The cottage

The Cottage

We all thought it was such a great idea.

We’d come on a break from college, to a cottage we’d hired in the middle of nowhere. I’d helped Sarah load the car with booze and snack foods. We were planning one hell of a celebration.

Little did we realise that the party would turn out to be exactly that.

Hell.

There was me – Josh – Sarah, Melissa, Jess and Chris. We were all great friends and had been all the way through school and into Upper Sixth. We would all be heading our separate ways soon, going to uni or starting jobs, so we wanted to spend the time we had left together making sure that we enjoyed ourselves. We wanted to celebrate the here and now: being together, being friends.

When we arrived at the cottage – in the remote Yorkshire Dales – it was already getting dark. There had been a bit of an argument when the Sat Nav stopped working and Chris attempted to navigate Sarah through the twisting country roads. He’d been to this place before; he was the one who recommended it. It had taken ages. Tempers were getting frayed. I was so relieved when we finally located the dirt track that would lead to our accommodation for the next three nights.

The cottage looked really quaint, like how you would imagine a postcard of a country home to look. It was stone, with a low thatched roof and roses growing around the door. It appeared small, but Chris assured us it was like the Tardis inside; we would have no trouble managing our festivities. The best bit about it was its isolation. Nobody would be bothering us. We were lost in our own little world and could do as we pleased.

We all dragged the luggage and groceries in from the car. Tins of lager were passed around to help lubricate the debate over who got which room. There was one double which automatically went to Sarah and me, given that we were the only couple. Melissa and Jess agreed to take the twin room, leaving Chris to the smaller single. Not the he minded. He had been a bit nervous that he would have to share with Melissa, who had had a poorly concealed crush on him for years. He would much rather have got his hands on Jess, but she was Melissa’s best mate, so that would never happen.

We didn’t do much that first evening. I think everyone was pretty worn out by the journey. We had a few lagers, chatted a bit and retreated to bed.

The room Sarah and I were sharing was amazing. It had a really old, wooden double bed with a patchwork quilt. The ceiling was low, which gave it an intimate feel. It had an ancient dresser too, complete with a ceramic pitcher and bowl for washing. There was a scent of lavender which Sarah soon realised was coming from a sachet that had been left under the pillow.

I grabbed her around her waist and pulled her onto the bed. It gave a tremendous creak.

“Everyone will hear!” She said, alarmed.

I smiled at her, “So?”

I kissed her hard on the lips, and she drew back, smiling too.

Later that night a sound woke me. Sarah was fast asleep next to me; I could hear her deep rhythmic breaths.

One thing about being in a remote part of the country – you learn what pitch black is. I couldn’t see a thing. Even as my eyes started to adjust to the darkness, I could only barely make out the edges of things. I was reassured to know the lamp was next to my side of the bed, should I need to switch it on.

I wasn’t entirely sure what the noise was that had woken me, so I lay in the blackness, trying to persuade myself to go back to sleep.


If you want the next bit, follow me!

A tale of horror

Kate couldn’t believe her luck. Here she was, in David’s car, parked at the Overlook, with his lips firmly on hers. She had dreamed about this moment for so long. When he’d finally asked her out, she had barely been able to answer ‘yes’ because she’d been so overwhelmed.

Their night had been wonderful; he’d taken her to a lovely Italian restaurant. She’d been surprised at how much they had in common and they had talked and laughed as if they’d been friends for years. Afterwards, he suggested going for a drive. She knew they’d end up here. She knew the Overlook was the place where young couples came to park, to get some privacy together.

And so, here they’d sat for over an hour, chatting at first, but eventually David had leaned over and kissed her. Then they’d carried on, kissing and kissing, hardly coming up for air. He hadn’t tried to force anything else on her, which made Kate like him even more. He didn’t expect anything from her. He was enjoying her company, her kisses, just as much as she was his.

He broke off and looked at her coyly.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“I really, really need to pee. I’m sorry!”

She laughed, finding his embarrassment really cute. He leaned over and switched the radio on. “Some company for you. I won’t be long.” David opened the car door and made a dash into the night.

The Overlook was a beautiful spot, especially at night. She could see why couples wanted to come here in the darkness. It was secluded by trees, but when you parked towards the far side, you could see the city spread out below: all of the lights reflecting the expanse of life beneath them. It was buzzing and active; a complete contrast to the shaded stillness where she currently sat.

It was quiet this evening: there were no other cars parked up. David and Kate were given a piece of the world just for them to enjoy this evening, and she intended to stay there with him as long as she could get away with. It was rapidly approaching midnight. She knew she could push her curfew until 1am at the latest, before her dad would start calling.

The radio was playing some soft rock from the 80s, the kind of stuff she reckoned her parents probably sat here and listened to when they were dating. Who knew, they possibly even parked in this exact same spot. Some teenagers would find the thought of their parents kissing in a car as grim and disturbing. Kate was happy at the prospect. Her mother had died when she was a toddler. Her dad had been alone ever since. She liked to think that at some point in his life, he had been in love. Happy.

Kate noticed that David had been away for a few minutes now. She scanned the trees around the car park. There was no sign of him. She wondered if she should call him, but she didn’t want to seem needy.

A few more minutes passed. Still no sign. The songs had changed four times now. Needy or not, she decided to call his phone. She found his number in hers, and pressed the call button. After a pause, the ring tone clearly rang out from the back seat of the car. Cursing, she hung up.

She was very tempted to get out and look for him, but it was late, it was very dark and difficult to see, and it was incredibly isolated. She decided to give him another ten minutes.

Each minute passed with Kate getting more and more anxious. She pressed the locks down on the car doors, feeling incredibly aware of how alone she was. Her mind was racing. Could he have fallen? Hurt himself?

At eight minutes she couldn’t wait anymore. She did what any sensible teenage girl would do. She rang her dad.

Thankfully, Kate’s dad arrived in less than twenty minutes. David still hadn’t returned to the car. She opened the door and hugged her dad tight. He had brought a torch, so they shone it around the area. All they could see was the trees.

“I don’t really want to take you wandering into the woods at night. I think it’s best if we call the police.” he said.

The police took a statement from Kate and began to comb the woods. They advised her dad that it was probably best to take her home for some rest. They assured her they would call if they found him.

The next morning, Kate awoke happy, until the memory of the previous night came flooding back to her. She ran downstairs and found her dad sitting at the kitchen table with a coffee. He’d obviously called in sick to work so that he could stay with her.

“They’ve not found him, Katie. I’m sorry.”

Kate sat down at the table, in shock.

“There’s something else, honey. I don’t know how to tell you this.”

Kate looked at his worried face. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

“There were two girls sleeping in a tent in the garden, on a street not far from the Overlook. When the mother went to wake them this morning, they found them dead.”

Kate couldn’t conceal her horror. Her hand flew up to her mouth. She felt shaky with the upset of it. She also knew that her dad wasn’t telling her everything. She could read him like a book: she knew he was keeping the details from her.

“What happened?”

“Don’t ask, Katie, just don’t ask. The police are very concerned about David.”

Making her excuses, Kate went back to her room and switched on her laptop. It was all over the news. It was horrific.

The girls had been torn to pieces.

The police were investigating the possibility of a wild animal attack, although they were unsure what kind of creature could have done the damage that had been inflicted on the girls.

They had been friends, 15 - the same age as her.

The day passed in an uncertain blur. Kate sat with her dad on the sofa, half-watching old films, unable to concentrate. The police called to say they were still searching for David but had yet to find any evidence of what had happened to him.

At around 9pm, Kate felt exhausted. She decided to try an early night although she was unconvinced that she would be able to sleep. However, sleep soon overtook her in spite of her churning mind.

Something woke her. It was dark in her room, still the middle of the night. She was aware of a draft; she always slept with an open window to let the breeze in. However, there was something else…

She could hear panting, frantic breathing.

She reached over to the bedside lamp, and as she switched it on she could clearly see another person in the room, bolting towards her.

It was David.

Except, it wasn’t.

He threw himself on top of her, and she could see his mouth gaped open; rows of razor-sharp black teeth were being thrust towards her. She was being pinned down by his weight. His hands were gripping her arms and she could feel claws digging into her soft flesh. She was aware of the flow of her blood from where he was wounding her.

But his eyes were the most frightening thing. They were glazed over. They looked dead, like the eyes of a corpse.

She screamed.

As the teeth tried to bite her throat, she struggled and screamed.

She heard the door bang open.

Suddenly David was torn off her, with strength that seemed superhuman.

She saw her father’s back, leaning over David’s body, that was now on the floor in the corner of the room. She heard growling, an inhuman, animalistic noise. Her father leaned forward, then she saw the blood spread across her carpet forming a great, dark pool.

At first she thought David had got her dad. But he leaned back, stood up, and turned to her.

Except it wasn’t her dad. He too had the teeth. He too had the claws. He too had the dead, soulless eyes.

“I warned him, Katie.”

The voice was a snarl.

“I warned him to stay away from you. But he wouldn’t listen. So I killed him. At least, I thought I’d killed him. It seems I turned him instead.”

He turned back to the broken boy on the floor.

Kate was aware of the screams. Long and loud, they shattered the stillness which had overtaken the room.

It took her a moment to realise that they were coming from her

Monster under bed (part 1)

Monster Under the Bed

When I was a young child, I believed that there was a monster under the bed. I’m not entirely sure what it looked like, but I would have to keep my feet and hands carefully tucked inside my duvet to make sure that nothing poked out and tempted it to take a bite. I would lie, cocooned, even in the hottest of summer weather, frightened to move lest it curl a clawed paw from the darkness beneath me and tried to pull me below.

My father would spend hours attempting to reassure me that nothing was there. He would do a pantomime routine of opening all of the cupboards to show they were unoccupied (monsters get in those to, you know), and laying stretched out on the floor next to the bed to take a long and careful look underneath, proclaiming it a monster-free zone. He never switched the light off to do this, though. Any fool knows that monsters come out in the darkness.

It was a rule that I absolutely believed in when I was seven.

I shouldn’t have become so cynical in my older age!

I’d just finished my GCSEs when my parents decided now would be a great time to move. For years, my mother had dreamed of living at the seaside. We’d stayed in the city for my father’s work. Plus, they couldn’t afford the move. But, my mum had written a novel that had been picked up by a publisher, so she’d finally realised her life-long ambition. They’d offered her a three book deal, giving her enough money to finally give serious thought to making a lifestyle change. Dad was able to do more and more of his job from home thanks to the ascent of the internet. Making a move was now a real possibility. The only thing that had held them back was my remaining months of secondary school. They didn’t want me disrupted. But, secretly, they’d decided that once I was done with lower school, I could be conveniently transferred to a different Sixth Form in order to take my A Levels.

I didn’t have a lot of choice. I won’t bore you with how upset I was – leaving my life-long friends to move hundreds of miles away. I’m sure you get that without my going into painful details. I was gutted, and angry, and feeling overwhelmingly let down by my parents. I’ll admit that I was a bit of a brat about it. They’d wanted this thing for themselves for so long, and they’d worked so hard, but I couldn’t shift the notion that they had betrayed me.

We moved to a small town on the north east coast. It was picture-postcard perfect, although the British weather often gave it an overcast and sullen facade. It was pathetic fallacy in action: the bleak, grey appearance reflected my own bleak, grey mood.

The house was in a quiet street at the top of a cliff, overlooking the older fishermen’s cottages that sprawled down its side in haphazard, cobbled rows, narrow and constricted. There were secret passages galore in the older part of town; it came as no surprise to discover that it had been a smugglers paradise in bygone years. There was a modernish town centre that, rather than being in the centre, had been built along the length of the promenade. It was an eclectic mixture of arcades, chip shops, and regular high-street stores. There was also a kind-of nightlife: there were numerous pubs, low-ceilinged and historical, relics of the past, but some had been converted into trendy bars. I was relieved, it showed, in spite of appearances, that there was some youth here.

The house was detached, newer that some of the properties in the town, but old nonetheless. I would guess Victorian. It was red brick with high sash windows in uniform rows. It looked exactly like something a five year old would draw, when asked to sketch a home. The small garden was walled in and secluded. It was beautiful, and I could see why my parents had chosen it. Not that I was going to admit that to them.

The best bit was that the basement had been converted into an apartment. It had a bedroom with a sitting area, a kitchenette and a bathroom. It wasn’t massive, but it was private. I wondered if they were thinking of getting a tenant, but my mum surprised me by asking me if I would like to live there. They felt, given my age, I might like some independence, although they still expected to see me upstairs for meal times and chats!

Elated, I moved in downstairs. A single staircase joined me to the kitchen in the main house, but doors could be closed off at either end making it cut-off from parental interference. True, it was underground, but carefully planned lighting made it seem bright and welcoming. It felt cosy, and it was mine. I actually started to feel excited.

The next few months passed almost happily. My parents seemed really content with their new lifestyle. Dad would occasionally need to travel back to the city for work, but he stayed with his sister, my Aunty Sylvia. Mum wrote, and baked, and pottered in her Victorian garden. She was the most relaxed I’d ever seen her, and it was nice. She even bought a cat. She’s wanted one for years, but the city was a dangerous place for felines. He was a big, silver tabby – already fully grown - named Burt.

I went to the local college, which offered lots of different courses. It seemed to be the place where the whole town’s sixteen year olds ended up, drawing people with all different life-plans together in one location. But we all shared the common ambition of getting this bit done, so we could move on along our respective paths, whether to work or to university.

I did manage to make a few friends, although I still didn’t feel like I really belonged. I seldom got asked to join in with anything, and my weekends were usually spent alone, in the apartment. I’d sometimes try and coax Burt down there for some company, but he wasn’t having any of it! He preferred to stalk in the garden, looking hopefully for a bird that was stupid enough to get close to him. He wasn’t really a hunter – he was too shiny, fat and cumbersome - he was more an opportunist preying on the misfortune of small creatures who would momentarily lose their senses and stray into his path. Easy targets.

The winter months drew in. I’d expected it to feel depressing, but we would spend the dark and dreadful nights sitting together in the lounge, log fire crackling, drinking hot chocolate and watching Christmas films. It was my father’s rule that from the end of October, the Christmas viewing could begin. He was a huge Christmas freak and I loved it. That time of year always felt so special to me.

It was late November when things started to happen.

The first time, I came home from college one day. Mum was writing in her study, dad had gone to the supermarket. It was a regular, boring domestic day. I dropped my keys on the side and went down to the apartment. The bottom door was ajar, which was unusual. Perhaps my mother had gone down there for something? I pushed it open and stepped into the living area.

It was chaos! Pictures that I’d hung on the wall lay shattered on the floor; the books and ornaments that had sat on my shelf – including trinkets that my friends had given me before I’d moved away – had been knocked off, and lay scattered on the rug. It looked like I’d been burgled.

Except, smeared across the wall, in a bright, livid streak, was blood.

I screamed, and turned towards my bed. There, on the duvet, lay the body of a seagull. It was battered, bloody and mutilated. Its insides were spread across the embroidered fabric, making a new, horrific pattern. It was a big bird; it had bled a lot.

My mum ran in behind me, having heard my scream. “Oh my God!”

She took me upstairs into the kitchen and made me a sweet tea, for the shock. We sat at the table, waiting for dad to come back so he could help mum clear up the mess.

“It must have been Burt,” Mum decided, “He’s always after the birds.”

“It was huge mum! He can’t catch a blackbird, let alone a seagull.”

“Perhaps it was lame? He must have caught it and dragged it downstairs.”

The bird had obviously fought, from the damage downstairs. It would have had to be unconscious for Burt to be able to drag it that far, and then, even if it had woken up and tried to fly – causing the damage – he would have had to catch it again which I found highly unlikely. I still wasn’t sure. He seemed to avoid the apartment, so why take his kill down there? Plus, the gore that now covered the room should be all over Burt. But he padded into the kitchen and stretched, lazy and relaxed as always. There wasn’t a mark on him.

If it hadn’t been Burt, then what had done it? The thought sent a wave of ice through me. I could feel the small hairs on my arms stand on end as my skin rippled with fresh goosebumps.

I decided there and then that it was best not to dwell on it.

The atmosphere in the apartment felt different after the seagull. It didn’t seem quite as cosy, or as welcoming. As December drew in, it was colder and I needed to borrow a fan heater from my mother as the radiators never seemed to make it warm enough. I refused to succumb to superstitious thoughts. Monsters under the bed were a childhood relic. The bird had probably flown in, injured and panicking. The mess it made… it’s torn up body… well, I wasn’t thinking about that. I got on with my life, just wrapping up a little warmer and leaving the light on a little longer.

It was one night, just before Christmas, that I realised there was something more going on in the apartment.

TO BE CONTINUED...