebody saying... What? I can't hear you.

You know, back when this show first started the sets were beautiful. Left over from some old costume drama and given a lick of paint. We had a whole street of shop fronts, a little old street lamp, and this entire shop. The fronts of the shops were all painted and real looking, the windows had real depth, real displays behind them. There was a butchers with sausages and steaks in the window. A tailors who had something scrounged from the costume department on display. A trinket shop filled with the most beautiful plates and teapots we had stumbled on in a boot fair. And now... Now we have spray frost and a battered old curtain painted with some vague hints of a street.

Jenny, the granddaughter, she used to love coming to the set when she was younger. Even younger. She loved getting to explore, choosing the toys to be on the set and where Silver would be. She loved listening to the stories, just to make sure they weren't too scary. 'You don't mind me doing all this?' She would ask, like I ever could mind. Like it wasn't fair that I was sharing with her before her friends could see it on telly. Took me a while to realise she was asking the bear. So I would give his answer for her in his voice. When she was young enough I would even get him to talk to her on the phone.

“Now of course I don't mind. I would give you the air from my lungs and the life from my heart if I knew it would make you smile Jenny.”

She loved that bear. Fifteen and she still loved the bear. Probably loved him more than her old gramps. Loves. Loved. I...

Well. Let's see how Silver is doing. Back at the puppet theatre, pull the curtains back and let us see what we can see. Silver is still in the field, but now he can see lights. On the far side of the field he can see the lights of a small town. He doesn't remember there being a village or a town out here, none of that size at least. But his mind fills with the idea of a pub, a taxi, a quicker route home. And of maybe a police officer he can report the macabre display of gallows to.

At first he waddles slowly. He leans forward into the rain, struggling against the wind that howls. Then he realises that it is not only the wind that is howling. His ears prick up and he looks over his shoulder and he sees it. Something like a bed sheet, or a shroud, fluttering in the wind. But tied to the ground, leaning into the wind, reaching out for him. There is something under the sheet, something thin and waif like. Something whose mouth is open in a silent scream.

Silver is running now. He is dashing through the field as fast as he can carry himself. He flails and slips, scrambles and scurries. He runs for his very life. He reaches the edge of the field and he throws himself over the gate so fast he pitches over the other side face first. He splutters and retches as he lifts himself out of the muddy water, gagging on the acrid taste. But as he roles over, he can see no sign of the strange wraith. He draws himself to his feet and looks up and down the broken road of potholes and puddles. He looks in the direction of the abandoned station and wonders, foolish as it will make him feel if the train is still there.

“The train I wanted to stay on.”

Go on then. Run back there. This is all wrong now anyway. And... No. Look! There in the road it stands. That spectre, the unearthly phantom, reaching out for you desperate as it gestures you towards it. Blocking your way back to the station. I am sorry little bear. So sorry. Do not go. Don't...

“Eeek!” Silver wails as he turns in the other direction and he runs once more. In the vague direction of the lights he saw. A town, a village, he no longer cares. Because a light means at least one other person there. His mind is empty. Emptier even than normal. He knows nothing but the need not to be here. Not to let that ghostly lay a single finger on his fur. He runs until his heart grinds in his chest, until his lungs heave, until his paws ache and his cold, bones rattle in his muddy, soggy, body.

He runs until he bounces off something solid and rusty. He lands on his bottom and stares at the obstacle. It is the rusting hulk of a car. The metal is scorched and charred, the tyres melted to the road. It had once been a Scimitar. I recognise the shape. I used to own one. There is a... There is a scarecrow in the drivers seat. It is a bundle of twigs, dressed in cast off clothes, slumped over the wheel. Look in the back Silver. Please. Don't you shake your head at me bear. Open the door and look in the back.

The vinyl seats and the horrible orange seatbelts I had to fit myself in eighty three, when I bought it. I.. I have not seen that car in years. Now I see it I can almost smell the car, as it was on a sunny day. Old cars, the kind you stick to in the summer, it has something you can never forget. You know, I had pictures of this car in the barn? Where I write. Where, back in the beginning, I painted the watercolours and made the models for the show.

Where Jenny would come and watch me tinker. Keep me company. Make me smile. Make my world worth... Where... I love her. I always did. Always.

Silver, what is that? A little bear on the back seat? Not just a little bear. A little you. One of the older yous. The first. His fur is a little tatty and his belly has been squished so hard, by so many hugs the little steel skeleton inside that is meant to make it rigid for posing, for filming, no longer holds it in place. There are tear stains in the fur.

No. Not this. Silver, you have to leave. Do you understand me? You have to run now. Get out of the car. Get out of there. Run! Run now! But, no, he can't run he. Not any more. He is old and tired, and worn out and tired. He shuffles and limps and staggers as fast as he can carry himself, but that is not very much at all.

The sleet thickens to snow around him it seems. It covers everything here. A thick blanket of white is falling and laying over the cobbles that now form the road. The hedges have given way to cottages and stone walls. There is a short street of shops.

“There is something terribly familiar about all this.”

Well of course. These little villages all look the same. Somethinghurst, or otherhurst. This one has been in the wars a little I think. Literally. The cars parked at the sides of the road are all burned out shells. The shops too. The stones is scorched, the walls blackened, the windows shattered and within are empty shells of ash and char. The half melted ruin of mannequin here, the blackened counter of a butcher over the road.

“Where were the lights?”

Well... I don't know. Any more than I know why there are those same scarecrows jutted up against lamp posts and postboxes. Dressed in... Shabby clothes. Scuffed, chaffed, ugly things that had once been nice. Had once been the sort of thing I would wear. Or her mum. Or her dad, when was still around.

There is one shop with a light on though. Dim lights. The windows frosted. The door old and uncared for, like nobody has even looked at opening it in years and years. The sign over the door is so faded you can barely read it. Silver no! Don't knock on that door! Don't! Don't bring her here.

Curtain dropped. Story over. This is ended. Goodbye children. Bring up the main lights and put the bloody kettle on. Can you hear me? Up in the box? I can't do this. I can't finish this. Put the episode in the bin and run a repeat. And for the love of god stop banging on that door! Pounding away like that it isn't funny. Hello? Are you up there in the gallery? Bring up the lights so I can see my way out the bloody studio.

Please.

I can't... Stop that knocking! Stop it! Please. This is over. Not just the episode, the show, the shop is closed and Silver will not be back, here or on a podcast. He can't be back. I let him die. I let him burn? Is that what you want to hear? The barn burned down because I went in there with a petrol can. Twenty five years and they wanted me to tell stories into a bloody microphone? No. I will not be insulted like that, and if I am to end it I will end it properly. The old paintings, the old files, the photos. I was not going to let any little executive send vultures after me for them. That was the threat. For lawyers. The show might have been yours, but those were mine. I created them. I could destroy them.

If you wanted to see children damaged I would show you the other kind of fear. Next week, oh next week, our final week, that would be an adventure. One last surprise, one last adventure. One last ending. Not a happy one. I read the script to Jenny you know. She wept. She begged me. She begged me not to kill him off. Not like that. Not out of spite. I told her to grow up. To be a woman. That by the time her grandma was her age we had cleared the childish things off her bed to make more room. We were over stupid little childish stories. It was her crying and grabbing my arm, and whining like a spoilt little cow that made me... Well... Made me buy a jerry can full of unleaded and a box of matches.

Stop that knocking!

I didn't mean it. I was angry. I was stupid. The fire? Oh I meant the fire. But not the words. I didn't want her to grow up. Only to shut up. I didn't... She should never have listened to a stupid old fool like me. Thought that she had to be a woman to grow up. Ask her friends to help shove her in the direction of a young man. Of a boy. If... If they were really as grown up as they like to think they should know that if you need something to cloud your mind you aren't ready for that. If you need a drug to decide what you want, then maybe you still need something else.

Something like a grandfather who would still listen to you. Who would write you a happy ending when you need it the most. Nobody ever listened to me for anything but stupid stories before. Why start now?

Is it you Jenny? Hammering on that door? Very well. Let me keep my promise, one time at least. Let me give you my last breath if you will smile again. The air from my lungs and the life from my heart, if it means you open your eyes, if you smile.

If you get that last happy ending I will open the door to nowhere and step into nothing.

And so I do.

With my love for rock music and S. E. Hinton's YA novels, it's no surprise my first novel was in the MC thriller fiction genre. In fact, my following novels are also urban thrillers. But those that have read my short story collection Heads & Tales and UNDRESSED know I'm not just a "one genre" author.

Born in the Midlands UK, I grew up in a poor, rough area of town and used my writing to escape an unsettling reality. Delving deep into my characters' minds and hearts, I give my readers thought provoking and sometimes dark storylines.

I have over thirty publications, including book reviews, film reviews, poetry and articles.

Nominated top ten of female authors of biker fiction, my horror story Crossed, also won the first prize in an International Short Story contest. And my books have received raving reviews.

With an International fan base, you can find me on popular network sites such as Twitter and Facebook where I'm only too happy to interact with my readers.

No matter what genre of fiction I write, you'll always hear loud rock music playing while I work, as it allows me to fade away and become one with my characters.

Don't except happy endings in my novels as I write about real life. What you will get, is exciting story-lines that will have you glued to the pages and eager for more.

I live on the beautiful Island of Corfu with my Greek husband and two daughters.

Titles to date:
In Times of Violence, YA thriller/romance
Heads & Tales, collection of flash and short fiction
Lawless Justice, vigilante thriller
Stone Cold, YA supernatural thriller
Huntress, thriller
Road Rage, thriller
UNDRESSED, collection of poetry, prose and short fiction.

You can get Karina's books here!

http://www.amazon.com/Karina-Kantas/e/B0034P98EW/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1435355106&sr=8-1http://www.amazon.co.uk/Karina-Kantas/e/B0034P98EW/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1435355106&sr=8-1

https://www.lulu.com/shop/search.ep?contributorId=363709https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Karina+kantas