Imagine Tales

I had soon left the house and strode across the lawn with a purpose. The darkening blue sky looked ethereal buffered against the blackness of the tree line, which marked the beginning of small woodland partly contained within my boundaries. There had been some historical documents with the deeds, which set out that the woodland was ancient in origin and protected by a contract almost as old. Through my brief glance of the contract regarding the preservation of the woodland, I noted an odd statement that any objects of historical nature are also protected against removal or any disruptive investigation. I had dismissed the information at the time as I had no plans for the forest, and all my energies were aimed at the house and the work it required. So it was not until hearing the tales that I began to question what “objects of historical nature” lay within my grounds.

As I made my way across the open space of the lawn, I recollected my first visit to the local public house. On announcing that I was the proud owner of this house and gardens, I was quickly, if with some strange hesitation, regaled with local folklore for the price of a pint or two of ale. There was talk of worship of the old gods, strange creatures, ghostly figures, and even human sacrifice in a time before the Romans had conquered our lands. It made fascinating conversation of an evening, and I heartily enjoyed the tales of our once wild and savage land, full of mysticism and magic. But whilst the tales varied in age and content, all of them centred around the woods; my woods.

Reaching the end of the lawn I entered the only path into what, I was informed, is a variation of the more traditional labyrinth garden. The entrance was between two giant evergreens, the years of unkempt growth now required force to push past the branches, which seemed to refuse my entrance. I stepped into the lost derelict gardens, where flowers bloomed in chaotic patterns and all plants fought for space. It was beautiful in a wild kind of way. It had not been tended for a long time but the lack of attention had not let the garden spectacle falter. I personally preferred the more wild look and even more so when nature was reclaiming what man had once controlled. Gnarled roots rose from the twisting pathway, forcing me to be wary of my step as I made my way. Rose bushes intruded across borders, occasionally forcing me to protect my face with raised arms against the scratching thorns. Each rose was pure white or blood red, an alluring combination bringing a Gothic feel to the surroundings. The rose bush branches climbed up and over a wooden arch, finally descending into the entranceway, like barbed tendrils of a hidden monster waiting to ensnare a passing innocent soul. To its left, there was an old wooden bench that had given up a long time ago, the wooden slats broken and rotten. The archway brought me through to a small circular patio with, much to my great delight, a small folly in the centre. It was nothing grand, a simple circular tower, but with an open front and a fairytale roof which rose to a crooked pinnacle, supported on the curved back wall and two columns. Inside was a stone bench against the back wall, suitable for two people. I did not recollect any notes about the structure in details of the property, beyond the comments of garden ornaments being included in the sale. It was an unexpected but welcome gift indeed. Ivy creepers and rose stems fought for space across its walls and columns, and I had to carefully move thorny branches aside to gain access. It was dark inside, as what little light there was now available was filtered by the leaves and branches. I sat down on the bench and found the air inside quite cool, compared to the warm summer night. I wondered what other mysterious surprises these gardens and ancient woodlands had to offer, if something as delightful as this was not mentioned. My thoughts drifted back to the tales about the woodland I was told by the locals, and one in particular stood out. It was told to me by one of the more reclusive old men in the pub, while others spoke of ancient rites, he told me a more recent and more unnerving story.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

This was not the story that I originally started, it was meant to be a traditional chilling ghost tale for Christmas. But the problem with ghost stories for Christmas is you don’t really think to write one till the Christmas spirit is upon you, and you think how nice it would be to write a ghost story in time for Christmas Eve, only to have no time because you left it so late. So this carried on into the new year, and hints at ghostly things as you expect for Christmas, but it ended somewhere very different as the decorations came down and we got on with our daily lives.

When writing, it is all too easy to stray into already trod paths when your own is not very clear. When I began this tale, I knew it was already following one of these existing paths, and as I typed I could hear its tone, all too familiar as these existing short stories bounced around my imagination, not wanting to leave. So I let it follow the same path, but letting go to an end I did not see where it was going till it got there. I have left what you could call an ‘Easter Egg’ in this age of DVD menus to point you in the direction of this particular influence. I am sure Google will point you in the right direction as you search in the nocturnal hours and recommend them heartily if you like this sort of thing.

So now read on and enjoy, but not too much.

…

The statue had stood in the woods for more than seven centuries, if you believed the stories that are closely twisted around the cold worn stone by the locals as they enjoyed more than a few glasses of local ale of an evening. A year or more ago I myself enjoyed the tales told by the rough voices as the wood fire burned away, keeping the pub warm in atmosphere as much as heat. I relished the revival of childhood interests in the supernatural, hauntings and curses. Now, it is different; now I cannot dismiss the tales round the fire as just entertainment. Now I fear that all legends and folklore tend to be tethered by some truth, these tales told over the years bend and turn to the storytellers whim. But often the oldest roots are solid, whether we choose to believe in them or not.

…

I had bought the house and surrounding grounds the previous year, soon after my role as a member of a prestigious law firm in London had taken a positive step up the so-called ladder, as did my income. I had always dreamed of a retreat in the forest, and when an estate of a recently deceased client of the firm was offered for sale at a very reasonable price, I was finally able to afford the mortgage for a home outside the city, while being able to rent a modest room in London for the working week. All was perfect for a time: I worked hard in my new position in the law firm, willing to spend the extra hours in the evening to prove that their decision had been the right one. At the weekend I would return to my new home with the tools and supplies to decorate and repair, enjoying the physical labour after spending days behind a desk, dredging through legal documentation.

I had decided to take a week off as holiday to finish the decorating, put away the tools for a while, and finally invite friends to stay over the weekend. Many of them were hinting at how they longed to escape the overbearing nature of the city and all it entailed. So with a certain amount of zeal, I got on with the work and finished it with a day to spare. It was late evening when I had put away the last of my tools. But as it was summer, dusk was only just manifesting and I decided to take a walk. The renovations had taken up all my time and attention, and I had still not fully explored the grounds. As I stood and looked out of the French windows, it occurred to me how odd it was that I had never stepped beyond the open lawn.  A strange sense of foreboding came across me, causing me to shiver. Was it really the renovations that had kept me from leaving the grass area for the dark passages through wild ornamental plants or had it been something else? As my mind began to wonder towards the fantastical horrors spoken of by the old men in the village, I gave myself a mental shake and with some bravado told myself that I would go see what lay in my gardens, at least until the light no longer allowed.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Often her love would stop in the early morning by the gate and just look into the grounds, normally for only a minute or so, but sometimes more. When her beloved did this, she would sneak as close as she dared, a few times almost seen, but she always hid away in time. When her sweetheart turned and walked over to the cake shop, she would sit there wishing she had let herself been seen. But she knew the truth deep down, her cake lady would be repulsed by her and blame her sadness upon her.

One cold winter morning when her love had stood there at the gates looking in, she swore they had met eyes. She had gazed into her cake lady’s eyes, and they had gazed back into hers. The moment felt like it lasted forever, and in that time they learned everything they needed to know. She saw how her decaying flesh did not matter to her beloved, that the love her cake lady felt was beyond the putrid skin and open wounds. There was forgiveness for killing and feasting upon an only child, a daughter who had run away after an argument with her mother, no time now to say sorry. None of this mattered, for the cake lady understood and blessed the monster that she was. Suddenly, her beloved turned and wandered slowly over to the cake shop as if nothing had happened. Why? She asked herself. Why had she left so suddenly? Yes! That was it, she had to follow, prove her love by leaving her home, her safe place. She ran as best she could, stumbling, arms outstretched, as she tried to scream “I’m coming”. Her throat racked with pain as decayed vocal cords vibrated. She finally made it to the gates of the graveyard and stopped.

She hesitated, the street empty this early in the morning. With a cry she threw herself past the iron gates and out onto the road. She willed her limbs to carry her, steadily she got ever closer to the little cake shop. Finally at the door, she watched her love walk through the beaded curtains into the kitchen. She continued inside and around the counter, following her love with a lifted heart, a sense of relief that she need no longer hide in the shadows. She reached the beaded curtains and looked through – she could see her. She was facing away from her as she arranged her tools on the desk, ready to begin decorating the large cake on the table. The sound of moving through the curtain caused her beloved to look around into the doorway

Her cake lady screamed. It was a moment of joy for she knew it was a scream of happiness. Her mouth wide not in terror, but of rapture that finally they could be together. She watched as her love steadied herself on the table, wanting her to join her, to love her, to kiss her, to seduce her. Her sweetheart had raised her arms in the air, open to receive her dead lover. She moved from the doorway, the curtain beads catching in the exposed bone of her shoulders, ripping small pieces of rotten flesh and muscle away. Throwing herself towards a loving embrace, trying to utter the words “I love you”, she saw the glint of metal in the hands of her lover.

The knife swung down in a forceful arc, cutting through the flesh and muscle like it was icing, deep into her neck. It smashed through the weakened neck joints and erupted out the other side like it had cut a rotten apple. Her body collapsed instantly, her head fell to the floor and rolled a few feet before coming to a stop. She could see her body, her legs making a thumping sound as they twitched. Her love stood over her, the knife now falling to the floor as she brought her hands to her face, crying and screaming. A tear began to form in the eye of the severed zombie head.

Part 1 | Part 2

Authors Note:
This short was a result of working through a book of how to write short stories. Like at school, you read the book then you do the homework. This particular brief was simply ‘Begin with ‘Once there was…’ and complete your story in four sentences’ so I did begin as it asked and I completed in four sentences. I did not take it seriously, I used to bring out my juvenile side and it was the ludicrous idea of an infatuated lesbian zombie. But the following brief was to make a thousand word story. As I wrote this piece of pulp it started to grow a serious edge, dealing with the death of a child and the dangers of the human mind when obsessed. So here are  those four sentences as some kind of DVD extra.

1. Once there was a girl zombie who was in love with the lady who sold cakes in town.
2. She tried to tell the lady how she felt about her, but as her vocal cords have almost rotted away only groans came from her mouth.
3. The cake lady thought that the zombie girl was going to eat her brains, so pulled out the chainsaw that she kept under the counter and chopped the zombie girl’s head off.
4. As the zombie girl’s head rolled across the floor and came to a stop, a tear fell down her decomposing cheek.