by Tim O'Rourke
Shane sat with his back hunched over the steering wheel, concentrating hard as he guided the truck around the tight bends in the road. The wind howled and it almost seemed to whisper as it entwined itself around the trees and raced across the open fields. It sounded like a thousand voices moaning all at once. Crows squawked as they fluttered up from the cornfields and took shelter beneath the leaves of the trees.
The truck slowed, listed to the right, sloshed through a giant ditch, then carried on. Shane took one hand from the wheel and rubbed the back of it against the mist-covered windscreen. Once he had made a clearing, he gasped with surprise on seeing a figure step from the side of the road up ahead. The figure made a fist and waved its thumb back and forth in the air. As Shane pushed the truck on through the storm, he could see that the figure was in fact a bedraggled looking man. He wore only a grubby T-shirt, blue jeans, trainers, and had a duffle bag thrown over his shoulder.
Shane glanced up at the bruised and battered sky, and although half of him wanted drive straight on, the other half knew that he had to stop. The man looked soaked through. Shane slowed the truck to a juddering halt. He slid across the seat and opened the passenger door.
“Hey, son, where you heading?” Shane shouted over the sound of the screeching wind.
The man was much younger than Shane. He couldn’t have been any older than twenty-two or twenty-three. Rain dripped from his long, jet-black hair and onto his face and clothes. His face was pale, and his sea-green eyes stared out of two sunken sockets.
“Where you going?” Shane yelled again.
“Paisley End. Going anywhere near?” the man asked.
“Near enough,” Shane told him. “Jump in.”
Shane offered the stranger a friendly smile and slid back across the seat. The man got in and pulled the door shut. Shane drove on.
“Bitter out there?” Shane asked, knowing it to be a dumb question but conversations usually started with talk of the weather.
“You bet, its freezing,” the younger man said, rubbing his arms and shivering.
Shane rubbed the windscreen with the back of his hand again, then settled back into his seat. “I didn’t catch your name,” he said.
“Jon. Jon Cooke,” the man replied. “Yours?”
“Shane Cole. It’s nice to meet you, Jon,” he said back.
They sat in an uncomfortable silence for a moment, but Shane soon broke it. “You’re frozen right through. Take a look in the back and you’ll find my coat. Put it on if you’d like.”
“Thanks,” Jon said, reaching into the rear of the truck. He rummaged through some old newspapers, books, and fishing gear until he found Shane’s coat. It was khaki and expensive. Jon put it on and found that it was way too big for him, so he snuggled down into it and blew warm breath across his fingers.
“Feeling better?” Shane asked him.
“Yes, much better, thanks.”
“Good. You looked like death warmed up standing along the roadside,” Shane remarked.
“I’d been waiting for a while. You don’t get much traffic out this way, it’s pretty remote,” Jon said, rubbing his hands together.
“That’s true,” Shane said. “If you don’t mind me asking – why are you going to Paisley End?”
“For some peace and quiet,” Jon told him.
“You’ll get it there,” Shane said. “I’ve never been, but heard rumours that it’s kind of dead there – you know, people keep themselves to themselves. They don’t welcome strangers.”
“If I’m to be honest, I got myself into a bit of trouble back home, so I’m kind of hiding for a while,” Jon explained.
“Trouble?” Shane asked, cocking an eyebrow at him. “With the law?”
“No, nothing like that,” Jon said. “Girl trouble. Trying to keep away from her father. He’s really pissed at me. Besides, I’m a musician. I play the flute.”
“Any good?” Shane asked.
“Not bad,” Jon said. “I’m self-taught. Comes kinda natural, I guess. I’m planning on writing some music down here. You know, a bit of fresh air, beautiful scenery, peace and quiet – that sort of thing.”
“You’ll get plenty of peace and quiet in Paisley End,” Shane commented. “It’s pretty much a dead-end sorta place.”
“Where are you going?” Jon asked, pulling the coat about him.
“A place called Weather Beach,” Shane said. “I turn off about two or so miles before Paisley End. My daughter has a place there. Great for fishing.”
The truck rumbled on through the rain and the wind, Shane and Jon chatting all the way. After about an hour and with no let-up in the bad weather, Shane pulled over.
“This is as far as I go,” Shane said.
“I appreciate the lift,” Jon smiled, pushing the door open against the wind.
“Don’t mention it,” Shane said, then added, “It’s none of my business, but maybe after you found what you’re looking for in Paisley End, you should maybe go home to that girl you got into trouble with. It’s hard bringing up a kid on your own, I should know.”
“I’ll think about it,” Jon said. He closed the door to the truck, and hoisting his duffle bag over his shoulder, he set off in the direction of Paisley End and the dull day gradually turned into night.
Shane stepped on the accelerator and drove the truck towards Weather Beach. He looked forward to seeing his daughter again, and the fishing, of course. With more than an hour or so of driving left to go, and with his companion gone, Shane lent forward, opened the glove box and rummaged around for a cigarette. He’d promised his daughter that he’d quit, but he had cut down. Unable to find a packet, and keeping one eye on the road ahead, he swung his arm over the back of his seat and felt for his coat. It wasn’t there and he suddenly remembered he had lent it to Jon.
“For crying out loud,” Shane cursed, remembering that his wallet, credit cards, and cigarettes were in the pockets of the coat, he slammed on the brakes. Reversing back up the road, which was little more than a dirt track, Shane reached the point where he had last seen Jon walking away into the distance. Knowing that it had been little more than ten minutes since Jon had gotten out of the truck, Shane sped towards Paisley End, hoping that he would soon catch up with him and his coat.
The truck rattled and bobbed over the rain-swollen ditches and puddles, and after twenty minutes or more, he was surprised that he hadn’t caught up with Jon. He pushed the truck onwards. Then ahead, Shane saw a sign that read, Welcome to Paisley End. Stopping the truck, Shane rubbed the windscreen with the back of his hand again and peered out. Beneath the welcome sign, someone had written, Children Beware.
Not knowing what to make of the sign, Shane paused. Did he really want to go on? But his jacket was there. So easing his truck into gear, he headed into town. Just like the other roads, they were little more than lanes, with overgrown hedges on either side. The road was uneven, and Shane bounced around in his seat as he drove on. But there was still no sign of Jon Cooke.
Up ahead, Shane could see lights twinkling in the distance in the falling rain. He suddenly felt glad that he was finally reaching some kind of civilisation. Houses, shops, and people, he hoped. Shane swung the truck onto the first tarmacked road that he had seen in hours. He raced towards the lights in the distance. As he drew nearer to them, he could see that it was a petrol station and roadside café that he was heading towards.
Shane slowed the truck and veered into the car park and got out. With his head low and shoulders hunched forward, he ran towards the café, as the rain lashed down all around him. The café was shabby-looking, the roof bowed inwards, and the brickwork was cracked and moss-ridden. The windows looked dirty, and the curtains had a yellow tinge to them. Shane pushed the door open and stepped out of the rain. The café was dimly-lit, and people sat huddled around small tables. Seeing him enter, they all looked up at once and fixed him with an unfriendly stare. It was as Shane looked around the room at them, he noticed that their faces were deathly white
, which spoke of unhappiness and sorrow. They eyes were red-rimmed, bloodshot, and each of them looked as if they recently spent many hours crying.
Breaking their unfriendly stares, Shane shook the rain from his grey hair and made his way to the counter, which doubled as a bar. Behind it slouched a withered old man. His face was a mass of wrinkles. His eyes, just like the others, were almost puffed closed. As he watched Shane approach, the old man pulled a cloth from his pocket and began to wipe down the counter. He worked, but his heart wasn’t in it. Shane stopped in front of the coffee-stained bar.
“Can I help you?” the old man asked, and Shane couldn’t help but notice that his voice was riddled with suspicion.
“I hope so,” Shane said right back.
“Tea? Coffee? Or something stronger?” the old man asked.
“No, nothing, thanks. I’m fine,” Shane told him. “I would just like some information.” But with the feeling that all those eyes were boring into him, he just wanted to run from the café and get right back in his truck and out of town.
“What sort?” the old man snapped.
“Has a young man passed this way in the last hour or so?” Shane asked.
The old man made no reply and went back to cleaning the counter. Shane tried again. “He was in his early twenties, was wearing a khaki coat and carrying a duffle bag over his shoulder.”
The old man turned his back on Shane and started to busy himself by cleaning some cups.
“His name was Jon Cooke,” Shane started up again. “Do you know...”
Before he’d had a chance to finish his sentence, a woman sitting behind him made a screeching sound, as if she had a chicken bone stuck in the back of her throat. She then burst into a fit of hysterics and ran sobbing from the café. Others jumped up from their tables, sending cups, plates, knives, and forks clattering to the floor. They ran from the café, weeping and moaning.
The old man wheeled around at Shane, and with their faces just inches apart, he hissed, “If you’re not going to stop for refreshments, get out!”
Shane’s face drained of all colour, and his heart began to thump in his chest, but still he persisted. “Have you seen him? That’s all I want to know and then I will be gone.”
The villagers continued to brush past Shane as they headed towards the door and fled into the storm, and he couldn’t understand why. The old man fixed his milky-looking eyes on Shane’s.
“Okay, mister,” he sneered. “I’ll tell you all about Jon Cooke. He came into town about three months ago, and just as you say, he carried a duffle bag over his shoulder. But he had something else. A flute. It was the strangest thing I had ever seen. Not like your everyday flute. This was black and looked as if it was made of some kinda ancient ivory. He took to standing on the street corners, playing his flute. Didn’t matter what the weather – he was always there, that flute between his lips. The music that came from it was like nothing I’d heard before – it sounded like a thousand children crying. The children would gather around him – as if they were in a trance. Us adults didn’t like it one little bit, so we told him to clear out of town. He did, but he returned, several nights later,” the old man explained, and as he did, his voice no longer sounded angry, but full of despair.
“Jon Cooke,” he continued, with tears beginning to well in his eyes, “hidden by the night and the shadows of the trees, played his flute while the adults slept. But the music stirred the children from their sleep. Like zombies, they crept from their beds and followed Cooke across the fields and up into the hills. They haven’t been seen again, not one of them.”
The old man stopped, pulled a snot-ridden hanky from his pocket, and wiped his lips, then brow. “The following day, the men from the village, me included, set off in pursuit of Cooke. We found him, but none of the children he had led away into the night. We punished him for what he had done – we punished him real bad – so he could never steal another child again. We hurt him so bad that you couldn’t have seen him today – that would be impossible,” he whispered, then broke into a sinister cackle of laughter. Then, sounding as if had phlegm wrapped around his tonsils, he leaned over the counter and hissed, “Now get out.”
Feeling so confused by what he had just heard, Shane wanted to question the old man further. But before he’d had the chance to saying at all, the owner had gone to the door, opened it and turned the sign over to CLOSED. Knowing that his presence was no longer wanted, if it ever had been, Shane left the café and headed back to his truck.
Once inside and away from the café and its odd owner and customers, gooseflesh crawled up Shane’s back and made the hairs at the nape of his neck prickle. No longer interested in ever seeing his coat again, he started up his truck and raced back up the road and out of town. As Paisley End disappeared behind him, Shane slowed the truck down. Then, as he neared the edge of town and the welcome sign, he slammed on the brakes. Shane lurched forward in his seat and stared out into the dark and rain; there was something caught in the glare of his headlights. With his mouth open and his heart struggling to find a beat, Shane slowly opened the truck door and stepped out. He climbed over a low stone wall and into a field and looked up at the tree which sat alone, away from the others. It was leafless and its black branches reached up into the sky like deformed limbs. Its trunk was thick and gnarled-looking, and tied to it with rope, was Jon Cooke.
Unable to draw breath, Shane stumbled over the uneven ground as he made his way towards the tree. Standing before it, he could see that the body of Jon Cooke had already started to decompose, as if he had been left there to rot for several weeks already. Crows squawked and beat their ragged wings as they fluttered away from the branches overhead. Shane looked at the body of Jon Cooke and gagged at the sight of the maggots which crawled from his empty eye sockets. One eye hung from its socket on a sinewy cord, looking like a yo-yo made of red flesh. His tongue hung like a giant black worm from a jagged tear in his cheek. His mouth was open in an insane looking grin, and his teeth glistened in the light from the truck’s headlights.
But it wasn’t the sight of Jon Cooke’s decomposed body which made Shane’s blood feel like ice in his veins. It was the fact that Jon Cooke was wearing his coat. Daring to step closer to the body, Shane noticed something black and pointed sticking out from his coat pocket. Reaching out, Shane plucked the odd-looking flute from his coat. It felt weightless in his hands. Then, as if unable to resist the urge, he placed the flute to his lips and blew gently into it.
As Shane made his way back to his truck in that awful storm, playing the flute as he went, he knew that the old man from the café had been right, the music which came from it did sound like a thousand children crying.
A Story
Jim Chambers sat with his arse wedged into the narrow chair, striking the keys on the typewriter that squatted before him. The metal keys snapped back and forth, leaving their design behind on the crisp, white paper. His words and thoughts appeared in neat rows. The letter ‘A’ key was missing, snapped off years before so he would have to spend time hand writing in all the missing letter ‘A’s to his story once he had finished.
Beads of sweat lined Jim’s young face as his tongue flicked from the corner of his mouth while he concentrated on his writing. He had to complete his story, not only for himself, but for her. His creative writing teacher’s greed for his stories was unending. She would take each one in her gnarled hands and smile thankfully, like a drunk who is handed another drink. Jim was secretly pleased that someone relished his tales of horror and fantasy, where people lived shrouded in darkness, surviving the blood-foaming jaws of the creatures that he created. Sometimes they didn’t always survive. He liked the power that gave him.
But Jim thought it strange that someone like his teacher should love his stories so much. He guessed that Ms. Mitchell was in her late sixties and was a dead ringer for Miss Marple. How could someone who shuffled around with a shawl thrown over her shoulders, and who had glasses hanging from the tip of her nos
e give a second thought to such revolting tales? But did it really matter? He was glad he had one fan, even if wasn’t his girlfriend, Wendy. Wendy didn’t care for his stories at all. So with his creative writing teacher at the forefront of his mind, he continued to tap out his story...
...the crackling noise which could be heard beneath the woman’s blouse was sickening to hear. The folds of her blouse moved restlessly. She brought her worn hands to her blouse and ripped it in two, the buttons popping free and clinking onto the floor. Her saggy breasts writhed and twitched, becoming transparent, revealing the membranes that lay just beneath her aged skin. Blue veins circled her chest, the skin thinning out across her shoulders, up her neck and face.
Dark lines lay etched about the corners of her mouth. Her skin began to fade and her yellow-stained teeth and lolling tongue became visible through her cheek. Her forehead became a window, its view a pulsating brain. She unfastened her skirt and it whispered to the floor. She pulled at her black tights with pulsating hands until she was free of them. Her stomach and bowels could be seen through her invisible skin. The smell of rotting and undigested food was rich and pungent on the dry air.
The woman fell to the floor, landing on her hands and knees. The air began to fill with a ripping sound as her shoulder blades, spine, and hands began to stretch out of shape, giving her the appearance of a squat, four-legged animal. She began to crack and blister as stiff, black hair oozed out of her. Her bloodless lips stretched open as a twitching snout appeared. Twisted, blade-like teeth protruded through her swelling gums, sending blood forth in a black gush which swung from her whiskered chin.
Her gnarled fingers buckled and became claws as her knuckles shattered. The woman’s body was to undergo one final change before her metamorphosis was complete. The bottom of her raised spine exploded outwards. Through the gaping hole in her back appeared a slender pink tail which glistened and licked back and forth in the air, blind to what lay around it.
