by Gary Fry
Extract from Year’s Best Spooks, 2026
Gordon Franklyn lives in Leeds with his wife, Harriet. Life hasn’t been kind to the author, especially when, half a decade ago, his two children were killed in a car accident that also involved his wife. Franklyn alone, driving the fast vehicle, escaped the flaming melee. Unpublished for several years, the author now lives back in his native West Yorkshire, caring for his disabled wife on a full-time basis. It’s a tragic story as unsettlingly heartbreaking as those with which he once thrilled a generation of genre fans. Nevertheless, this forgotten man of supernatural fiction has never been less than surprising, and imagine our delight at Year’s Best Spooks when, during our 25th Anniversary, we received a brand new submission from this living legend. And if it isn’t one of the most horrifying pieces we’ve ever had the pleasure to read. As usual in Franklyn’s last few contributions to this anthology, the author was unavailable for commentary, and so we must let the tale speak for itself. One thing that will strike readers familiar with his work is the shift from his characteristic third-person narrative to the more intimate first-person. We think this lends the fiction much more power. But Franklyn’s depiction of a drinking man haunted by past shadows that darken his path is as subconsciously accurate, analytically dispassionate, and unwittingly illuminating as anything he wrote during his all-too-brief professional career. The demons on the fringes of consciousness now take centre stage, in what the author might once have described as the nebulous mind. And so let us raise the spotlight of our mind’s eye: unblinking, obsessive, moist with unquenchable grief. Behold…
Extract from Year’s Best Spooks, 2029
Gordon Franklyn lives in Leeds. That’s pretty much all we now know about this reclusive author. The return address for e-payment that accompanied the story you’re about to read was of a street full of tenements in a rundown area. We understand that the author’s wife has recently died, following medical complications. The only other clue about Franklyn’s circumstances on the note attached to the following tale was a single, enigmatic message: “I was wrong—about many things. But wrong about this, especially. ” And does he refer here to the supernatural? That certainly seems plausible, particularly after reading the following piece, Franklyn’s first fictional output since his last contribution to Year’s Best Spooks …But is this fiction? That’s the question readers will surely ask themselves. The setting seems authentic: the house the author once occupied in the splendid Yorkshire countryside. But the time is all wrong, because the spooks that haunt this latest abusive, alcoholic in a Franklyn tale could never have existed there. That was once a happy, family home. And this is no happy family. We speculate that Franklyn, struggling as a result of hard experience, regular drink, and a twisted state of mind, could be planning an autobiography and has simply got some details wrong. The ghosts surely belong elsewhere: where the author now lives, in a dilapidated city. Nevertheless, these creatures are no less frightening for their tranquil rural location. They make one believe—as we at Year’s Best Spooks have always believed; as even Gordon Franklyn, once such a wry sceptic, has possibly come to believe—that the supernatural is real. We hope that you, dear readers, also share this sentiment. And so turn the page and lapse again into Franklyn’s world. He might never have been more frightening, nor have created such potent beings. The vicious behaviour of the two vengeful children, and perhaps worse, the hideously mangled wife, contain an element of autobiography, of unforgiving accuracy, of experienced horror…
Gordon Franklyn is a haunting and haunted man. And we hope he gets by.
STRINGS ATTACHED
———
When Tullis wound down his car window, the smells from outside reminded him of his childhood. He’d frequently holidayed with his parents in similar coastal towns, and guessed that was why, at fifty-three, he’d decided to settle here. He loved the scent of the sea and the beach, along with the tacky aroma of fast food cooking in the portside. It all put him in mind of innocent times, before he’d worked in the criminal justice system. But now, after retirement last year and with a worthy sum to invest, he could return to a more pleasurable lifestyle.
And here up ahead was the building he’d applied to buy from the local authority. Drawing his Mercedes to a crawl in the seafront lane, he glanced at the small, disused ticket office located near the cliff ’s edge. The theatre to which it belonged was situated down a slope towards the beach, but with so many performance bookings made these days online or by telephone, this property was no longer needed. After seeing it advertised on a local agent’s website, Tullis had wasted no time in putting in an offer. It was perfect for what he had in mind, a modest burger and ice-cream parlour, which would keep him in touch with everyday life without demanding more than his ageing body had been able to cope with lately.
As he drew abreast of the building, something about it threatened to stir a memory concealed in his brain the way a person might hide behind a smile. He was sure he’d visited this town as a boy, though details of these infrequent trips eluded him. Surely he hadn’t retained subconscious recollections—what would be the implications of that? It was more likely that, unlike many gaudier seaside resorts in England, nothing eventful had occurred in this peaceful place. That was its appeal, of course. Tullis trod again on his accelerator and steered the final distance to the council headquarters, where he planned to seal the deal.
All he’d seen in his rear-view mirror before rounding a bend was the reflection of a cloud in the only front window of the disused ticket office. It was surely only his imagination that had made it look momentarily like someone grinning.
Twenty minutes later, after parking up and being shepherded by a secretary to a large office at the top of an old-fashioned property, Tullis was introduced to a man whose desk-plaque read TOWN PLANNING OFFICER. He was called Harris, and his letter to Tullis last week had been with a view to resolving “some issues relating to community opinion. ”Tullis had immediately understood what this had meant: residents in the rarefied West Cliff area, in which the building was situated, had signed a petition claiming that their chaste neighbourhood was about to be cheapened by what this ‘outsider’ had in mind.
Tullis could appreciate such resistance—he hadn’t worked in the legal game so long without learning about the lack of social regard involved in many business ventures—but all he must do was reassure concerned parties that his intentions were honourable. He was simply planning to supplement his retirement savings with a reasonable income generated via an honest scheme. Indeed, after being asked to sit in a chair in front of Harris’s broad desk, Tullis offered this defensive argument.
“I’m not opposed to what you’re hoping to achieve, ” said the Town Planning Officer once Tullis had finished, “but you must appreciate that I’m in a tricky position here. ”
The man paused to smile, and as he did so another troubling half-memory returned to the on-looking Tullis. As Harris went on, Tullis found it difficult to concentrate on what he was being told.
“Some residents of the West Cliff—folk who live in apartments, those who own B&Bs—can trace their ancestry back many years in the town. And although this grants them no formal rights, such connections nonetheless carry a great deal of, shall we say, moral weight. Do you understand where I’m tending with this, Mr Tullis?”
“I do. I surely do, ” replied Tullis, and by this time he’d ceased examining the man’s mouth and switched his attention to the private impressions he’d experienced moments ago. “Tell me, Mr Harris, does your family go back a long time here, too?”
Harris looked awkward, like a child caught up to no good at all. Then he replied, “Well, yes, as a matter of fact it does. Why do you ask?”
“I…don’t know. ” But now Tullis thought he did know; his earlier recollection had grown more vibrant…But all this would have to wait. He said, “Anyway, back to business. What must I do to resolve the problem?”
Harris clearly believed he’d forged a bo
nd with Tullis. The way they’d been observing one another, as if something fundamentally dishonest had leapt between their gazes, had opened their discussion about Tullis’s bid to less official methods of persuasion. Indeed, that was when Harris said, “Well, as men of the world, I’m sure we can come to some form of agreement. It would, after all, be a shame if any other, lower bidder got hold of the property…”
Harris was wearing a plain brown suit whose breast pocket bulged with the shape of a wallet. He tapped this with one palm and then returned to the meeting’s official script. He produced the ground plans of the old ticket office (“…ten feet square, large enough to install both a grill and a freezer…”) and then discussed licences (“…a relatively straightforward application procedure…”) before declaring the meeting over.
“We’ll meet again tomorrow, shall we?You’ll carry the, ahem, application fee. Shall we say five-hundred in cash? And where could be more appropriate for conducting our business than outside the building in question? I’ll have the key. Contracts will be all signed at our end; we’ll just require your handwritten endorsement. Is that okay?”
Tullis, suffering discomfort from all he’d learnt at the meeting, said it was fine and soon exited to spend some time alone.
He’d come across institutional corruption in the past, of course, and knew that bribes involved in such deals were far from uncommon. It was just that he’d never participated in one. This hadn’t been an option for him, because he’d always had his responsible job to consider. But now that was done with, he was free to behave however he pleased.
He spent the afternoon in a pub, eating fish ‘n’ chips and drinking two pints of beer. Nursing the ale, he struggled to square his conscience with what he was expected to do to get what he wanted. If Tullis blew the whistle on Harris, the council might offer the purchase of the building with no strings attached. Having rooted out a corrupt civil servant, even protesting local residents might even support Tullis’ application…But in truth, that was unlikely. After all, he was unable to prove anything. The most likely outcome involved him being dismissed as another trouble-causing outsider, someone who’d brought dubious city ways to an otherwise honest place. In short, he must either play the game and succeed, or refuse and fail.
Too much of this reminded him of his youth, but his mind wasn’t thrust as far back as it had been earlier, upon first sight of the seafront. On this occasion, he recalled callow early days as an adult, when he’d believed that the public version of an institution matched the way it privately operated. And how earth-shattering it had been to realise that this was far from the case. Just as a heavily made-up stage performer might shed costume and cosmetics before leaving a theatre, such was business life. It was commonly conducted on the surface with TV-commercial precision, while grinding with rancour when out of view. It all involved fabrication, but was at least honest. Tullis’s later discovery of palm-greasing and sharp practice was a further surprise, but by this time he’d realised what people were capable of.
If he refused to give Harris the five-hundred pounds requested as a bribe, Tullis would be unable to acquire the ticket office and open his proposed burger and ice-cream parlour—at least, not here, in this finest of northern seaside resorts.
And why should he settle for second best? Tullis drained his pint glass and stood from his table. Other middle-aged men sat in the beer lounge with wives, their eyes roaming in the hope of chancing upon something to talk about: marriage had clearly drained them of conversation. At least Tullis had avoided such a fate, he reflected while pacing outside and almost getting knocked over by a pair of boys hurtling along the pavement. He’d never wanted children, either, and was now reminded why. These brats screeched like seagulls over the charming portside, marred by bleeping arcades. Then Tullis headed for the refined West Cliff, where his overnight accommodation stood.
Something else lurked at the back of his mind, which had arisen while talking to Harris, the Town Planning Officer. By the time Tullis had reached his destination, however, these impressions failed to coalesce. He could now see the building he hoped to buy tomorrow. Beyond the property, seagulls wheeled in manic formations in a slate-grey sky above the fretful sea. By this time, most eateries in the town had shut, and only a pungent odour of seaweed and ozone infused the stiff breeze. The hotel overlooking the ticket office—the one in which Tullis had reserved a room—appeared deserted. It was out of the holiday season, a perfect time to invest in a commercial property and prepare it for the following year’s tourist trade.
But would he be offered such an opportunity? He strolled closer to the small premises, halting after reaching it. The building was elegantly designed, with elaborate eaves, a sloping roof and a graceful cupola. The sculptured stone extended to its walls and window frames, all of which bore finely carved figures. The whole place was painted a striking white.
Pacing forwards, Tullis spotted a doorway in the property’s right-hand side. The only window in the front faced away from the sea, towards the hotel and all the West Cliff ’s residential and commercial accommodation. This window was small, approximately three feet square, and its glass was chipped with age. Tullis stepped up and looked inside.
His shadow was added to a reflection of gloom behind him. All he could see beyond the window was darkness…which immediately stirred. But surely that was just the way a wind had buffeted him, making his vision blur with the movement. After staring again through the glass, the only thing he could see inside was a clutter of sticks, paper and plastic. The cold must be able to access the building, because litter—especially that clustered in the far-left corner—had started moving with a taut motion. Tullis told himself that this didn’t resemble a person, even though the combination of wood and looser material did suggest bones and flesh…
At that moment, Tullis was jerked abruptly against the window.
“Are you drunk?” a voice had said, and after realising that it had come from behind rather than from inside the ticket office, he swung round to confront whoever had summoned him.
“Drunk?” he said to the aged woman, who held a small dog on a lead, which was sniffing the grass just beyond the building Tullis had just been scrutinising. Despite consuming a few pints during his evening meal, he resented being called drunk. “What makes you think that, for heaven’s sake?”
The woman—who must be at least sixty—shook her head. “I’m sorry, ” she added with only half-convincing sincerity. “It’s just that we get a lot of strangers around here and most seem to prefer the bars along the front to…”—she brandished her free arm, indicating the sea and the cliff edge—“…to all our natural beauty. ”
“Are you a resident of the West Cliff?”
Tullis had asked the question, but already knew the answer. Something about the way the woman grinned convinced him that she was not only a native of the town, but also the member of a family that had lived here many years. Her face possessed a squareness about the jaw, much like Harris, the Town Planner’s had…and the other man’s, the one from the past whom Tullis was only just beginning to recall in nebulous detail.
The woman said, “Yes, I’ve lived here all my life. In fact, I’ve forgotten things about the town some have never known. I–”
But Tullis interrupted her. “And what do you know about this place?” He jabbed a thumb over one shoulder. “About the old ticket office?”
“I know that some shark is trying to turn it into a cheap fast food outlet. ” The woman’s dog drew attention to itself by releasing the contents of its bowels onto the grass it had been sniffing earlier. But the woman had brought along plastic bags. After stooping to collect the fresh parcel, she added, “Believe me, I speak not only for myself by claiming that the last thing the West Cliff needs is the stench of fried food filling its air. ”
Tullis had been keen to pursue another matter—his disturbing new recollections—but now discovered that the two issues were entwined in his mind. He said, “I find that kind of
thing—I mean, the smell of burgers and suchlike—reminiscent of my youth: trips to the seaside, treats from my folks…Those were happy times. ”
“Well, we kindly request that you and whoever plans to tarnish the area by turning that building into something tawdry take their nostalgia elsewhere. The west coast would probably suit that sort of base pleasure. ”
Was this true? Was Tullis allowing fond childhood memories to over-rule common decency as an adult? Would his new business venture be as tacky as the woman suggested?
He was unable to dwell on this right now, however: he had another matter to address, one concerning the person he’d recalled from his youth. Perhaps the woman could help; she appeared expert in all other local concerns.
“One time—maybe as many as forty-five years ago—there was a man…and you know, I think he may have even worked here. ”
Tullis heard a sound from behind, a dry shuffling noise that was surely only wind feeling again among rubbish inside the building. He didn’t turn to look, just kept on gazing at the woman, who appeared not to have detected any sound from the ticket office. There could be nothing or nobody there. And now Tullis was eager to hear her reply.
“A…man?” she said, and it must be a residual effect of her previous assertiveness that lent her voice a faint tremor. “F-Forty-five years ago, you say?”
“About that, yes. And…ah, now I remember. He used to sell tickets in this very office. ”Tullis glanced over his shoulder; the whitish face that gazed back from that single window was of course his own, reflected in diminishing daylight. It was just a fault in the glass that made him look so bony…He added, “But that isn’t all he did. Later on, after he’d finished his business here, he’d—”
