Story Time with T.E Hodden!
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.
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.
