Ship Two

Now comes the second ship in these tales, though it is the first among the fleet. This is the flagship, the lead vessel. The men aboard her are not convicts. Her crew is made up of the best of the best. Tried and tested men who have spent years at sea, encountered legends and monsters and come away victorious every time. There is not a foe they fear. Another crew may strive for perfection, for them it is the minimum requirement. Their captain was entrusted to lead this mission for there are none who are his equal on the sea. When the crowds gathered to cheer the leaving ships it was this ship, this captain, this crew they were really celebrating, such was the reputation and admiration they garnered for their exploits and actions.

   It will be important to remember it is men such as I have just described that entered the storm aboard this ship for what we will see befall them to be understood in its full horror.

   As the flagship approached the oncoming storm the captain did not even have to give an order. His crew snapped into action automatically. It was a storm. They had been through many before and would go through many more. It was an expected part of being on the sea. They would not concern themselves with this any more than they would a gust of wind.

   While his crew busied themselves the captain looked to the other ships under his command. Slow, they were far too slow in their preparations. While his crew would calmly make their way through this storm the others would be tested far more. They were also sloppy. It did not bode well. As rain began to lash down he sent up signals via flags to try and exert some command over the amateurs.

   Before too long flags were no use to anyone. They could no longer see any of the other ships. Not that it would matter if they could. Capable as this crew was, this storm was proving to be a test for them. Their training and confidence prevented them from becoming frantic, but concern began to creep in, and they were reminded that the sea was always the master.

   The storm stopped. One moment it was roaring all around them, the sea, and air, and sky, and clouds, and rain all blending together in a terrifying release of energy, the next it seemed to sigh, and ceased. All became still. The ship came back down from being thrown, and rocked for a few moments, causing the only ripples that could be seen now on the calm sea before it too came to rest, and the sea became a sheet like a grey mirror.

   The clouds which had been swirling came to a stop. But they did not clear. In fact they seemed to grow, dropping down from on high, filling the air around the ship, muffling all sound, suffocating the light, cutting them off from the world. In the heavy silence they struggled for breath, the drawing of which felt as unacceptable as talking during a funeral service.

   How? How had they gone from a fearsome, calamitous storm, to utter stillness in a breath? The answer was not forthcoming so professionalism would have to do. They still had a mission to complete. First off they had to locate their other ships if any of them had survived. Lanterns and flags were useless in this fog. They could barely see from bow to stern. The captain blew on his whistle hoping for a response, but the sound seemed to die in the cloud around them, and there was nothing in return.

   Instinct told the captain that the other ships had not fared well in the storm, that they were dead and destroyed, or at the very least hopefully off course. He could not assume this though. The responsibility of his position and mission told him he had to wait a little longer: put prudence before his pride. If any of the other ships were still afloat and near them they may soon cross paths. Even better the fog could lift. They would wait.

   Unease crept through the crew. The silence was as thick as the fog, an oppressive weight on the mind of each of them. Every sound they made seemed heightened and heinous, as if it would wake some unseen horror within the fog. A rope creaked and was held fast. Keys jangled and were stilled. Even their breath was held to not disturb the silence. Still the fog did not lift. The captain looked at his crew, each of them to a man steadfast in the face of many a peril and he saw them shaken. This would not do. They had waited long enough and now it was time to go. If the fog would not lift then they would just have to escape it. The captain went to look at his compass when he smelt something. Burning. Could it be one of the other ships had caught fire? They would have to find out. But where was it coming from? The captain and crew tried to search for the source of the smell when one of them spotted a faint light coming from within the fog starboard. It was a fire. Somehow one of their other ships was ablaze. The crew was roused by the call to action. The weight of the fog was lifted from them. They moved with all speed to aid their comrades.

   Through the stillness came the sound of screams. The crew of the ship must already be burning. They doubled their efforts. Gradually the light grew and took on a more recognisable shape of a ship on fire. Which one from the fleet was it? Soon they came close enough to see the ship properly in spite of the fog. They could even see the shapes of men moving frantically on the burning deck. They could see that those men were on fire too. Why did they not leap into the sea? Confusion increased when it became clear this was not one of their ships. The design was foreign to them. Where had this ship come from? It did not matter they would still offer what help they could. The screams from the burning crew were terrible, completely replacing the heavy silence of the fog.

   They drew the ship up to the burning one as close as was safe. The captain and crew ran up to the side to get a proper look and see what could be done. What they saw was haunting. The ship was old, very old. The wood was blackened by the flames and appeared skeletal as the fire consumed it. The inferno raged on the deck, a storm of fire that concealed those aboard as it had grown. The sounds of pain from the burning crew escaped the fire and told them they were too late. The terror of the situation held their gaze though there was nothing they could do about it. A hand appeared out of the fire, so burned it was skeletal, and grasped the side of the ship. After this came they rest of the man, if man it had been. The burning person howled in pain. Other burning hands and people appeared. The fire seemed to die down and revealed more of the deck and crew. They were still on fire, but they just stood there, screaming. Were they screaming? No. No they were not screaming. They were laughing, laughing in a hideous mockery of joy. Laughing terribly all the while they burnt and did not heed the fire.

   While this horror was revealed the crew of the ship could do nothing but stand aghast. Whatever their experience of the sea had taught them it was not how to do deal with a burning ship that enjoyed the flames. Worse, a burning man was now at the wheel of the burning ship and was turning it, turning the burning ship to point straight at them. This was not a fight they could win, only escape and so they set about fleeing with all their energy. They had no more thought for any of the other ships in their fleet. All that mattered now was not burning. They fled into the fog and did not stop for a long while, until there was no hint of light or smell of burning. All there was was the fog and the silence.

   How could the fog still be here? Surely they had travelled many miles now. Still, the fog was preferable to the fire. The captain resolved that they would just have to continue until they had escaped all of this. No fog could last forever. They would soon get beyond it. The crew were shaken, the captain could not blame them for that. They needed to see sky once more and feel a fresh breeze on their faces to help blow away the terrible memory. The captain galvanised them to seek the end of their nightmare.

   Hour after hour went by and still the fog remained. The silence grew more powerful and overtook all thought. The eyes of the crew nervously flitted around checking for light within the fog. Several times the silence was broken by one of the crew loudly sniffing fearing they had caught a whiff of smoke, causing their other crewmates to prepare for an oncoming horror. Surely they could not long continue under such tension. It proved terribly so. One of the crew who had been especially jittery yelled in the silence, grabbed an unlit oil lamp and smashed it at his feet, spilling the oil over the deck and himself. From his pocket he grabbed a tinder box and began to spark it. His crewmates attempted to wrestle it from him and in the chaos he tipped overboard. Before hitting the sea a spark took to the oil he had doused himself in, and as he plummeted he became a ball of flame. The captain was incandescent and insisted that the ship make all haste and abandon the burning man lest his madness or his fire take in the rest of the crew. The ship carried on deeper into the fog, leaving their crewmate burning, and laughing in the sea.

   They became single minded. All that mattered now was escape. All their energy was put to moving the ship as fast as it could out of the fog and away from the burning. There seemed no end the miserable cloud. It was like they were in another world that knew only the enveloping darkness, where no subtle breeze or beam of light could penetrate. In this despair they were reminded what light could mean. From the midst of the fog there was a sickly glowing, and the smell of burning. The cursed ship was chasing them!

   Now they were truly desperate, maddeningly so. Arguments erupted. The discipline and training of an accomplished crew was gone. These were mortal men being chased by a nightmare. Some called for them to stop and fight, others claimed they should split the crew into the lifeboats. Surely some of them would be able to escape. As if in response to this flash of hope another light appeared, and then another, and then another, and then another, and then another. Like the heads of a hydra their number grew as encompassing as the fog.

   The crew slumped. There was no escape. Chaos ensued. Some leapt to the lifeboats in a last desperate attempt to flee. Some attempted to grab their comrades to make one last stand. They drew swords and muskets to fight. There was a crash from behind them as another of their number smashed another lamp on the deck and lit the oil. A musket shot to the chest set him flying overboard. The remaining crew grabbed all the water they had left to put out the flames before the whole ship was ablaze. Too late! They turned from this fire to see that the mast was a burning pyre, piled around it were barrels of gunpowder. They exploded showering the deck and crew in flame.

   Finally now the fog lifted to reveal the endless fleet of burning ships, the nightmare of the hellsea, and one more vessel for the armada of death. As the fire took the captain and his eyes came away from his new fleet he wondered when the match had got into his hand.

Sweet Dreams

There’s a ghost haunting me. Not my house: me. I don’t mean metaphorically either. This isn’t some jilted lover or a relative I wish I’d patched things up with. This is… Well I don’t really know what this is. All I know is there is a ghost in my head, and I am terrified.

   Yeah that’s fine, take a minute. It’s a lot to take in. Believe me I know. The fact you haven’t run off or laughed at me yet just proves I was right to tell you. I know you must be thinking about it though. Perhaps you’re thinking something even worse. I wouldn’t blame you for that either. I must admit I’ve thought worse myself. No you’re right. I’ll start from the beginning. That’s the only way any of this will make sense. But you must remember this ghost is haunting me. Nothing else. It is with me everywhere I go.

   So I haven’t always been haunted. No this is a recent career change. I have no idea when exactly it happened. It could have been 3 months ago when I woke up with a sudden chill in the night, or a couple of weeks after that when I walked passed that flooded church, when the ground in the cemetery shifted and all those bits and pieces rose to the surface. I just don’t know. There was no defined moment where I felt myself become haunted. The realisation came gradually. It was the nights. The dreams. I say dreams, they were more like a twisted form of memory of times and places I have never been. But they were so real in my mind. You know those dreams you have sometimes that are so vivid that when you wake from them you have to make an effort to remember who you are, where you are, and what’s real. It was like that but every night. Every day I woke up and didn’t recognise my room. I didn’t even recognise my face in the mirror. It was like I was standing in a stranger’s body. It was only when I stood there for a few moments, verifying it was me moving and making faces, only when I’d dragged my own memories to the fore that I felt settled. The first couple of days I laughed it off as some weird trip. After a week of that I was getting pissed off and a little worried to tell the truth. So I stopped drinking. Ha I knew you’d look like that. Cross my heart I haven’t had a drink since. God knows I’ve wanted to though. I really thought I’d drunk myself insane. So I stopped. But the dreams didn’t. The waking nightmare didn’t. It got worse.

   I’ve always been fascinated by lucid dreaming. Always wanted to do it. The drinking always messed that up for me. Half the time I’d be so pissed I couldn’t dream or just enough so that I didn’t think of any of the techniques you need to do it. But this was different. In these dreams I didn’t need to ground myself. I felt like I was walking on solid ground. I was walking on solid ground. I knew I was dreaming. Still it all seemed so real. Anyway every “dream” was the same. I was in a house I have never been in, a very old house. You could feel the age emanating from the timber and antiques it was filled with. It was night in the house as well. A dark night. Candles were poor wardens against the darkness. They gave just enough light so I could walk slowly around. As I went I heard sounds, muffled like they were always coming through from the other side of a wall, and sort of ethereal, fluid like when you’re about to pass out. They were the sounds of laughter and conversation, the scrape of cutlery on dinner plates and the clinking of wine glasses. It was the sound of a party. There was a violin, or some type of string instrument being played. It should have been a cheerful sounding tune but the strange effect on the sound made it sound mockingly mournful. I did my best to get away from that sound and explored the rest of the house. It was all dark, cobwebbed, dusty on the floor, the furniture was all covered with dust sheets. It was the same everywhere in the house. Every night I wound up there. Every night I walked through the same corridors and rooms. I got bored with it truthfully. So one night I decided to see where the party was. I really wish I hadn’t done that.

   I walked with determination at first, through the corridors before I came to the entrance hall with its grand staircase. I immediately slowed my stride as I took the steps down. Uncertainty crept into my heart. I could hear the laughter and music, so warped and unsettling getting louder. It was one of those times when your legs and brain don’t want you to keep going. “Stop!” they say, “don’t do it! This isn’t right, this isn’t safe. Just turn around before it’s too late!”

   I don’t know if it was bravery, or defiance, or rebellion that kept me going. Maybe I was just bored of seeing the same dusty corridors and rooms every night. But I kept going down those stairs, turned at the bottom, walked right up to the big double doors, the only room I hadn’t been in, where all that strange noise was coming from. The laughter, the music, the clinking of plates and glasses all got louder and louder as I approached the doors. Too loud. It surely wouldn’t have been that loud even if I’d already been in the room. It made my breathing heavy and my heart race, but by this point my course was locked in. I stepped right up to the door with the sound swelling to a crescendo. As I touched the brass door knob the laughter became an ear-splitting scream. I turned the knob and the door swung open with ungodly force and I was thrown away. It happened so quickly I didn’t even see properly into the room. All I saw was the ceiling, bathed in the orange light of a fire, shadows writhing and frantic, and blood. I saw the blood, splattering so high I could see it even as I went flying backwards.

   As I landed the doors whipped closed again. I was thankful they did. I had no intention of ever going in that hall now. Not after the brief look at the scene I had been shown. For a few moments I just lay there, petrified, all the wind had been knocked out of me. In those moments I had completely forgotten that this was a dream, forgotten everything about me. I just lay there trying to breath and not cry.

   It was good for me that I didn’t make a sound as I lay there. As I was flung from the open door, unable to see properly what horrors were unfolding within I had not realised that something had come out. I lay there silently; all I could hear was my own breath and the thud thud thud of my beating heart until another sound shattered that uneasy quiet. A footstep, heavy on the creaking would. I turned my head and saw it…the ghost! Tall and shrouded in a muddy and torn cloak walking away from me. Every footstep it took rattled the world around me. At its side it carried, with as little care as you or I would carry our shopping, an axe, dripping with blood, coated with hair and bone and other unrecognisable pieces. The ghost rounded the corner and only then did I move. I wasn’t bored any longer. I wasn’t wandering the house hoping to find something interesting. I was terrified and I moved to stay alive and keep away from that terrible creature.

   When I awoke the next day the return to my own life was even harder. I couldn’t reconcile the room I was in, the life I was in with the thoughts, feelings, and experience in my head. The door to my room frightened me. How could I open that? What would I let out? Eventually though I did. For good or bad the ghost was in my head and not out here I convinced myself. I pulled myself slowly out of that house and back into my life.

   Until the night-time and it started all over again. I had hoped that perhaps the ghost would not remain released, would somehow be trapped in that hall again. But once it’s out it stays out. My night was spent sneaking around, checking corners, and hiding in rooms, praying the ghost would not find me, then waking and having no idea who I was or where I was.

   I know this all sounds like it’s just bad dreams. It’s not. I feel it. I live it. That house, that ghost, they’re in me. And it got worse. Like I said every night I spent trying to avoid the ghost as it wandered the house. After a few nights though it felt like it wasn’t looking for me but for something else. Again my curiosity became too strong and rather than avoid the ghost I followed it, watched it as it walked slowly around the house. The axe was still there. Its steps were heavy, far heavier than it looked like it should be as if it was weighed down by more than it’s physical, or metaphysical form. Why do I call it a ghost if it seems to have a physical impact? Death. The stench, the feeling, call it what you will but some sense of death emanated from it. Just as the age of the house was such you could feel it so to was the death from this ghost. It was dead, and it had caused death. For me a living creature it felt like a combustible and volatile element, like matter coming into contact with anti-matter. I just intrinsically knew the deadness in this ghost.

   Anyway, I followed the ghost, careful as I could be. It was searching for a way out. I saw it every night go to the front door, a large wooden exit with a heaving looking handle. The ghost reached out with a still shrouded hand, twisted, and tugged at the handle. But the door never budged. The ghost let the handle drop with a heavy clang and walked off silently. It tried other doors, windows but it was always frustrated and continued to search those halls every night. Until I made a mistake.

   I’m sorry give me moment. It’s just this is where the terror gets too much, it’s too much. And now you’ll really think I’m crazy. Bad as all of this was at least it was contained. I only had to deal with it at night and then drag myself back to reality in the morning. I messed up and after that it all spilt over.

   Again I followed the ghost on its fruitless search for an exit to the house. God damn my curiosity and boredom. If you go searching for something the universe always provides, even if it’s not what you were expecting or wanting. I wanted something more than just nights spent following a ghost and I got it. I saw it go into a room and tiptoed behind it at a safe distance. As it pawed at the window I crept slowly into the room as well, which I had not done before. When it went into rooms I would wait at the threshold. I inched my way into the room staring solidly at the ghost, not seeing the table and covered vase next to the doorway. I knocked into the table, heard the vase wobble, and ran. As I fled down the corridor I heard the vase smash and footsteps, heavy, rapid, searching footsteps. The ghost knew it wasn’t alone anymore.

   I spent the rest of the night hidden inside a wardrobe, clenching the wood so hard chips of wood stuck under my fingernails. The footsteps of the ghost rattled around the house as it looked for me. I stayed in that wardrobe until I woke in my bed the next morning. It was the hardest it had been yet to bring myself back to reality that morning, even more so had there were chips of wood under my fingernails. Even later that day when I remembered who I was and where I was I could still see chips of wood from an ancient wardrobe on my bed where I had pulled them out from under my fingernails.

   Now I carried the weight of the ghost with me everywhere. As I went about my day I heard a constant thudding of footsteps as the ghost searched around my head. If I became distracted and daydreamed the world in front of me seemed to morph into a corridor from the house. I had constant headaches like something was trying to burst out of my head. I spoke to doctors, to therapists. They did tests and scans, gave me pills and advice and nothing worked, nothing changed. I got so tired. So very tired. Every night my sleep was spent running and hiding, terrified. My days I was so tired and on edge as the world around me and the world in my head blurred. I was reaching my breaking point.

   The house was a maze, and I was exhausted, I was bound to slip up. I had fled from the ghost almost catching me to where I thought was far from it and would allow me to find a room to hide in for some respite. I came to the end of a long corridor which was not empty. Stood tall and grim at the other end was the ghost, the axe by its side, cloak covering all apart from its face. My god that face. Hideous, rotting, malevolent. It stared me down and instantly understood its predicament, what it was and where it was. I have never run like that with such abject desperation. The footsteps pursued behind me shaking the house, my head, and my heart.

   That was it. From then I saw the face of the ghost everywhere. Even when I was awake if I closed my eyes it was there. If I looked in a mirror I saw it staring back. The ghost knew me, it recognised me. I don’t know how or why. It seemed pleased to know me, as if this gave it great satisfaction. Which of course is even worse. I can understand the ghost evil as it is delighting in torturing anyone. But why should it recognising me provide it with added pleasure? I don’t deserve this! I’ve not done anything wrong, never hurt anyone, not really, certainly not this ghost. I’ve never done a thing to this ghost. I’ve never done any- Oh my god your face it’s just like-

I wake screaming from another bad dream. For a few moments I forget myself, who I am and where I am. The sight of my own chambers terrify me. Soon though the contents of the dream are fading, even if the feeling is not. I try to capture the imaginings of my dream in my waking memory. It is all so disjointed and strange I cannot make sense of it. It is a dream about dreaming, and there is fear, and a ghost, and something about a face which escapes me. There are places I have never been and contraptions and clothing the likes of which are so strange I cannot even hold them in my mind, and they are already gone. One part that does stick is my family home, only not as it is. In the dream it is older, decrepit, covered in dust and disuse. The splendour I remember of it is not there. As I look around my chambers I am reminded of how things actually are and forget the dream. That’s all it is, a bad dream. Never mind I have been having a lot of them recently. I look to one side and see the near empty carafe of whiskey. “That explains it,” I think. I look to the other side and see my brother’s naked wife still sleeping. “That also explains it,” I think, the guilt returning once more so I reach for the carafe.

   I ruminate on the situation as I lay there sipping whiskey and stroking her bare back. Of course I feel guilty. I am no monster. It is just unfortunate that he is elder really. Tradition demanded he be given first choice of everything, that he would be the head of the household and demand only the finest in everything as befit his position. If he is a dullard, a dimwit, a drain on any who come in contact with his faulty personality then really for the good of the family and all involved it is only proper that I step into the breach and step up where he has failed. Still, I do feel guilty that it need be done.

   Slowly, as the whiskey eases me and the bad dream fades, I remember that today is my birthday and there will be a party later in the great hall. As the thrill of this lifts me and my brother’s wife rolls over and on top of me I begin to think that today will be quite the day after all.

   The party is a raucous affair. The room is abuzz with chatter, laughter, the clatter of glasses to many a toast, and music that swirls around as fast as one bottle of champagne after the next. Best of all it seems that my brother has decided against coming back from his hunting trip for the party. Naturally I do not do anything openly with his wife at the party. But if my hand lingers a little, or I make a risqué comment or two there is no one to see or hear about it who cares.

   It is late in the night. The fire is burning low so that there is an orange glow across the room and the outside seems all the darker for it. My guests are still dancing but after the flow of wine they are rather more writhing and unrhythmic in their revelry. I am looking for my brother’s wife as I felt it was quite late enough to sneak off with her when I see her, or rather I see her head roll across the floor to my feet. No one really seems to know what has happened. Those that have are so drunk and shocked they just stare as my brother stands there tall and wild, covered in his hunting cloak and rain and dirt, an axe dangling at his side, a terrible, wild look on his face. For some reason the violinist keeps playing.

   I cannot say a word, nor does anyone else as my brother starts swinging his axe, severing a limb here, splitting a face there. The violinist keeps playing. Now people start screaming and trying to run. I back up slowly, unable to run. I can hear in the entrance all my guest’s fists hammering on the front gate, he must have locked it.

   My brother strides up to me and knocks me down and through the doorway to the great hall. Lying on my back his cloaked form fills my vision. As he lifts his axe so easily above his head the shame of what I have done, and the fear of what is going to happen overwhelm me. My brother laughs. “Sweet dreams, brother,” he cackles, “sweet dreams.”

Sing In Hell

How terrible it is to destroy a dream. How callous and perverse to take that which has been held and pursued for so long, that which has been nurtured and cared for, that has dragged nations and generations onwards and upwards, and corrupt it. We dreamed such a beautiful dream, didn’t we? But that precious flower was not protected against the storms of our own lesser desires. It was torn and mutilated into something ugly. The dream came true as a nightmare, and the taste of victory was like ashes. We are human and we should have remembered that when we went into our dreams and out to the stars we take all that it is to be human with us. Perhaps the heavens should have been closed to us until we have learnt to leave all that shames and degrades us in our past and remember to take with us only that greatness that we have created and won through long hard roads, and that beautiful flame we have been intrinsically blessed with. Perhaps, this is just another stop on the way down that road, and I am just unfortunate to have been taunted with the possibility of the dream coming true. As my life leaves me, I will choose to believe this is only a temporary darkness and that the dream, so dearly paid for already, simply required a little more sacrifice, so that it might finally come true. I will believe this. I have to.

   The dream had swooped into reality on whirring drones that filled the skies above cities all over Earth. They covered the open spaces, the parks, lakes, squares and riversides, and filled the narrow gaps between skyscrapers in the largest cities. As images started moving on the huge screens the drones formed, and music filtered down from them on high the planet stopped.

   The world watched as a procession of the history of exploration and flight was played to us accompanied by a soft, lilting melody. We watched as boats and canoes spread across the Earth and civilization followed to all corners. Next came the Wright brothers, Amelia Earhart, and Yuri Gagarin. Man walked on the Moon and the music was cut through by those famous words we all knew. The images flashed by faster, and the music matched them, and the tempo and intensity picked up. There were flags of nations on Mars, Venus, and the moons of Jupiter. Pictures of the deep blue of Neptune, taken not by a drone or probe, but by a camera held by a human being not ten years ago filled the screens. The music soared as we saw the recent video of the Sun taken from the surface of Pluto. Pictures and videos sped across faster and faster as we saw figures in space suits jumping up and down on the surface of Kuiper Belt objects, taking space walks amongst the rings of Saturn, and on the scorched surface of Mercury. The music built and built. This was incredible we all thought as one. We felt like conquerors.

   The crescendo came with an artificial, though still inspiring image of the Solar System as a whole, with the planets, dwarf planets, and other features exaggerated in size to fill the picture. The Sun and all the rest became stylized, gold on a black background, a logo no one had ever seen before. In gold lettering underneath came the words “SOLAR CORP”, which then faded out to be replaced by the phrase “the dream has become the reality”.

   The music faded out, the picture turned to black, and the screens pulled back to reveal the thousands of drones which glided off, leaving behind blue skies or clouds or the night depending on what part of the world they were in. All over the planet people were suddenly withdrawn from the revelry they had been held in and confronted with reality again. As they stood gawking up at the sky which was the same as it had been only a few minutes ago they wondered as one what this new reality was.

   It was all anyone could talk about for days, for weeks. How could it not be? The instant after they gathered themselves everyone had taken to their phones, tablets, and displays to find out anything and everything they could about Solar Corp. It was astounding. The richest, most powerful people in the world had been working together for years, pouring finances and resources into space exploration. All the major expeditions and discoveries that had been ostensibly under the banner of other companies or nations had been actually directed by them. They had wanted their results to speak for their movement so that their goal would not be scrutinized and imperilled by public opinion or “false theories”. That goal was quite simply to make the dream of humanity travelling and living beyond the bounds of Earth’s atmosphere a reality.

   The first steps had already been taken. Astronauts had spent months, years even on space stations, the Moon, Mars, and on trips to the furthest reaches of the Solar System and back. But this was different. Solar Corp was not talking about sojourns or expeditions. They wanted nothing less than colonization, for us to take our civilization out into the stars. People openly wept at the prospect of being pioneers, the first of our species to live beyond the bondage of our planet’s atmosphere. The “too good to be true” sceptics were swiftly silenced as governments and world leaders, activists and celebrities announced their support for the project. They said they had been shown the proof by Solar Corp that this was not pie in the sky but very much possible, and many announced their intention to apply.

   The application was the only factor that tempered expectations. Firstly, it would be limited, at least in the first wave, to ten thousand applicants, which was a miniscule drop compared to the ocean of billions who wanted to go. Solar Corp though promised places for millions in the coming years. Secondly was the cost which although not astronomical, was substantial. For some it would be pocket change, for others it would be their life savings. The promise from Solar Corp was that even if it took every penny you had it would not matter as they were intent on building a new society, where the currencies of the past would no longer matter, and you would have a whole new opportunity to prove and build your worth.

   The final sticking point was the terms and conditions, which were voluminous. Some points stuck out and were seized upon. You could not bring any belongings with you, nothing, not even the clothes on your back. Solar Corp would provide you with everything you needed. This was still the early days of pioneering you had to understand, they said. Space, weight, even air was at a premium on these infant colonies. There was no need to worry though, Solar Corp would hold and look after all of your possessions and in the future, when it would undoubtedly be possible, they would return them to you. As for contacting those you left behind, Solar Corp assured that they would provide means of communication with the home world themselves.

   There were numerous other minor points and phrases which raised some eyebrows, but they were quickly dealt with by Solar Corp. The world was satisfied. This was happening, and I wanted so badly to be a part of it.

   I watched the first rockets taking off, bitterly disappointed not to be going with them. “Next time,” I thought.

   The next time the rockets took off, so many more this time, I was even more disappointed. A hundred thousand went this time. People I knew had been chosen in this ballot. Tariq who owned the corner shop, and Vanessa who I had slept with once and worked in a little pub in New Cross. The cruelty of random choice. I hoped it would work to my benefit the next time.

   Imagine my disbelief reading the email. I had been chosen! I was going! I just stared at the email for ages. A week from then I would be shooting off of this planet to a new life in the asteroid belt. I poured over the pictures of the spacious space station. There were hundreds of happy faces of every age, race, and gender, all living in harmony in this new space society. A paradise for the outcasts and the accepted equally. Humanity as it should be. It looked like a cross between a shopping mall and one of those gentrified sections of London, clean, and spacious. The one small difference was the huge, windowed ceilings that looked straight out into space.

   After that came a strange feeling of limbo. Nothing else I had to do on Earth felt like it mattered. I quit my job, said farewell to the few close friends I had, but assured them that I would speak to them again as soon as I could. I hadn’t been close to my family since I had come out, but I let them know I was going anyway and tossed their short, perfunctory reply in with the rest of the emotional baggage I carried from them. After that all I could do was wait. Solar Corp would take care of everything else.

   The coach Solar Corp sent was nearly full by the time it came for me. Dozens of people, some smiling, some crying tears of joy, some singing, some praising their god or gods. I cried softly and silently, then loudly with laughter as I watched the video they played showing previous applicants arriving on one of the colonies. How blessed I felt.

   It was a short drive from the London suburbs out into the Kent countryside where the rockets were waiting for us. There we were greeted by happy, smiling Solar Corp employees who directed us where to go to change into the approved clothing and store our old clothes. Taking my Earth clothes off felt like stripping off an old life.

   There were thousands of people leaving just from the UK. The ballot this time had selected over a million people across the planet to go. There was a buzz in the air of excitement from the selected. Inspiring music played from speakers across the huge site, and Solar Corp staff talked loudly and excitedly about what to expect when we arrived.

   In less than an hour we were ushered onto our rocket. We were fastened into seats and told cheerily that once we had left the atmosphere, we would be able to get up and walk about the rocket and be shown our quarters for the weeklong trip to the asteroid belt. Giddy excitement sizzled throughout my fellow passengers. There was shouting and singing. I looked at complete strangers and beamed at them imagining our lives together.

   The Solar Corp staff backed out of the rocket smiling and waving. The doors closed behind them.

   Everything changed.

   I was just being silly I told myself. I was nervous and excited. Of course, the lights went off. I didn’t know why they did but there had to be reason. Red lights came on painting us in a terrible glow. Something felt strange in here now. All the branding and comfort I had seen in all the other Solar Corp advertising was missing.

   I did not have long to think about this before we took off. The g-force pulled at my body and organs. Some people passed out; others vomited. Soon though it settled as we left the atmosphere. Relief flooded the room. We waited patiently to be unbuckled or to be told something, anything to do next. But nothing happened. People started shouting and screaming. The man next to me ripped and pulled at his harness. I cried again but not softly and not for joy.

   That week was hell. Our cries and screams went unanswered. Tubes descended twice a day for each of us to be fed and watered, and twice a day our seats opened for our excretions. The smell was soon horrific. After a day or two, who could tell, I heard a rumour that someone had died. A day or two after that the woman next to me did die. I thought we all would.

   Eventually, at the point when I did not know if I was alive or dead, there was a judder that went through the room. We had docked. The doors opened and light poured in. I thought it was God. Hope briefly flooded my senses that the dream would begin anew and that all of this had been some terrible mistake.

   An emotionless voice rang out. “In a moment, your harnesses will be released. You will stand up and walk out to the assembly area and stand in line to await further instruction. Failure to comply will be dealt with severely,” the voice announced. Several of us fell as we used our legs for the first time in a week and had to almost crawl out of the rocket. One man struggled valiantly to his feet and lolloped as fast as he could out and screamed, “what the fuck is going on?” A slight hiss was made by something and the man dropped to the floor clutching his neck, not moving. There was a dart embedded in his flesh.

   Numb, the rest of us fell into line with body lying at our feet. The voice spoke again. “By now you will have realized you have been deceived. This deception was necessary to ensure our work can be completed, and that you play your part in that. Humanity is going to the stars, that much is true, and inevitable. But for that dream to become true much sacrifice is needed. Civilization must be built from the ground up. Homes, infrastructure, agriculture, manufacturing will all be started from scratch in far harsher conditions than on Earth. It is for this reason you have been brought here. You will create this new stage of human society with your own hands. The vast, untapped resources of the solar system will be your tools. We will provide you with access to them, you will provide the rest of our species and descendants with a manifested dream. Failure to comply will be dealt with severely,” the voice finished abruptly. A door opened, and we walked through it.

   It was a prison pure and simple. They could try and dress it up as a noble, necessary sacrifice for the species if they wanted but all we were was prisoners and fodder. In fact, it was worse than that. Any prisoner on Earth had some hope of escape across land or sea. Out here escape led only to cold vacuum. At that point I did not seriously consider that escape.

   We worked all the time. Disembodied voices guided us through our tasks on factory lines, refining chemicals and minerals, and operating machinery with no training. Accidents and fatalities were frequent. We were allowed breaks only to ensure the labour force was not killed off entirely too quickly. That was still not enough for some and day after day I saw body after body removed by silent, wheeled drones that swept them up with the rest of the dirt and debris.

   Death was ever present. It hung low like smoke filling a burning building. The phrase “failure to comply will be dealt with severely,” was heard constantly, as was its enaction. Not a day, hardly even an hour went by without hearing that hiss and someone would drop dead, a dart in their neck. Hidden hands passed swift judgement on us from somewhere, absent, and above our pain and terror. We were “dealt with” for almost any reason: working too slow, putting down tools to often, acting surly or insolent, weeping, fighting, hugging; the definition of “failure to comply” was broad and cruel. I saw an old man struggling to his feet fall back into his chair with a dart in his neck. A teenage girl had her arm crushed in a machine and struggled manically to continue to work for almost an hour before she fell and was swept away.

   After a few weeks I realised a new layer to the horror. Often during the “night” you would hear screams that you could guess the reasons for. Stories went around of the rapes of women that went unpunished by the darts, and in our fear we were aghast that this crime was apparently the only one not punished. How could this be allowed yet, when I saw two men consoling and kissing each other they were cut down with a dart each. It seemed this broken place was beyond the comprehension of knowable evil. My realisation came after I had seen three pregnant women instructed by the voice to go through a door that was closed the rest of the time, and that no one else went through. They each came back days later, childless. Crimes could be permitted if they would add to the labour force. Love could not be allowed if it were not efficient.

   I withdrew into myself, drifting through each day, fooling myself that hard work and meekness would be rewarded. Gradually this forced optimism was replaced with the grim, base need for survival. There would be no reward but there might be rescue. Of course, thoughts of release also drifted into my mind. It would be as easy as standing up from my workstation and a dart to the neck would set me free. I saw that happen often enough. The simplicity, the finality of it was so appealing. It would be over, I would be over, and hope would die with me. Another would replace me, and the wheel of cruelty would keep rolling. If the only revolt I had against the tyranny of greed was the beat of my heart then I would use it. I would consider every breath a victory even if I were the only one to celebrate it. If my death would not be regretted, and was even expected, then my life was all the more precious to me.

   I could not become numb to the pain and death of this place. But I had become used to it. The revulsion was still there but the shock was gone. My mind was able to wander again. I wondered if the people we were building this civilisation for would care, if they would even know, that it had been built upon our blood and bones. I thought about the civilisation I had been a part of. How deep down did the blood and bones go?

   How many months had it been? Could it have been years? There were few if any faces from when I had first arrived. But there was a steady stream of new ones to replace them and die as their predecessors had. Lights came on and then went off and that was the only measure of time in this windowless box. My face would surely tell the toll of however long it had been, though I had not seen it since I had come here. I wondered if I would even recognise myself now.

   Distracted by my musing’s tragedy struck. My hand was caught in a piece of machinery I was feeding materials into and mangled. I pulled out the wreck of my hand and stared at it and then looked around my prison. A strange calmness I had never known before settled over me. I had been true to my resolve and not given in. Fate or luck had decided to free me. I could almost feel the dart aiming at my neck. Unburdened of all the horror and the weight of the fight I can only think how there is no music here. Even in hell there should be music I have decided in my delirium. One last act of defiance. One last attempt to stop the wheel of cruelty turning. I dreamed such a beautiful dream and I choose to continue to dream it even if I am shaken violently awake. I will stand and sing the first song in hell and give voice to the dream in the face of the nightmare. I have to.

Call Me Maria

When I arrived at the town my name was Maria. What it was before then does not matter. I did not know any of the faces of the people in the town, and they did not know mine. In fact, none of them even knew anyone who would know my face. To them I existed only when I first set foot in their little world. Beyond the outlying farms of the town was a vast unknown, revealed to them only in stories. I arrived as an innocuous traveller out of this unknown. A blank canvas upon which they would only see whatever I painted. For Maria her past could be whatever she wanted. Which meant so could her future.

For this was France, or at least it would be one day again. For now, who could tell? It was a land of chaos and unrest. Everywhere one went, and I had been to many places since Paris, there were tales. Some you could believe, some you could not believe, and some you did not want to believe. Massacres in Vendee, rivers flowing with corpses, armies coming from every direction to destroy France or save it. There were stories of farmers being killed for their grain, of fields being burned. There were stories of heads piled high along the streets of Paris. Some said the devil had ridden across the country. People said a lot of things. They said things about a lot of people. It was a time of fantasy. The entire country had been stirred up. Mercenaries, armies, displaced people, refugees, the lost, the forgotten all moved across France, carrying with them rumours and stories. It was not so hard to leave a life behind and start a new one.

The town was perfect. Not so big to be noticed by the revolution, not so small that I would be noticed by too many. I walked in with a trickle of other lost, forgotten souls. The sky was grey, and the street was muddy. The air hung cold and damp around. It was still early in the morning, but already I had been walking for hours. My body was stiff with cold and fatigue. There were few people out of doors from the town, and those few there were looked at us waifs as you would look at a dirty beggar that came crawling up to you asking for pity. I did not ask for anything. I needed no pity.

It did not take me long to find the inn. There was a fire ablaze in the hearth and it was warm. That was all I appreciated and noticed when I first entered that inn. The innkeeper looked at me disapprovingly. I had not expected to be welcomed with open arms. But I just needed a moment to warm myself. Before the urge to remove me could become too substantial in him I approached the innkeeper and gave him enough money for room and board for a month. His disposition to me changed entirely. “Mademoiselle,” he boomed warmly, his thick moustache rising with his smile, “it will be a pleasure to have you here. Please can I ask what is your name?”

“Call me Maria,” I said and left my old life behind and started a new one.

That night I dreamt of blood. Visions were all shrouded with red. Paris was covered with it. I was covered with it. Violence, so much violence. The hacking and slashing. The anger and satisfaction as a knife was driven through an abdomen. The scream. Bodies, so many bodies, they were everywhere. The bodies walled me in, preventing my escape. There was a child. There was a man I had loved. A laugh. A terrible, hideous laugh that forced joy from horror. Pleasure was torn from the flesh and organs of the dying and dead. The laugh. That terrible laugh. It came through, it came to me.

I woke up in the room I had paid for in the inn. I was Maria now. That dream, those nightmares, they belonged to a life that no longer existed. Blood, violence, and that hideous laugh did not exist in the life of Maria. But I supposed, Maria had only been born yesterday. All Maria was right now was a woman who had arrived in a town and paid for a room. I needed to become more. I needed to fill this life so that there was no room for any other lives or for that terrible laughter.

When I awoke the next morning, I was resolved to spend the day creating my new life, past, present, and future. I went down to the inn. The innkeeper and his wife were there, as well as numerous other visitors to the inn, and townspeople. From the talk I could tell I was in the right place. They were of course talking about the revolution. What was not about the revolution these days? These were people far from Paris or anywhere else. News came here late if ever, and what came had been twisted far from truth. What struck me also was the naivety. They spoke freely about Robespierre, Hebert, the king, about Britain, and Austria as if they were characters in a book, or from antiquity. They had no idea.

I sat on the edge of the conversation gauging where Maria fit here before I was brought in by the innkeeper. “Mademoiselle Maria, you have been to Paris have you not? Surely you can offer an interesting perspective,” he asked me kindly. The rest of the party turned, noticing me for the first time. A young man who evidently thought himself the most important part of the room, that was draped over a chair scoffed and muttered something apparently hilarious to his friend seated next to him. I smiled meekly. Apparently, Maria also had a Parisian accent. Well a small truth within a lie makes the lie more palatable. “You are correct sir. I grew up in Paris. But I have not been there for many years.” I must not be too interesting, and if Maria had been in Paris recently, she would be most interesting. “This last ten years I have been living in the countryside with my husband,” I continued.

“And where is your husband,” the young man drawled.

“He is dead,” the biggest truth I had yet uttered. The sadness in my voice came through real as the day it had begun. I noticed the young man now took an interest in me. “As for my perspective on anything else, I trust only in God to guide France and her people through all trials that may befall us,” I finished demurely.

This elicited approving murmurs from the crowd, and the conversation went on without me. These backwater people were evidently unlearned in much of the finer points of the revolution. They liked to talk about it, and found some of the idea’s novel. But they were a simple people further from Paris politically than they were geographically. They could perhaps stomach the execution of a king but not of God. Maria needed to be a good Christian woman if she was to be anything.

I did not fail to notice that the young man continued to look at me with a hungry look in his eye. The conversation of the townspeople continued and he interjected with snide, and what he thought were witty remarks, but always he turned back to me. Another woman who no longer existed would have said something about this, might even have done something about it. However, Maria continued to sit and smile pleasantly and blended into her new life.

That night I suffered no dreams or nightmares. I allowed myself to think that perhaps they and the reasons for them really were part of another life, someone else’s life, and not Maria’s.

It transpired that the inn was a hub of the town. People who lived in the town came their regularly, not just those few who were passing through to somewhere more interesting. I quickly became acquainted with many of the townspeople. I was interesting enough without people being curious about me. Of course, they wanted to know where I had been, and why I was here, and where would I go next? Maria had been born in Paris as I had already established. Before my tenth birthday I had gone to live with my grandparents in the countryside. During my years there I had met my future husband, the son of a wealthy farmer. We had been married and happy. We had a child. Then the revolution came. Our farm had been attacked and my husband killed. Me and my child had to fend for ourselves. The child had sickened, and died. With the last of my husband’s wealth I had travelled as far as I could to search for a new life. I hoped I had found it here. I hoped I would spend my life here.

The tragedy of my past made the people sympathetic to me, without wishing to pry too much into that dark period. My hope for a better future, and my intention to stay here also meant that people accepted me as a permanent fixture and also looked towards the future of Maria as well. I was what I should be: a simple woman.

Everyone in the town was so nice to me, it became easy to wear the skin of Maria. The harshness of another life was forgotten and replaced by something so different. I was safe. The only threat to this was the arrogant young man. His name was Charles. He was the son of a wealthy merchant, and was now also forging his own success and wealth. He was of that breed of men that are not used to being told no, that expect what they want to come to them. A wretched beast that would be dead already if this were Paris. But of course, I did not know about Paris. When he made comments about me as I passed him in the street, I put my head down and hurried on. When he stumbled drunkenly towards me in the inn, I made sure to dart to my room and hide. There were no more dreams. No more nightmares.

As the good Christian woman I was I had come to spend much of my time in the church of the town. The nuns were my companions. I read with them, prayed with them, it was my intention to join them. Maria would not love another man, and did not want the nightmares to come back. Where better for me then?

One day I stayed at the church very late. The sun had long since set before I realised that I should get back to the inn. I bade farewell to the nuns with the promise I would return tomorrow. I walked the dark roads of the town alone, yet unafraid. Close to the inn I was grabbed. A hand was across my face preventing me from screaming. At my breast was a hand holding a knife. I struggled for a moment before the knife pressed into me hard, drawing blood. “Come now Maria. Not like this,” the man who grabbed me breathed into my ear. It was Charles. I could feel his hot breath waft past my face, thick with the smell of brandy. I relaxed to ease the press of the knife. Instead I felt him press up against me from behind. The hand holding the knife now also groped at my breast. “No,” I thought, “this can’t happen. No. I am Maria!” He lifted up my skirt. Fear fell away. Maria fell away. There was red.

I bit down on his hand. Hard. There was blood. Charles was so drunk and surprised he could not react. In an instant the knife was out of his hand and in mine. An instant after that I had buried the knife to the hilt in his chest. He looked down as the red blood spread through his clothes. I smiled terribly. I pulled the knife out and put it back in, again, and again, and again. I ruined his torso, neck, and face. Red, so much red. It was exhilarating.

I do not know how long I was stabbing Charles for. When I finished I looked down at the mess for a long time more. There was nothing left of the man Charles. Slowly Maria came back. What had I done? Maria did not kill people. I did not kill people. There could be no more nightmares.

I ran. What else could I do? If I was found there with the body it would be over for me. I needed time. I could control this. I could control myself. This was a new life. I flew through the night like smoke on the wind. It was late and everyone was sleeping…I hoped. I shot through the inn like a flash. There was no one there but the innkeeper asleep at his desk. I slammed the door to my room shut behind me and fell down against it. A feeling of safety began to return. With it came anger at Charles. He had to die of course. I had no remorse for that. But how dare he make me kill him after I had tried so hard to avoid that. How dare he risk my new life. That stupid, arrogant…I saw the blood again. The wreck of his body. I felt my hands clench on the knife and slam it through him, felt the power, the joy. I was laughing. I had to stop. I put my hand in my mouth to try and stifle the laughter that poured out of me. This was not me. This was not Maria. Under no circumstance could I let myself sleep. I had to stay awake.

The nightmares started again. Red and bloody. Murder and joy. There were so many bodies piled all around me, the empty husks that had had the life torn from them. I reached out to them with bloody hands. I should cover my eyes but I did not want to. Blood ran along the streets of Paris into hidden alcoves where hideous creatures performed their terrible work. More bodies came spinning out of them becoming bricks that built a city of death. Mausoleums rose up like cathedrals as the bodies were stacked so high they became lost in the red sky. The laughter came cracking through the air like lightning, shrill and insidious, a twisted, reflection in the dark of joy. I followed the poison trail of laughter back to its source. Back to myself.

The picture became clearer and coalesced from nightmare into memory. The city of death became the Paris I had known and lived in. The laughter faded under the buzz of the crowd. The bodies became people, alive, but angry. I was there caught in the middle of it all, with my beloved Henri, and dear little Pascal, his hand clinging to mine so tightly. We just wanted to get through the crowd to get home. There was shouting all around. I looked into the faces of so many angry people. Henri was forging a path for us. We would be safe soon. There was a crackle that passed through the noise of the crowd somewhere unseen ahead of us: gunfire. The crowd surged. Pascal’s hand slipped away from mine. I turned but could not see him; only the angry faces. They swirled around me. The crush of bodies was too much.

Later on, too late, the crowd had cleared. There were bodies everywhere. I found him lying in the street. My poor little Pascal broken. I clung to his body, and I laughed hideously as the person I had been died with my son.

Henri took me back to our home. Nothing made sense for a long time. Weeks passed and I did not leave my room. Paris changed around me. By the time I went out again I barely recognised the city. But I did recognise the faces. I recognised those angry faces from the crowd that had killed my son. That was when the nightmares had started. The red had filled my head. I killed them. I killed so many of them. Bodies filled the streets. There were less and less faces I recognised from the crowd, it no longer mattered. The crowd had been huge. I could only have seen a small number of them. They would all die. The red filled even my waking eyes now. I had seen so much blood, surely the streets would flow with it soon. Each time I killed one of them I laughed with the memory of Pascal ever present. That laughter which had been the broken mourning for my son became the broken joy I felt in killing. It filled my memories, my nightmares, my waking hours.

Henri could have lived. I had retained enough of my old self to not shed his blood. He had become afraid of me. He knew what I was doing of course. I was not even really trying to hide it. Henri urged me to stop, said it could all be ok, nobody knew what had happened, it wasn’t too late. I told him it was too late by far. He followed me that night and watched me, saw what I did. When I slit the girl’s throat Henri yelled. I was upon him in an instant, and then he was dead. The laughter died in my throat as I looked into his dead eyes, the same eyes as Pascal. My Henri. Lights came on and I heard footsteps coming. I ran. My life here really was over now. I burst back into our house and grabbed the money we had saved and ran again. I did not stop running for hours, until I was far from the city. My feet took me along a road I did not recognise for days. During this time, I killed my old self as I had killed so many others. I would find a new life. Maria was born.

The sun had come up. I realised I had slept, and then woken. How long had I been sitting there staring back into that other life that had ended not so long ago. But it hadn’t ended really had it? Here I was sat in bloody clothes once more. Did it really matter if I called myself Maria or something else? If my soul was damned it would not matter what the name for it was. Did it even matter any longer if I was to be damned? The two people I had cared the most about were gone, one taken from me, the other killed by my own hand, and there was a hole where they had been. Instead of filling that hole something dark and twisted had crawled out. A madness had risen out of some hidden depth within me, something that was not meant for this world, something I could not control or expel. Perhaps the worst part was that I did not want to be rid of this monstrous affliction. I understood I should fear and hate it. That I should reject it absolutely and put all my strength into returning to the light. But, how could I? I began to think that maybe the good in me, the part of me that could delight in the light and living, that truly human part of me, had really died with Pascal that day in the streets of Paris. For was it not true that the only joy I had taken since that day had been in death and violence. I felt warmed to admit it. Death was my life now as living had been denied to me.

There was a knock on the door behind me. “Maria are you in there,” it was the innkeeper. I rose up off of the floor slowly. I smiled the smile of a creature bathed in death. I stood there draped in blood like it was armour. I opened the door. The innkeeper paled at the sight of me. He was silent, unable to comprehend the world in which Maria had been born from. I was still smiling as I looked down to see that the knife was still in my hand. Of course it was. A musician would not drop its instrument. I stabbed the innkeeper and laughed. I made music only I could hear.

Several days later I was approaching another town. There were more soldiers on the road this time. I had managed to kill one a few days back. It was beautiful. This town was larger than the last. This pleased me. There was much more music to be made. I found an inn and was accepted when I paid for my room. “What may I ask shall I call you mademoiselle?” the innkeeper asked.

“Call me Maria,” I said, smiling.

The Knocking

I woke up when I heard the knocking. But no. I hadn’t heard the knocking. I had felt it. I didn’t understand what that meant either.

Confused and half asleep I opened my bedroom door. There was no one there. “Just a dream,” I thought and went back to bed.

“Knock knock”. This time there was no doubt. I felt the taps coming from inside of my chest. I flicked my lamp on and looked down at my bare chest. Written so that I could read them were the words “Let me out”.

The heart attack killed me instantly. Now I am out here gazing down upon my corpse. I have been let out, and I will not go back.

The Forest

There are dark places in the world where dark creatures dwell, supreme and hidden. Out of sight where humans fear to tread nightmares walk. They do not care for all the changes and advances of the world of light, as a spider does not care what becomes tangled in its web. While all around the world moves, in the dark hatred, malice, and hunger stand obstinate and fierce. Patiently the dark creatures wait in their dark places as elemental servants of destruction, permanent and unchanging forces of nature. They make for good stories. Safe in the world of light they can be used as devices to excite. Certainly, this excitement may be heightened by turning out the lights, or gathering outside around a low fire. But this is only pageantry. No more real than theatre. The dark places of the world are not dark simply because of an absence of light. They are dark because they are dark. They are filled with it. These places are places of corruption and sickness, that do not know of joy. Most people go their whole lives getting no closer to the dark places than the stories they hear about them. The dark places are far from the world of light, hidden, in deep caverns, forgotten rooms, on high peaks, and deep within forests.

Forests: the perfect home for darkness. They are already a world apart from that of light. Forests retain their own laws and mastery, and their own secrets. Vast hidden spaces exist in these confines safe from the eyes of humanity. True, for the most part all that is hidden is the simple action of life, leaves growing, turning brown, and falling. Deeper though, in the truly hidden parts of these forests, in ancient valleys where light never shone the darkness dwells. It corrupts the hearts of the trees and other twisted creatures that exist there. They do not suffer the world of light to encroach upon them.

The Forest of Dean is one of Britain’s ancient forests. It is one of the last remnants of the great forest that used cover the entirety of the land. The Forest has seen the Romans come and go. It saw the Normans conquer the land. When King Charles I disafforested swathes of the forest, and riots ensued, the forest stood through it all. Despite much of the land being used to mine coal for the industrial revolution the Forest of Dean endured, and endures to this day.

Nowadays the Forest of Dean is home to thousands of people, and thousands more journey there every year. The people who live there go to their jobs every day, and come home every night, and are thankful they live in such a pleasant place. The tourists flock to the forest to take in its spectacular beauty, play golf, and cycle under ancient branches. Life there is simple and quiet, sequestered in a community that is proud of its forest identity. They think they are safe.

This tale begins with the arrival into the forest of three friends: Jacob, Darren, and Mark. Their arrival was greeted with a swift summer sunrise. As they drove to the top of the hill where lies Littledean they looked out upon the green tree tops that extended for miles in every direction. “A man could lose himself in there,” thought Jacob as his eyes were filled with the size of the forest. He kept this moment of doubt to himself. The friends had been looking forward to this trip for months. After years of hard work, they had finally all graduated from university. With studies behind them, and careers in front of them it was time to have some fun. Hiking, climbing, camping, zip-lining, canoeing, and a never-ending tour of the local public houses were in the offing. This trip was going to be fun.

They soon found themselves in Coleford, one of the larger towns in the forest, where they would be staying for the summer. They had rented a cottage for the trip. It was a true home of the forest, small and understated with a slate roof, a quaint garden, and pleasantly shaded by the tall trees of the forest. The car was parked and their luggage deposited, and so they took the walk into town to pick up some supplies.

Life was good for the friends as they walked along in sunlight. It would be weeks before they had any responsibilities. They noted the forest accent as they passed the locals, and were delighted but confused by how friendly they were. Every one they passed greeted them, a welcome change from London life.

Soon they had what they needed and had returned to the cottage. It was now time to attend to the business of enjoying themselves. The friends left the cottage and entered the forest proper. They passed under the eaves of the trees and found themselves in another world. The light changed. It was as if even sunlight showed deference to the mastery of the forest. Any sound of the outside world vanished. All that could be heard were bird calls, the rustle of leaves, and other mysterious forest sounds that just are. They were thrilled by it. The friends set off along the path with eyes that were never still, trying to take in every tree. Shortly, they came to a meeting of several paths. Without discussion they picked the one that seemed to head deeper into the forest and set off at a pace.

Before long they were lost. Not much longer after that they realised they were lost. Their laughter and carefree wandering had taken them deep into the forest, deeper than they had meant to go. The friends spun around in all directions and could not recognise where it had been they had come from. How would three city dwellers know to tell one tree from another? They did not panic. Why would they? For now, they were just inconvenienced.

Darren and Mark began trying to figure out just where they should go. Jacob found himself drawn in by a path. The trees seemed to lean over that path more than the others, drawing it into an embrace, and into darkness. It led downwards into a valley. The path curved tantalisingly beyond sight. Jacob could almost feel it pulling him down. Was it really calling his name?

“Jacob!” Mark called again, pulling him around and away from the path. “We definitely don’t want that one. We need to go up not down.” Jacob looked back down the path, was it brighter now? He nodded and turned back.

Soon they found their way back to a bigger and more familiar path. From there it was easy to get back to civilisation. The sun was setting, and the evening was pleasantly warm. The forest was bathed in golden light. They laughed at how close they had come to being lost. They laughed.

As the orange glow of a summer evening gave the forest that lazy, easy feeling, the friends strolled to the local pub. Sat in a pub garden with a cold pint on a warm evening, and good friends, what could be better? Very little, and the friends new it. They talked and laughed easily, and were quick to joke with the locals. Foresters being how they are they welcomed the friends. They quickly became the centre of attention, telling them all about themselves, where they had been, what their plans for the summer and beyond were. The foresters told them all the best places they should go, where to spot deer, where to spot boar, where to find a good pub. The friends felt right at home.

The evening became night, the twilight faded to black, the merry became drunk. Jacob went to the bar to order another round. At the bar he found a small, dishevelled man. Despite the warmth he wore a large, muddy coat, and a battered hat that barely covered his matted hair. He smelled of mould and earth. It was as if a mushroom had uprooted itself from some dark and damp part of the forest and come in for a drink (or several as he had clearly had). There even appeared to be moss growing on parts of his clothes.

Jacob might normally have ignored the man. But he was drunk, carefree, and sociable. “Hello,” he said to the man, far more loudly than was necessary. But the talk in the garden was loud and carried through. “What’s your name?” he slurred at the man. The man only grunted not taking his eyes off of the cider on the bar in front of him. “What a strange name. I’m Jacob. I’m not from around here. It’s very nice though. Where do you live?”

“In the forest,” the man grunted out in a thick forest accent. Jacob laughed.

“Well obviously, but like are you from Coleford, or somewhere else?”

“The forest,” the man said again obstinately.

“What actually out in it?” The man nodded slightly.

“That’s mental. What do you do?”

“I look after the forest.”

“Oh, you work for the forestry commission?”

“No.”

“Then what do you do?”

“I look after the forest.”

Jacob was getting confused, and not just from the beer. He was also growing afraid of this strange man whose head had not moved, and whose eyes had not even glanced up. “Who do you work for?”

The man’s lips opened, and spread in wicked leer of a grin to reveal broken, rotting teeth. “They don’t have a name, not really. Some call them ‘Moss People’,” he said with a wheezing rasp of laughter.

The merriment of the garden seemed very far away now. Jacob could not even hear it, and had his eyes fixed on the man. “Who are the ‘Moss People’?” his drunken bellow now reduced to a tense whisper.

“They are the forest, and the forest is them,” the man said and then with a snap his head turned and his eyes had Jacob fixed. They were brown and green, and dead. Jacob wanted to step back, he wanted to get away from this man. Instead he felt like he was falling into those terrible eyes. He could see something in them, he could see the forest. He saw trees being cut down, mines being dug, trees burned, buildings erected. He could feel anger. Mines were collapsed. Trees grew into buildings. Moss crept over the forest floor, and rose up. Creeping, grabbing hands tore at lost travellers. He saw the Moss People!

Jacob sat bolt upright. His heart was pounding and he was covered in sweat, and in bed. For a few moments he had no idea where he was. The Moss People had come for him! Their fingers had grabbed him and were pulling him down into darkness. Now he was sat in a small unfamiliar bedroom with sunlight streaming in through the window. He was in the cottage of course. But how? It had felt like he was about to die.

Slowly and with great care as his fear gave way to a hangover Jacob made his way downstairs. Darren was in the kitchen frying bacon. Mark sat in his pants slumped over a table in the kitchen, and seemed to be in a worse way than Jacob even was.

“Well good morning starshine,” chimed Darren. “I was beginning to think you’d died.”

“Yeah me too,” replied Jacob quietly. “What happened?”

“Well you went to buy another round. But this proved to be too much for you and you passed out at the bar. The locals found that hilarious luckily, and we carried you back here and put you to bed. Then this dickhead decided to see off a bottle of vodka.” As if to demonstrate he was indeed said dickhead, Mark proceeded at this point to throw up in the bucket Jacob could now see he was hugging.

“I passed out?” questioned Jacob.

“Yeah not surprising really, you must have had about 12 pints of that cider. It was, what? 6%?” Darren asked Mark.

“6.8%” replied Mark before throwing up again.

“Nice. But yeah that’d do it,” Darren laughed.

“Was there an old man with me?” Jacob asked, wondering if it had all been some concoction of an inebriated mind. “Yeah little homeless looking bloke was next to you at the bar. He got out of there pretty quickly after you passed out,” Darren said very amused. “I think he was just about the only one you pissed off luckily. Everyone else found it hilarious. I love these people.”

Jacob went and sat down with Mark, at a sensible distance. What had happened? He hadn’t imagined the old man, what if he hadn’t imagined the rest of it? But that was insane. Forest spirits, Moss People coming to claim the souls of those who disturbed their domain. That couldn’t be real, could it? With a slam Darren put a pile of bacon sandwiches in front of him and Mark, that dragged Jacob back into the world of men. “You both look like shit. Eat these and then we can go back to enjoying this holiday yeah?” Darren at least seemed to be unbothered with terrifying forest dwellers. For his part Mark threw up again. Jacob grabbed a sandwich and began to eat. As his hangover subsided so too did his fear. He really must have been drunk he thought. Moss People: what a ridiculous notion. He laughed and ate more sandwiches. Memories of mines being collapsed, and unwary travellers being dragged to their doom seemed to fade into the background of a drunken night, as the friends sat and talked about what definitely had happened. The sun was soaring high into the sky. There was a gentle breeze that took the edge off of the heat. It was going to be a lovely day.

With their hangovers and other troubles from the previous night put behind them, the friends set off. The weather was glorious so they had decided they would spend all day exploring the forest. They packed their bags with provisions so that they would be able to stay out all day if they wanted. It was going to be one of those days all about the moment. They would set off with very little planned, taking the day and the world as it came, with nothing to hold them back. Their lives and the day were theirs.

There is something tantalising about going into the forest. It consumes you into its own world. Once you step under the branches of its trees the world you once knew is almost immediately hidden from you, and you step into a different place, a different time. It is peaceful.

The friends walked for hours. The rest of the world did not matter. It was exactly what they wanted. It was as if they were the only people in the world, with nothing to do but explore this glorious place, and there was much to explore. It seemed to always have something new to offer around every bend, over every hill. They found old mines that had been reclaimed by the forest and now appeared as rifts and ravines snaking through the trees. They found old quarries, towering walls of rock that appeared from nowhere as imposing monoliths. There were lookouts over valleys that displayed the full scale of the forest, a blanket from horizon to horizon, under a blue sky.

They criss-crossed the forest in an aimless fashion, going wherever their interest willed them, ever deeper into the forest. It was a day of laughter, up until it was not.

Ambling down a path they came to a cross roads. Throughout the day when this had happened, they had simply let one of them choose which way to go based on nothing but their gut feeling that they would find something interesting that way. This time it was Darren’s turn. Without any hesitation he pointed down a path. “Let’s go that way,” he said in a voice that was oddly lifeless, and devoid of the laughter that had been in it moments before.

Jacob looked where he was pointing. He could not believe it. The trees seemed to lean over this path so much they formed a roof, coating it in shadow. The path went down into a valley and curved away from sight. The path seemed to pull at him. It called his name. This was the same path they had come to the day before. But how could it be? That made no sense. They must be miles from there, yet he was sure of it.

“I don’t think we should go that way,” Jacob whispered. Darren turned on him.

“Hey it’s my turn, we go where I say,” he said with a sudden venom in his voice. “Come on, it looks cool,” Darren said with laughter back in his voice as he began walking down the path. Jacob looked to Mark, but he was already following Darren down. Jacob had no choice but to follow.

The air was different, he could feel it immediately. There was a stillness to everything. They moved silently down the path. Jacob could feel every part of his being urging him to turn around and leave this place. He was powerless. The friends kept going down the path, around the turn, out of sight, out of mind.

The world had gone wrong, or maybe it had never been right here. They felt oppressed by the forest. The trees leaned over, baring down on them. Looking through them they could see dead leaves covering the floor. The silence was ominous, foreboding. It filled the space around them. Life did not work here.

The path came to an end. It did not reach anything, it just stopped in more forest. The trees were tall here. They reached up to unguessed heights. They stretched upwards to form a ceiling that hid the sunlight. What light there was down here was grey, a haze that clung to everything, dull, decaying. The trees went out in every direction as far as they could see with only darkness beyond.

It was cold. Hadn’t it been summer? Not here. Summer did not reach this place. The cold reached into their bones. Their souls were chilled. Mist rose as they breathed, and their breathing was fast, panicked. The mist spread around them, and grew thicker becoming a fog. The forest was hidden from them. Their friends were hidden from them. They span around searching for anything, unable to make a sound. The fog cleared. Everywhere they looked, as far as they could see, the floor was covered with moss. It was a carpet where none had been before.

They had come for them. They rose from the ground, their ground. Their shape was irregular. As they moved their forms were lost in the background of moss as they looked exactly like it. But they came. Slowly, time was their own, they came for them. They reached out their terrible hands. Somehow, they stretched out and grabbed the friends and held them fast. The moss rose up from the ground, crawling up the feet, the legs, the bodies, of the friends. They looked at the creatures that had them. The last thing they saw as the moss covered them were their eyes, horrible angry eyes, not human, not even animal.

It only took a few moments and then there were no friends left, no humans, only three more Moss People. Three more guardians of this dark place where to set foot means your doom.

The sun set that day as on every other day. A house stood empty, and silent. In the dark of the night the forest continued as it had ever done, as it ever would.

Shhh, My Sister’s in the Cupboard

“Shhh, my sister’s in the cupboard. What? Can’t you hear her? Good! That means you haven’t woken her.

Poor child. So sweet, but so volatile. She gets its from our father. He always had such a temper. She doesn’t show it often. Only when she’s woken from her slumber. I would hate for you to see her in such a way.

Father was always angry though. He only showed it every now and then, but it was always bubbling under the surface. He always hated her for her innocence, and laughed at her anger. She would try to stand up to him when he woke her in his rage when I would do nothing. But it always ended with her cowering in this cupboard. At least she has some peace there now. Please. Don’t wake her!”

The disembodied voice faded away. I made my way into the dark and dusty room. It showed no sign that it had ever been a child’s room. There were no toys under the cobwebs. The only objects in the room were an old, metal bedframe, and a big wooden cupboard against the far wall.

I walked towards the cupboard and one of the rotting floorboards under me creaked loudly. Against my will I held my breath. Slowly, one of the doors to the cupboard swung open. I heard another voice. This time I could place it and it was definitely coming from the cupboard, and it was that of a very angry little girl.

“Who’s there? Why have you woken me up? WHY HAVE YOU WOKEN ME UP!”

Both doors flung open and I was pulled into the open maw of the cupboard.