horror story

The Shallows – a creepy short story

~ ChanAtkins ~ 2 Comments

This is a story originally posted in my Medium publication, The Wild Writers Club!

The Shallows

July tipped into August.

It did so lazily, like the slow sticky drips from a forgotten ice cream.

The hot weather had dulled and bloated us. Like fat lazy flies we could not move. And the days all had that endless quality, like every hour was twice the length and we had stopped being ruled by clocks, and time.

We existed in our own timeless purposeless bubble. The sun had moved and taken our shade from it. The trampoline where we had lounged all afternoon was now a sun trap.

It was the heat and the boredom that drove us to the river. Not the big river, where there would be chaos and kayaks and fishermen and teenagers dunking each other under the water. We headed to the little river, to the shallows.

We strolled down the hot lane, shaded intermittently by oaks and limes and sycamores. They provided blessed shadows as our bare feet burned on the road.

No cars. No noise save the drone of a gigantic dragonfly.

We dragged sticks behind us and thought about how hot it was. It was always too hot to speak, so Pippa and I had almost given it up. Sometimes all we could think to say was how hot it was. Sometimes summer seemed to go on forever and you started to forget how to live in the normal world.

We took the left at Twisty Corners and it was still too hot to talk, despite the darkness that suddenly enveloped us from the trees above and around. They created a tunnel and we ambled down it sluggishly. Pippa was a year younger than me but we were both on the brink of something else.

‘You’re like a pair of foals,’ our dad always said, ‘all legs.’

We were caught in that no man’s land between childhood and adolescence. Everything the adults said and did suddenly annoyed us, yet we still tucked a soft toy under our arms when we went to bed at night.

We traipsed over the stone bridge, pausing lethargically to throw a stick in and watch it float out on the other side. There was nothing to say. Nothing to think. We plodded down the muddy bank, wincing as the overgrown nettles swiped our skin. And there it was. The shallows.

The water flowed slowly from under the bridge, then veered left channeling through a narrow stretch, the banks too high to climb. That way lay madness, I thought, but didn’t know why.

In front of us a great expanse of shining water undulated with the gentle current and we stood and marveled at it, at the way the light came through the canopy of hazel trees and lit up the shallows like a sprinkling of fairy lights.

The shallows had its own light; a unique blend of red and gold as the dappled sunlight broke through the leaves and filtered through water to the red earth below. We stood side by side, our toes curling into the mud, staring at it as if in a trance. Time slowed and we breathed in unison. I was about to tell Pippa I was bored when she gripped my arm and pointed.

‘What’s that under the tree?’

I looked to the right where a fallen tree stretched from one bank to the other. It came down a few years back and was slowly rotting away as the river washed over it in the winter and under it in the summer. Sometimes we’d sit there with our feet in the water, watching the tiny fish swim by as the electric blue damselflies flitted under the bridge.

view of a river shaded by trees with a fallen log across it and a stone bridge just visible beyond
my own photo

Pippa’s grip tightened. I pulled away and started to wade through the water. There was something lodged under the tree. It looked like a pile of clothes, inflated by the water; dark blue material ballooning against the gentle tide.

‘Someone’s thrown rubbish in again,’ I muttered, reaching the fallen tree.

It was then that I got the prickling sensation on the back of my neck. I put a hand there, self-soothing, but the feeling persisted until I lifted my gaze and saw the man standing on the bridge. I looked back at Pippa and shrugged. She splashed towards me and we stood side by side again, a united force.

I still held a stick and poked at the bundle of clothes with it. I felt self-conscious doing it, as the man on the bridge looked on, but when I gazed up again to see if he was still watching us, he wasn’t there. I nudged my sister.

‘Where’d he go?’

She shrugged and used her own stick to help me with the bundle of clothes. We used the sticks like hooks, trying to free the bundle which had become wedged under the log. We did it lazily, carelessly, poking and jabbing at this thing that had jarred our peaceful vision of the shallows.

That was when we realised it was not just a bundle of clothes.

It suddenly sprung free and floated by. Pippa and I turned slowly to watch it go. We were weary from the heat, as if all our senses and brain functions had been slowed down by sticky sweat. We saw the blue material followed by dark legs. We saw bare feet. We didn’t see a head.

We stood in the shallows, frozen. Our arms hung by our sides, our knuckles skimming the cold water, our fingers still curled loosely around our poking sticks. We didn’t say a word as we watched it go.

It passed the deep spot, the bit that always fooled our terrier Binx when he was alive. He’d paddle out brashly before suddenly finding no land beneath his paws as it dipped away brutally, trying to drown him. He’d sputter and panic and swim back and then he’d make the same mistake again next time.

It moved faster there, the current stronger, but ultimately driving it to the left, towards the narrow channel that we knew eventually met with the huge monster of the river Stour. It was sinking too; the water and the debris were filling the materials, dragging it down.

Still, we watched, Pippa and I, not saying a word, barely breathing as if we were not really there, and I could almost believe that to be true if it weren’t for the tiny sticklebacks circling my toes. I could almost believe if I closed my eyes and then opened them again slowly, I would find myself spreadeagled on my bed with the sun slanting down on me, or face down on the trampoline, exhausted by the endless heat.

The body moved on with some speed, spinning just once as it knocked against the end of another fallen tree. That was the moment I told myself I should have moved. I should have splashed my way over to the other tree, climbed on and made my way to the end. I could have hooked it again then. I could have snagged it and stopped it and Pippa could have called the police.

But it was like I knew I never would.

None of it felt real.

It looked less like a body now, just some blue material still visible as the current drove it towards the narrow stretch. I knew if it went down there we would not be able to follow. The water was unknowable, dark depths promising no foot holds or forgiveness. The banks were steep and slippy and we could never see where it ended. There was a darkness to that place, where the shallows became the deep. We never ventured there.

I also knew if it went down there it would more than likely sink or get snagged on something again, and I knew that no one would ever find it. No one would ever know. And there was something dark and delicious about that knowing.

I thought Pippa might say something. I thought she might cry out, pull my hand or say something. But she didn’t. When I turned my head to look at her, her expression was slack and dull. There was no wonder in her eyes, only a blunted acceptance. Her forehead shone with sweat and I watched a bead of moisture form on her top lip.

When I looked back for the body, it had gone.

I heard a noise escape Pippa. A long, low exhalation of breath.

Then another noise behind us.

I looked over my shoulder and the man was there again. He was wearing a blue shirt and dark trousers. He was staring right at us, some kind of intent in his expression that told me he was about to open his mouth and speak to us, and for some inexplicable reason, this possibility filled me with dread.

I gripped my sister’s hand and yanked her until she moved. Together we splashed back to the flat sandy bank, still holding our sticks. We didn’t look at the man as we crept away, skirting the large clutch of nettles that surrounded the ash tree. On the other side, I peeked out like a rabbit checking the land from its burrow. The bridge was clear. The man was gone.

We started running, our bare wet feet slapping across the old stony bridge where the man had stood just moments before.

Still, we didn’t speak. To speak would be to give it a reality I knew instinctively to avoid. As I rushed us home, as Pippa and I ran hand in hand up the sun-baked lane, the sun punishing us every time there was a gap in the shade from the oaks, I felt a roaring dread that Pippa would open her mouth and speak. I thought perhaps I would punch her in the mouth if she tried to.

By the time we reached home and shoved open the wooden gate, we were drenched in sweat and feeling giddy. We closed it behind us and felt the dread drop away from us. We threw down our sticks and didn’t look at each other as we made our way around to the back garden.

The trampoline was still in full sun so we plodded over to the far right corner of the garden without speaking. There was always this unsaid thing between me and Pippa. We could go hours without talking and still be completely in tune with each other. She was the one who dragged a blanket from the washing line, bone dry and starched stiff from the sun. She threw it on the grass under the sycamore tree and we dropped down on our bellies, our feet kicking at the sky as we buried our faces in our sticky arms.

‘Everything all right?’ we heard a voice call from the house.

We raised our heads long enough to see that it was our father, home early from work, his glasses pushed up on his head as he squinted across the garden at us.

I met Pippa’s eye and knew just what she was thinking. It was so tempting not to answer him. It would be so easy just to smirk at each other, lie back down and ignore him. And we knew he would just accept it. Just shrug his shoulders as if it must be his own fault. Or worse, he would wander over, hands in pockets, hopeful expression on his face.

I decided to end it before it began. I didn’t know why he seemed scared of us lately but it was tiring to say the least. I didn’t want him to amble over to us and try to evoke conversation. It was always too hot and there was nothing to say.

I waved at him. ‘Fine, Dad! We’re just tired!’

‘Been out all day gallivanting, eh?’ he yelled back.

Pippa shot me a scowl. ‘Gallivanting?’ she hissed under her breath.

‘Yeah, something like that!’

Satisfied, he waved again then ducked back inside the house. We both knew he would reappear at some point, perhaps carrying cold drinks on a tray in an attempt to bribe us into words.

We dropped our heads, closed our eyes and breathed. I felt the relentless sun beating down on everything and knew it was too hot to talk of it, too hot to even think of it.

And more than anything, it was simply too late.

Dirty Little Feet: What Followed Us Back From The Holloway (a short story)

~ ChanAtkins ~ Leave a comment

This short story was recently posted on Medium where it sadly didn’t get a lot of reads. I thought it was a better story than a similar one I posted called Into The Green. That one got boosted and has earned me nearly £30, but I prefer this one. See what you think!

Dirty Little Feet

It was cool and dark in the Holloway – our impatient bare feet slipped effortlessly into the tracks laid down by our ancestors. Their faces were etched into the earth and the clay – their long-dead eyes followed our movements from the walls as we darted along the ancient track.

Our feet thundered upon theirs, our laughter mingled with echoes of their own as we sprang down the tunnel, splashing through cool streams, our toes curling into claggy mud. The walls of the Holloway sheltered us as we ran. This space was our fortress, our underground lair, our tunnel system, our playground. It was our link to the past.

Above us the trees linked hands; their vibrant green canopy a roof above our heads, bursts of late evening sunlight fragmented by trembling leaves. All around us, the stillness of time. We laughed and played as if time did not exist for us and down there, it didn’t. We wouldn’t grow old, we wouldn’t age or decay or die. Much like everything else that lived in the Holloway, we were eternal.

Photo is mine

But as dusk fell, we knew we were breaking a rule passed down by our parents and grandparents: don’t linger in the Holloway after sundown or you risk inviting one of the old back home with you.

To us, rules were made to be broken and returning home after sundown offered a delicious risk we could not resist. That evening, my siblings — twins, George and Arthur, Grace, the oldest and I, the youngest — stayed longer than we should.

Still, it was not quite dark by the time the old warnings infiltrated our consciences and prickled the hairs on the back of our necks. We scuttled out, hand in hand, giggling as our muddy feet raced back up the centuries old track, reaching for gnarled roots and boughs to lead us home and leaving the faces of our ancestors on the walls behind us.

Photo is mine

We tore across the sheep field — their eyes glittering back at us in the semi-darkness, and we returned home, leaving tell-tale muddy footprints across the kitchen tiles.

Grace washed away the evidence of our childish rebellion and come morning, we all thought our indiscretion had gone unnoticed by Mother.

Not so.

She was raging as she swept her old mop across the tiles where small brown footprints could be seen trailing in from the back door and stopping in the middle of the kitchen. We denied they were ours (ours had been a criss-cross pattern made by four sets of feet…) but it did no good. We were banned from the Holloway and given arduous chores to complete to make it up to her.

Later that day we heard her scream in rage once again; the noise drawing us out of our sulking to witness yet another trail of muddied prints on her floor. Who had defied her? It was my George who pointed out that the prints were far smaller than ours. He made me, the youngest, stand next to them to prove his point. My feet were small but not that small.

Mother’s face paled.

We watched as she sank into the nearest chair and stared dully at nothing. Then;

‘You stupid, stupid children. Why didn’t you listen to us? Why can’t you ever just listen?’

We swapped guilty glances, then released a collective gasp when a childish giggle echoed gleefully around us. We all froze. I reached for Grace and gripped her hand in mine. Tears shone in our mother’s eyes.

We all heard the sudden drumming — at first like a steady heartbeat, then louder, boom, boom, boom, until it faded out into something that was closer to a soft pattering.

Footsteps.

‘You’ll never get rid of it. We’ll have to move!’ Our mother wept again, dropping her head into her hands.

We were silent as we watched her get up and solemnly slosh the mop over the footprints. Still, we didn’t fully realise what we had done, even then. The dirty little footprints came back again and again. As fast as Mother washed them away, they would reappear. Sometimes they came in from the door and just stopped. Sometimes they made circles, as if the culprit was spinning around and around. Sometimes they ran up the walls and across the kitchen surfaces.

Next came the smell.

It started in the kitchen — a musty, earthy, swampy sort of smell. Mother was in despair. She claimed the house would never be clean again. She punished us with more chores and often we would hear her on the phone begging to be rehoused. We would fall into bed exhausted every night.

And that’s when the drumming would begin.

Footsteps at first, light and gleeful, teasing, dancing. Then they would build up. Harder, faster, angrier. Tearing up and down the stairs while we huddled in our beds, our breath frozen in our chests. Our eyes met in the darkness. We had done this. This was all our fault.

The dirty little feet stomped and thumped. Up and down the stairs, across the landing, into our rooms and around our beds while we quivered under the covers, clutching hands. Cold laughter echoed through the house as it kept us awake night after night.

Then one night, I woke up, muddled and sweating from a dream where the thing that followed us from the Holloway was smiling at me from the shadows. It had black holes for eyes and a wide sneering mouth and its skin was as white as bone.

I heard something new.

A frantic pounding. The panicked drumming of tiny angry heels. I ran to my window and there it was — I saw it for the first time. I saw its feet. Small, dirty, they beat as if in a great tantrum against my window pane from the outside. Had it somehow found itself shut out again? There was a great sadness emanating from it, a lonely desperation in its incessant thudding.

‘What do you want?’ I asked it, but the feet continued to kick. I pressed my hands to the glass. I wanted to see it properly. I wanted to see what had followed us home. I wanted to know why. It refused to show its face. Only two dirty little feet were visible and when I finally flung open the window, they were gone too.

In the morning, my mother looked disheveled as she started packing up our things. We had led a simple life there in the little stone cottage and it only took a few hours to pack up our lives and move out. Us children were bereft to be leaving the place we loved.

We trooped down to the Holloway to say our goodbyes but we did not go in. Instead, we held hands at the entrance, our heads lowered in sorrow. We stared at the ancient path, created by the constant tread of endless feet and rolling cartwheels, pushed into the earth deeper and deeper over centuries of old. Our own feet had pressed into it. Our own blood had flowed into the earth and the mud. Our laughter had echoed down the track and up into the giant trees and now we had to say goodbye.

The new home was nice. Small and neat, on the outskirts of the nearest town. Our walk to school was quicker, at least. We were happy there for a year until one morning we awoke to the sound of our mother screaming.

The screams were followed by wails, which soon dissolved into hopeless sobs.

When we ran down to comfort her, we all stopped just outside the kitchen, too afraid to step in.

The kitchen floor was covered in the gleeful dancing footprints of two dirty little feet.

Thank you for reading! I’ve wanted to write a story set in a Holloway since I visited the fascinating Hell Lane in Symondsbury, Dorset, UK. West Dorset is predominantly sandstone so has several Holloways. The name comes from the anglo-saxon word ‘sunken road’ and they are believed to be at least 300 years old with some traced back to the iron age. At one point they would have been trails to drive cattle along, popular highways if you like, to move people, goods and livestock from one place to another. They would have been ground level tracks back then but eventually centuries of human and animal feet and the wheels of carts would have eroded the soft earth and widened it, with help from the water running off the surrounding land. These days many Holloways are 20 or 30 feet deep. They are mysterious and magical places, eerily silent and still and you can’t help feel a real connection to the past as you follow the ancient paths so many centuries of feet have trodden.