short stories

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.

Dancing In The Dark Won’t Keep Us Alive – short story/future novel idea

~ ChanAtkins ~ Leave a comment

Last week I responded to a prompt on Medium and wrote this short story using two characters I had already created for a potential future novel. The prompt was musical; you had to choose a song title and/or lyrics to respond to and I picked Dancing In The Dark by Bruce Springsteen. For some reason the characters of Cody and Anya popped into my head as I feel like their entire story is very much a dance through the dark… This is a very rough and shortened version of how I think they will first meet and put their dark plans into action. See what you think!

Image by DelilanVan from Pixabay

When the newsflash ended our eyes met across the cafe table. The coffee he had offered in apology for kicking my bag across the floor had been barely touched, and suddenly I had no appetite for it.

I didn’t know his name yet, but the great scrawny scarecrow of a man raised his eyebrows at me. ‘Don’t tell me that surprises you.’

I glanced back at the TV, which had moved onto commentary and coverage of the protests already building up outside parliament. I scanned the cafe and saw the other customers frozen in shock, their foreheads furrowed, their lips moving without speaking.

‘He really said that?’ the waitress behind the counter questioned, before dismay and anger filled her face. ‘Jesus Christ, I voted for that lot! He really bloody said that, didn’t he?’ She looked our way, shaking her head in fury.

I smiled and nodded. ‘He really did say that.’

The scarecrow cleared his throat, his eyes on me. ‘Cody,’ he said, with a wink. ‘And you are?’

‘Anya,’ I told him, ‘and no, it doesn’t surprise me. Nothing surprises me anymore. The better question is, what are we going to do about it?’

A huge grin lit up his face. ‘Now you’re talking. I knew you were my kind of girl.’

Maybe he was flirting, who knows? It was one of those moments for sure. Life-changing — and everyone in that cafe felt it. There was something heavy in the air, yet it was crackling with electricity and Cody was staring at me in pure hunger. It felt like we were standing on the edge of the universe and somehow, though I knew we wouldn’t survive, I was ready for it. Ready for something.

‘What did he say?’ one of the old women by the window asked, her voice cracked and trembling. ‘What did he say about us?’

‘Why are they surprised?’ Cody lowered his voice, leaning in closer. ‘It’s hardly a shock, is it? Extremely rich and powerful person doesn’t give a shit about the rest of us? Jesus, where the hell have these people been living?’

I nodded, still grinning. He was right. I was right. Suddenly, we were right. Everything was happening. There was a crash out the back and a frustrated scream from the waitress.

‘What’s the point in anything then?’ one of the other old women asked.

‘It’s all kicking off now,’ someone else commented.

Cody and I looked back at the TV. Sure enough there were violent protests breaking out all over the country. We saw police leaping out of vans, batons raised. We saw crowds charging down the streets of London. We saw windows being smashed.

‘I need to close up!’ the waitress yelled from somewhere. ‘We all need to go home!’

Cody held out his hand. ‘Care to dance?’

‘Dance?’ I took his hand. It was weathered and warm. He was a walking talking scarecrow with his straw-like blond hair sticking out from under his grey beanie. Under his black duffel coat I glimpsed a white t-shirt with The Clash emblazoned across it.

‘This could be the end,’ he said with another wink. He scooped up my bag and handed it to me and we left the cafe arm in arm, staring into each other’s eyes. ‘And if it is, I’d love to dance with you, Anya.’

‘Everyone always thinks it’s the end,’ I quipped, as we pushed through the doors and out into the rain. It soaked us in seconds but neither of us cared. We pulled our coats around us, linked arms again and started to walk along the side of the harbour.

‘True. There will be outrage and protests for a few days, then everyone will go back home and back to work like the good little sheep they are.’

‘Indeed they will. They’ll probably even vote for him again next time.’

‘His career won’t be over,’ Cody agreed. ‘He’ll find a way to milk it and monetize it. They always do. He’ll be on Celebrity Big Brother before you know it, winning the viewers over.’

‘You can almost predict it. Still,’ I caught his eye, ‘it was a hell of a thing to get caught saying.’

‘Yeah, but at the same time any reasonably intelligent person knew already, right? Yet somehow it’s a genuine shock to some people that the establishment don’t give a damn about them.’ Cody laughed and shrugged skinny shoulders under his heavy coat.

‘So, a dance?’ I reminded him.

‘Somewhere chaotic,’ he mused, looking around. ‘Somewhere we can watch the world end.’

‘Or plot its downfall?’

He flashed another dazzling smile. ‘Now you’re talking.’

‘Hilsborough Hill?’ I suggested, nodding to the rolling green hills that looked down on us and out to sea. ‘It’ll be beautiful up there this time of night.’

‘And just us, dancing in the rain.’

We set off, hand in hand, two perfectly dysfunctional strangers. While the small seaside town exploded in outrage behind us, we followed the harbour-side until we started to climb the majestic hills that looked down on it all. As we walked we heard glass shattering as windows were smashed in, cars screeching and crashing, people shouting, sirens blaring.

I agreed with Cody. It wouldn’t last long.

The Deputy Prime Minister’s cruel, cold words would be washed over in the days that followed. The media would brush them off and rewrite them. The truth would be painted over with another more digestible one. The tabloids would turn on the protesters and paint them as the true aggressors. Others would watch the violence from home and feel frightened and isolated. The excuses would begin.

He didn’t mean it. It was taken out of context. He’s only saying what we’re all thinking! I mean, come on, he’s not wrong, is he? He was only joking! No one can take a joke these days! He’s getting cancelled, that’s what it is. And anyway, he was right, wasn’t he?

The media would find a new story. They would wash it all away but I knew the truth wasn’t going anywhere. We knew. We had always known. He had confirmed our worst fears and he had, for the first time in a politician’s life, spoken the truth.

At the top of the hill the wind and rain swirled around us and Cody and I embraced.

‘It’s nice to meet you, Anya.’

‘You too. Feels like fate.’

‘It really does. What a day! And life is so short.’

‘It is. Just look at them.’

We looked. We saw the little town glittering back at us, small untidy lives and unfilled ambitions and dreams only glimpsed at night. We wouldn’t be like them, like slaves to the system. We would be free.

‘I’ve never felt so free,’ he said to me then. ‘I’m thankful to that twisted bastard for finally saying it.’

‘We were right all along,’ I replied and he nodded, pulling me into his chest. I could feel the bumps of his ribs and I watched the wind pulling at his hair, trying to free it from the woolen hat.

We held onto each other and danced. The darkness consumed us and the hill we stood on felt like nothing, like it wasn’t even there. The rain soaked us, the wind battered us and still we danced, out eyes closed, our bodies pressed together.

‘I’ve got an idea,’ he said then.

‘What is it?’

‘I’m getting sick of waiting,’ he said with a yawn. ‘Sick of waiting for the goddamn apocalypse. Even this won’t bring it you know. Not fast anyway, not fast enough for me. There will still be jobs and money and bills, right to the bitter end.’

‘You’re right,’ I said, looking up into his face. ‘Tomorrow they’ll all get in their cars and drive to work to make the money to pay the bills and then they’ll get old and die and never realise they were a slave to bastards like that. That he laughed at them all along.’

‘They’ll deny it,’ nodded Cody, ‘even to themselves. But I say, how about we wake them up?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I’ve been thinking about starting a movement. Anya, you and me, and a few others. There’s nothing left to lose, you know? He said it himself. We heard him say it in his own words.’

‘Yes, we caused climate change and we knew it all along and we didn’t care, and we still don’t care!’ I repeated the words Giles Forbes-Roberts had been caught on camera exclaiming with such arrogance, such gleeful light in his eyes.

‘They’re all going to die anyway,’ Cody continued, repeating the MP’s words and mocking his Eton bred accent. ‘That’s just the way it is. Jesus Christ, up here we all just wish it would hurry up, you know? Less of them would be better for us, that’s what we always say.’

‘Let them die,’ I grinned, ‘we’re quite happy to just let them die.’

Cody threw back his head and copied the raucous drunken laughter of the MP as he lounged against the bar with champagne in hand and no idea the young lady he was talking to was recording his every word.

‘Let them die!’ I shouted, spinning with Cody, dancing in the dark as if nothing could touch us. ‘Why don’t they just hurry up and die?’

‘Do you want to hear about my movement then?’ Cody asked, holding me close as we rocked and swayed to the music of the waves smashing the rugged cliffs below.

‘If it involves violence towards people like Giles, I’d love to.’

My Experience On Medium So Far

~ ChanAtkins ~ 16 Comments

I first became aware of the writer’s platform, Medium, a few years back when an author I follow on Facebook started posting about it. This author would share pieces he had published on Medium and suggested it was a worthwhile platform for writers to invest in if they fancied getting paid for their work. At the time, I thought, good for you and moved on by. So often in this industry, authors are bombarded with ways to make money out of writing and it often becomes too much. There are only so many hours in a day, and most of us have full time day-jobs and families to contend with too.

Image by Engin Akyurt from Pixabay

Over the next few years I noticed a few other authors I respect had started publishing on Medium. They too often mentioned how good it was. Again, I thought, good for you, but I don’t have time. Too many books to write and promote and not enough hours in the day was my excuse.

Then, back in April, one of these authors messaged me privately to urge me to give it a go. He had just enjoyed one of my blog posts and pointed out that similar types of articles, essays and personal pieces could be making me money on Medium if I gave it a go. He told me he was on average earning around $200 a month which made a nice little side hustle and finally, I was intrigued. I decided to sign up and give it a go. I went all in, rejecting the free option for the paid one. You pay $5 a month to be a member on Medium and that gives you access to all the work published on there, plus it gives you a chance to apply for the partner programme. Being part of that, I was told, was how you eventually started earning money.

To start with, I set up my profile and on the advice of my friend, wrote an ‘About Me’ article. This is apparently the best way to begin to get follows. Life took over after that and I neglected the site until a few months later. By now, I was aware that another author friend of mine was also doing well on Medium, making an average of £200 a month to supplement her other income streams. There are, of course, many writers making even more than that per month, and this knowledge gave me a new determination.

If you’re not aware of how Medium operates, I will try and break it down for you.

You can sign up to the free version, post anything you like and read other posts that don’t have a paywall in front of them. This is not a bad way to get started and get a feel for the place.

Or, like me, you can sign up to be a member. You can then start posting whatever you like. Poems, stories, flash fiction, articles, essays, personal pieces and more. You can post by yourself or you can submit to write for publications. Luckily for me, one of my friends was already an editor on several publications that were a good fit for me, so I joined all of those, read the submission rules and got started. The aim is to get to 100 followers, as that is one of the criteria for being accepted onto the partner programme, which will then enable you to get paid.

I found it really easy to get 100 followers. I started following, reading, commenting and clapping on other writer’s work and they would do the same for me. I found people were following me after reading and responding to my About Me piece, and again, whenever I posted something, I’d get a new little burst of followers. It was exciting and felt a lot more worthy of my time than other social media platforms. Plus, I was really enjoying following and reading the work from other writers!

Once I got my 100 followers, and had posted enough articles, I applied for the partner programme and got in. A month after that I got my first payment! I was thrilled to bits. It was for just under $3 so didn’t quite cover my membership fee, but it spurred me on. This was starting to look really doable. And I was enjoying it!

I still am. I think Medium is a great platform for all kinds of writers. I just got my second payment the other day and it was just over $8 dollars. Again, I was absolutely thrilled. I’ve made a little profit and covered my membership fee. I now feel even more determined to write and post more quality pieces to up my earnings again for next month. In fact, I now have a goal in mind of £200 a month. That would be a really nice extra income stream for writing things I would have written anyway.

If you are interested, here’s a short breakdown of the pros and cons I’ve found so far!

Pros

  • you can post anything, though of course there is guidance and some rules so make sure you read these first. Some writers only post poetry, some only political articles, some lifestyle pieces and so on. It’s totally up to you.
  • There is a publication for everything! I am currently a writer for 7 publications which gives me a good choice of who to submit it to whenever I write anything. Some of them are really niche, so you will definitely find one to suit your writing style and topics.
  • people are overwhelmingly positive and supportive. I’ve only had one critic on there which was a bit odd but we’ve unfollowed each other now. Everyone else has been absolutely lovely. Writers are keen to support each other as it increases the chance of the favour being returned
  • it’s like a co-operative of writers all helping each other and I love that!
  • editors can pick pieces to ‘boost’ which gives you even more visibility. This happened to me recently!
  • publications offer lots of prompts and challenges so you will never be without something to write about
  • Medium promotes the writers with ‘daily digest’ emails tailored to suit you. I try to read this every morning, a bit like reading a newspaper. I read as many as I can and clap and comment as much as I can too. It is a reciprocative platform so make sure you are helping out other authors too.
  • It’s super fast to gain genuine followers, unlike other social media sites!
  • You can get started by reusing old blog posts. Medium doesn’t mind if something has been published elsewhere before, but some of the publications do, so check first.
  • There are some very talented writers on there and I genuinely enjoy reading the Medium Digest each day!

Cons

  • It can be time consuming but I have managed to fit it in. In order to be supportive to others, you do need to follow, subscribe, clap, comment and share as much as you can. You can’t expect to help no one and still gain followers and views.
  • Like all internet platforms there are going to be some trolls, and some people who let you know they don’t like your writing, but overall, it is completely the opposite.
  • It leaves you with less content for your blog! I like to post on here weekly if I can, but it’s been less lately because every time I have an idea, I choose to put it on Medium instead!

That’s it. I can’t think of any other cons so far, but perhaps, further down the line I’ll feel differently. I think I will write an update post maybe six months from now and let you know how close I am to my payment goal and whether I have come across any other negative aspects to the site.

For now, I’d definitely recommend it. Facebook and Instagram have become such an echo chamber lately. Social media can be very depressing at times but so far, I am thoroughly enjoying being a part of the Medium community!

If you want to follow me, I’ll gladly follow you back: @chantelleatkins_17828

October Writing Challenge: The Shrieking Stream

~ ChanAtkins ~ 2 Comments

Every month I ask my Facebook author page followers to give me writing prompts. It can be anything from a visual prompt, to a song title or lyric, overheard conversation, a piece of flash fiction, or a poem. This month however, I have taken my prompt from suggestions made by some of the young people who attend my writing clubs. A few weeks ago I gave them a challenge. They were given lots of words and had to make creepy story titles from them. ‘Ancient Stream Drowns Shrieking Person’ really caught my imagination! I should add, that I normally post my writing prompt challenges at the end of the month, and this post should have been about creepy book recommendations. However, I still have two books to read that I want to mention, so I decided to do the posts the other way around. Therefore, next week, please expect a book recommendation post and for today, here is my October writing challenge response. This was supposed to be flash fiction, but as you can see, it grew and grew! Tell me what you think. It’s a first draft, so needs a little work at some point!

Image by Engin Akyurt from Pixabay

The Shrieking Stream

Of all the haunted places that fill this green and quiet county, The Shrieking Stream is next on my list and as luck will have it, I arrive in its vicinity the day before All Hallows Eve. If that isn’t perfect, I don’t know what is.

I pull up outside The Green Gate Inn in the tiny village of Brackenhurst at midday and I am shown to my room by the elderly proprietor Mrs Pence. She is a thin grey-haired lady, slightly stooped and with an air of distain about her. She welcomes me, of course, and smiles patiently as I explain that her B&B has come highly recommended by some backpacking friends of mine. She shows me my room which is situated on the third floor of the eighteenth-century inn she runs with her husband and informs me that lunch will be served in the dining room at one o’clock sharp. I thank her and say I will be glad to have some. It has been a long journey and it won’t take me long to unpack and get settled. She smiles her thin smile, while her eyes remain as cold as the pale October day beyond the windows.

Once alone, I unpack my two bags. One, a simple backpack contains enough clothes and toiletries to last two days and two nights, which is how long I have booked the room for, and the second, a suitcase on wheels, contains my recording equipment and laptop. I unpack this first and spread it out across the neat wooden desk that is tucked under one of the tiny windows. A quick glance at the street below confirms my first thoughts on arrival; Brackenhurst is one of those forgotten rural villages, lost in time. There is minimal traffic and the pedestrians all have a lost and lonely look about them.

This is good though. This is just what we need. I turn on my camera and microphone and start recording.

Hey there freaky folks, how are you all doing today? Well, just a quick update from me before I grab some lunch. I just arrived in the tiny village of Brackenhurst, home to The Shrieking Stream, a place supposedly so haunted by the lives it has taken over the centuries, that at night, you can hear the lost souls shrieking from under the water. Sounds spooky, right? Well, I’m here to investigate, record and share with you, my lovely followers. After lunch I’m going to try and find the stream, which is said to be quite well hidden in the local woods known as Green Gate Woods. I should also mention that the extremely ancient inn I am spending the night in is called The Green Gate and I’ve got to say, it has a sinister vibe, people. Even the landlady scared me a little bit! Just kidding. I’ll be back later to update you all and to let you know if I found the stream! Of course, to hear it scream, you’ve got to go there at night and I’m planning on doing that tomorrow, Halloween night. Okay freaky folks, thanks for following as ever. Don’t forget to like, share and subscribe and above all else, stay freaky!

I end the recording and press share. Within seconds I’ve received a barrage of likes and reactions, and a smattering of comments. My followers are desperate to see photos and videos of The Shrieking Stream and so am I.

When I finish unpacking, I grab my wallet and leave my room. I bump right into Mrs Pence and almost scream. It shocks me so much; I lean over my knees with one hand pressed to my chest. She merely steps back and observes me quizzically with her arms hanging at her sides.

‘I’m sorry,’ I sputter, although really it ought to be her apologising, after all, what was she doing right outside my door like that? ‘I didn’t see you there.’ I straighten up and offer a weak smile. ‘You scared me!’

‘I can see that,’ she replies in her soft, yet monotone voice. ‘I thought I heard voices. It is just you here? I only have a booking for one.’

‘Oh!’ I nod and wave a hand. Of course, that makes sense. She heard me chatting and thought I had a friend in there. ‘That was me talking. I was recording my podcast.’

‘Podcast?’ she repeats the word as if it offends her.

‘Yeah, you know, like videos you make and share online? I’ve got followers all over the world.’

Mrs Pence’s eyes narrow ever so slightly and I notice for the first time that they are a pale grey, almost the same shade as her wrinkled skin. She turns away from me without another word and makes her way slowly and carefully down the stairs.

I shake it off. I’m starving. I follow her down and join the other diners for lunch. There are a young couple who are obviously enjoying a romantic break together. An older man with thinning hair, dressed entirely in waterproofs, who spends the entire lunchtime poring over what look like very old maps. Two women, possibly in their fifties, who are giggling as they eat their way through large slices of cake. And me. I order a ploughman’s and when it arrives, it brings a smile to my face. A large hunk of granary bread, thick slices of dark pink ham, wedges of apple, two huge, pickled onions, some chutney, cheese and a large tomato. I eat it all and wash it down with two mugs of tea, before deciding I better get a move on.

Today’s mission is finding the stream. Tomorrow night, I will venture out after dark and record everything that happens. I return to my room for my waterproof coat and boots as it has just started to rain. In the porch, I zip up my coat and double check the map I’ve downloaded on to my phone. An exhalation of breath behind makes me jump again. I whirl around and there is an old man standing there. He is wearing loose brown slacks that wrinkle around his knees and a heavy overcoat, the colour of dark chocolate. Grubby slippers poke out from the bottoms of his trouser legs. There are several keys jangling on a lanyard he wears around his neck.

‘Going to be a downpour,’ he warns me, pointing past me to the dark skies above the village.

‘Oh, that’s okay,’ I tell him, patting my chest. ‘Got my waterproofs on.’ I hold out my phone and show him the vague map which was the best Google maps had to offer. ‘Just checking, is this is the right way to go? I’d like to explore the Green Gate Woods.’

The man does not look at the phone, instead he recoils from it as if it upsets him. He even waves a hand at it, almost knocking it from my fingers. I frown and slip it into my front pocket.

‘Long trek that way,’ he nods to the right of the inn. ‘Turn left. Cattle grid. Keep going. Road turns to mud. Another cattle grid.’ He gives a little shrug of his shoulders and exhales again as if he is finding just standing here particularly taxing. ‘Bit further on. Should see the sign on your right. You’re there.’

‘And the famous stream?’ I ask him. ‘Is that easy to find once you’re in the woods?’

The old man lowers his head like a child in trouble. He exhales once more, this time the breath filling out his cheeks and pushing out his lips as he shakes his head once. He slips his hands into his pockets, shakes his head again and then very slowly, turns away from me and shuffles back towards the dining room.

What the hell? I smile though. That’s one for the podcast later! There are a lot of ‘characters’ here, that’s for sure. I get going. The skies have darkened and as I step outside, I am pelted with light rain. I pull up my hood and walk right, following the narrow road away from the inn. He was right about it being a long trek. I walk for half an hour before I see a crossroads and can turn left, as he advised.

On the way I pass old fashioned shops that are crammed together as if they are huddling against the weather. If buildings could have faces, these would all look like that old man, I decide. They would all be sighing and looking down in a weary, fatalistic manner. I make myself smile imagining the shops with eyebrows above their small windows, and downturned moustaches above their front doors. There is a dressmaker, a bakery, a grocery, a post office, a pet shop, a butchers, a toy shop, a hairdressers and a book shop and after that, I walk past the occasional house or cottage. They all appear the same; small and squat, whitewashed or grey, some with thatch that has seen better days, some with tiles that look fed up of clinging on. Most have small front gardens and plots of land behind them. I catch glimpses of wet bedraggled washing hanging on lines, cats at the window looking out, the occasional swing set or trampoline, and vehicles that just seem to be sat in mud. I take out my phone and start taking pictures. This place has a vibe to it, all right.

I come to the first cattle grid and cross over. After that, the road does indeed turn to mud. Further on, I cross the second cattle grid. I don’t see any cattle or anything else, as it happens. The skies are quiet. There is no birdsong. No cars, no people. I keep walking, enjoying myself immensely, because this is going to make a fantastic episode later. I will probably prerecord this one so that I can edit in the creepy photos as well as any footage I get.

Another twenty minutes later I finally see the sign to Green Gate woods. It is an old-fashioned wooden sign covered in wet moss and lichens. I take some photos and move on. It soon becomes apparent that the woods are huge. I get a bit nervous. The road has turned into a path and even that is getting narrower. Evidently, not many others have been this way for a while. Perhaps visiting The Shrieking Stream is not top of the list for locals or tourists. Brambles snake out from either side, occasionally catching and clawing at my waterproofs. I hear the odd tear and swear under my breath. My boots are covered in mud and the ground is uneven, causing me to reach out for whatever I can, branches, tall grasses, even the brambles, to help keep me upright. I take more photos because this is turning into quite a journey and my followers are going to want to enjoy every moment of this.

The things I do for fame and glory, I grin to myself and keep moving. It seems to me that although the rain has all but halted, the sky has continued to darken. I stop and look around. The trees are incredibly dense here. It takes my breath away for a moment because they are so tall, so foreboding and so watchful, I can’t help feeling awed. I identify a mixture of silver birch, oak, sycamore, hazel and ash. There are others I don’t know the names of but most have started to change colour and the air around me is full of floating leaves. They drift down like colourful snowfall, each landing in the mud to rot and become part of it.

I feel a little tense now. For some reason, the falling leaves standing out against the dark sky makes me feel, I don’t know, watched, maybe. It’s silent. That’s another thing. Despite the size of these woods and the abundance of mature trees, there are no birds, no squirrels, nothing scuttling or scurrying away. The only sound is my footsteps as I push on through the thick mud.

Now I am starting to feel silly and annoyed with myself. Another half an hour passes and the path is almost gone. I am weaving my way between tree trunks, using them now to stay on my feet as the thick mud and dead leaves suck at my boots, trying to hold me still. How am I supposed to find the stream if there is no path to follow? No sign?

Since it is no longer raining, I take out my phone and check the map. The red line wriggles through the village like I did, lurches left like I did and then keeps wriggling. Left, right, on a bit, left, right, right, right, left. It makes me feel dizzy. I can’t follow that and anyway, I have no idea where I am to attempt to follow the line.

All right, this is ridiculous. I make the decision there and then to turn around and head back. I am exhausted from wading through mud and fighting with brambles. I will make my way back and see if I can get hold of some better maps. I turn around and take two steps and that is when I hear it.

It sounds like someone calling out; maybe a name, maybe something else. It’s far away and faint, but it drifts up above the trees and ends in an ‘ee’ sound. It sounds like someone calling a cat, for some reason. It reminds me of my neighbour back home. Every night after dark, she opens her back door and calls for her cat.

I resist the urge to shout back by biting my lips. It might not be anything. I might have imagined it, or it might have been a bird, or something. Then I remember the stream… It couldn’t be, could it? I laugh at myself. I tell myself now is not the time to chicken out. I did come here to see a shrieking stream and maybe that is just what I have found. I look around me, frowning at each possible direction.

The ground looks drier to the left, so I head that way. It’s still wet, especially where the leaves are lying in thick drifts, but the ground is rising and falling in small hillocks which feel soft and spongy underfoot. Nearly every tree trunk is covered in old moss and fungi of various kinds. This place has the feel of something very ancient…

I hear another noise. This time I freeze and my heart thuds stupidly against my ribcage as I try not to breathe too loud. It wasn’t the same noise. It was more like a hoot, like an owl would make. And there is another one. Hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo. I relax. Just an owl. It’s a relief to know there is something alive in these damn woods after all.

I keep going left and the land rises slowly. I wonder if I am on a slope, or small hill. I think it would be good to get to higher ground if there is any. I might be able to see my way out if I can get higher, so with fresh energy, I push on, grabbing trees and hauling myself through them, kicking my way through the sludgy rainbow of dead leaves on the ground.

The noise comes again. Not the owl noise. The one that ends in ‘ee’. It’s closer this time which makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end, only because I don’t know what it is and we all know that not knowing is worse than knowing. It drifts up again and peters out over the treetops, but I was right the first time. It’s a human voice, and they are calling something or someone whose name ends in ‘ee.’ Maybe a dogwalker has lost their dog?

‘Hello!’ I shout back and then instantly regret it. Silence hits me like a wall. If it was quiet before, then this is something new. It feels like the woods have frozen around me. My eyes widen in their sockets as a shiver twists up my spine. Not a single dried leaf flutters from the treetops. I feel like I have broken something.

I can’t stop the panic now. I am not a baby. I am someone who travels the country looking for scary stories, but I have never felt like this before: like the woods are watching me; like they are holding their breath while they examine me. I can almost imagine lips of gnarled wood rising into silent snarls as they prepare to devour me. I keep moving to higher ground and I take out my phone, desperate for a signal. I’ve been lost for a long time now and it is nearly dark. My watch says that is impossible because it is half past three, but the world around me says otherwise. But I don’t have a signal. I try anyway, finding the number for the inn and trying that first as someone there might just be able to direct me out of here. But it won’t connect. It just ends the call every time I try.

The silence drags on, forbidding me to move. Just breathing feels like I am breaking the rules here. But I can’t stay still and I can’t stay here. I press on, trying to breathe, trying to calm down, reminding myself that I packed a flask of tea and a packet of biscuits and a first aid kit, just in case. I’ll get higher and then I’ll be able to figure this out.

Looking up I can see a ridge lined with smaller, thinner trees. If I have been slowly clambering up a hillside, then this must be the top I am now approaching. I breathe out in relief and keep going, grabbing at trunks and branches as my body slows in weariness. I am almost at the top and grateful to find drier, crisper land underfoot when I hear the scream.

This time there is no doubt about it. It is a wail of utter despair that bursts out of the trees ahead and rushes past me, making me stumble and drop to one knee. It lingers, drawing out into a strangled gasp before it fades to nothing. It occurs to me for the first time that perhaps someone is playing a joke on me. Locals, maybe, fed up with people like me trampling all over their stories.

‘Who’s there?’ I yell, cupping my hands around my mouth.

No one answers me but another scream cuts through the trees, hitting me with a blast of icy air that leaves me staggering again, almost losing my footing entirely. I right myself and cringe as it sails over my head. This one is louder, more agonised, like someone is having their insides ripped out of their body. It peters out, but in horrible little breathless gasps of pain.

I want to run, but I don’t. I do what I should have done minutes ago. I take out my phone and start recording, at first turning the camera on myself to exclaim; shit is getting real here, freaky folks! I’m lost in the woods, no kidding, slightly shitting myself actually, haha, Green Gate woods, no kidding, Brackenhurst, if you never hear from me again, hah! That’s where I am, but I am seriously lost, guys. Seriously. And I keep hearing weird noises, like screams or someone calling someone else. I’m gonna keep recording so you can hear it too. I’m climbing a hill now so I can see better, I hope. Nearly there. Okay. Let’s take a look.

I turn the camera around and sweep the area with it recording. I am on a narrow ridge, not much of a hill but I can at least look down on the way I came. I can see the wandering trail I made through the trees and I can see how the land is much wetter and thicker below.

What is really weird though, I say to my audience, is how dark it is. I get its October and I’m in thick, thick woods, but my watch, unless its wrong, says half three, guys. And look, how dark is that? Almost full dark, right? Yeah, freaky folk, I’m about to be well and truly lost in the dark in the woods! This was not the plan. But finding the stream was so I’m gonna at least try and do that. Okay. Holy shit! Did you hear that?

My hand is trembling as I turn the camera on myself again. My eyes are so wide they ache in the sockets. Another scream has filled the air around me. It seems to come from everywhere, even me. I jumped about a foot in the air when it started. It sounds ferocious, I think, like the noise an animal might make when caught in a trap. There is rage in that scream and my head is starting to hurt.

There is another one, but this one is closer to the voice I thought I heard earlier. It ends in ‘eeee’ again, and I can’t help thinking there is a question mark to it.

‘Who’s there?’ I shout back, desperate for it to be a person, desperate for it to be someone looking for me, or a local playing a prank.

‘Ooooooeeeee?’

Shit, they’re not saying Toby, are they?

‘I’m here!’ I yell back, hurrying along the ridge, turning in circles, squinting through the trees to see. ‘I’m Toby, I’m here!’

‘Oooooobeeeee!’

Toby? Yes, Toby, I’m sure of it. Someone is calling my name. Someone is looking for me!

You hear that? I say to the camera as I keep moving. Toby! Shit guys, someone is out here calling my name. Please say you can hear that too! And how dark is it now, seriously? Look! I can barely see my feet or my hands in front of my face. I’m gonna call back.

‘I’m here!’ I yell again and that’s when I see a bright light twisting through the trees below on the other side of the ridge. I stop and gasp. No, not a light, it’s water! I move towards it. Yes, as I get closer, I can see it is water. The surface is shining back at me as it ripples through the thick ferns and gorse and heather down there.

Image by David Mark from Pixabay

Italk to my camera again. Look guys, I think I found the stream! Or a stream, at least. Oh my God, could this be it? The Shrieking Stream? They say you can hear it in the village at night and I believe it, and I’m sure you do too now. Shit!

Another scream slices through the darkness, making me drop my phone in panic. I drop to my knees and search for it frantically, sinking my fingers into claggy earth and leaf mulch until I find the hard rectangle and see it’s camera light blinking back at me. The scream was horrible: a gargled, gurgled, helpless sound; despair and defeat and dread all mixed together.

I grab the phone and walk briskly down to the stream. At last, I have found it. I stand on the banks which are brown and littered with pine needles and cones, and smothered in thick white fungi, and moss and lichen in various shades of green. I hear a splash and my head snaps up. I look left and right. The woods have been swallowed by darkness so I use the phone as a torch, sweeping it this way and that, recording the curve of the stream, which is not more than a few feet deep by the looks of it.

So this is what’s been making all that noise, I tell my followers, I give you, The Shrieking Stream, and you better be grateful guys, because this is genuinely the most scared I have ever been doing this shit, and I’ve still got to find my way out of here.

‘Toby! Toby Barnes!’

My head whips around and I see a figure coming towards me from the left. He or she appears to be wading in the stream. I stare in a mixture of hope, dread and utter confusion, because nothing about this makes any sense…

As it comes closer, I can see the shape of a man, with thinning hair and glasses on, and waterproof clothing, and boots that come up to his thighs. Wading boots.

‘Are you? Are you the…’ I’m not sure, but I think it might be the man who was in the dining room earlier, the man with all the maps. I breathe out in relief because maybe he has come to save me, he has come to help me with his maps! My shoulders relax and I lift the camera so my followers can see my rescuer making his way down the stream.

‘Toby! Toby Barnes!’

‘Yes, that’s me!’

The man doesn’t seem to hear me though. He keeps coming, splashing through the stream which seems eerily still around him. I get that feeling again, that the woods are holding their breath and their secrets and something is about to happen. My scalp tightens and my bowels loosen and then it does, it happens.

The man’s arms fly upwards like he’s taking part in a Mexican wave. His eyes widen and the glasses fly off. His mouth gapes and a whoosh of startled air escapes his lungs. He starts sinking, rapidly; the water is suddenly over his knees, then his waist, then up to his shoulders. It all happens so quickly, I barely have time to react, but I stuff my phone in my pocket and race towards him, thinking he must have slipped or something.

He screams.

It’s a piercing shriek that makes my blood run cold and my guts curl up, but by the time I reach him, it is too late. He is gone. I plunge my hands into the stream and there is nothing there.

‘Shit!’ I sit back, breathing hard, my eyes flicking wildly over the surface of the stream. I lean forward, try again, wave my hand around in the water but there is nothing. There should at least be his hand, or his head, or…

The water bubbles further down the stream. I stand back, wary now of its wet edges, and stare in horror as something begins to emerge. Surrounded by rippling circles growing, I see pale fingers begin to rise. I scrabble for my phone and film it. Because this can’t be real. I must be asleep, dreaming, back at the inn. Or I fell and hit my head and I’m hallucinating or something. I want to say something, to my followers, but I can’t talk. My tongue is a useless lump of meat and my body has turned to stone.

I just stare in horror and hold the phone as the fingers lift through the water. They are pale and bloated, the skin sagging and wrinkled around the knuckles. I start to move back, slowly at first, my heels digging into the mud in front of me, pushing me away. The hands give way to slender wrists, followed by thin arms. The sleeves of whatever she was wearing have rumpled down to her shoulders, and I know it is a ‘she’ because her head breaks the water at the same time, her grey hair flattened on her bony skull, her eye sockets empty and her mouth a hole filled with wriggling maggots. She opens her mouth and screams.

I drop the phone and cover my ears.

It seems to go on forever. The treetops are shaking. The earth vibrates and growls beneath me. I move with it, shaken from side to side, until I manage to reach out and grab the trunk of the nearest tree. I pull myself to my feet, reach down and pick the phone up again. It’s still recording. I leave it running and place it in my pocket.

When I look back at the stream the woman, who I am certain was Mrs Pence from the inn, has gone, only a few ripples letting me know she was ever there. I have to go. I have to get out of here.

I turn and start to scramble away, back towards the ridge. I don’t look back when I hear the two women screaming. The two women who were enjoying their cake just hours ago. I recognise their voices, and I can hear nothing but horror and useless fear in their screams, which are high-pitched and jagged, hurting my brain.

I run on. I think I won’t make it. I don’t let myself think that. I push thoughts away. Blind panic now, blind. Pure instinct. Survival mode. I mutter to myself as I run.

Run, run, run, just fucking run, don’t look back, don’t, don’t just run, run, keep running, oh God, just run, run, don’t listen, don’t look back, just run!

I am hurtling down the other side of the ridge when the young couple reach for me. They appear together, holding hands, on the other side of a large fallen trunk I am scrambling over. I run right into them and start choking on the smell of rotting flesh. Their mouths are open and screaming. The screams hurt my bones and my heart judders. I think, I am going to die here. I turn my head away as they both snatch at my clothes, for I have already seen the swollen, waterlogged skin hanging from his face, and the missing jawbone on hers, and the wet, hanging hair, tangled with leaves and sticks and pine needles.

I don’t think I’ll get away but I do.

I run, faster and faster and faster. The screaming follows me. It never stops. I run on and on, stumbling and falling, rising and skidding, grabbing and snatching, barely breathing. I am running on empty now, every part of my body on fire with fear and adrenaline and exhaustion.

I don’t think I’ll make it but somehow, I do.

Somehow, I stumble out onto what can only be a narrow, mud choked path. The path I was on before. I can see my own footsteps in the mud and I laugh in joy and relief and start to follow them. The sky is lighter again. I can see a few clouds.

I pull out my phone and talk breathlessly into it.

Guys, guys, I hope you got all that. As soon as I get a signal I’m gonna upload the whole thing to my channel, fuck editing, I can’t believe what just happened, I have to show you now!

I cry when I see the sign to Green Gate Woods. I lean against it and sob. I am drenched in sweat and covered in thick mud that is starting to drop of in chunks. I can now feel the pain of countless scratches, scrapes and bumps. I start to wonder if any of it happened. I see the young couple rearing up behind the log and almost vomit. No, it was real. I will never forget the ripe, sour smell of their rotting organs.

I stumble on. Every part of me aches. As soon as I see I have a signal, I pause and log into my podcast channel. In less than a minute I have uploaded my entire recording with the title, This just happened right now!! Oh My God!!

That should be enough drama to get my followers excited. I think I will edit it all together later though, with the photos I took on the way here, and maybe I’ll try and get some interviews too from the villagers.

My phone is back in my pocket and I am trudging towards the first cattle grid when I spot the old man from the inn. How strange, I think. What’s he doing out here in his slippers? He’s standing on the other side of the grid looking just the way he did in the hallway of the inn before he turned and shambled away. His shoulders are hunched, his keys are hanging, his hands are in his pockets and his head is low. He exhales sadly as I approach.

I expect him to say something about the state of me. I am covered in mud and twigs and leaves. I must look awful. He must know something bad has happened to me. I am shaking now too, as the memories hit me one by one. I don’t want to think about any of them right now, but I can’t seem to shake them away.

Did I dream it all?

The videos on my phone would suggest otherwise.

‘Hello?’ I call out warily as I get closer.

He doesn’t answer. He just looks sad, his lower lip jutting out as his hands sink even lower in the pockets.

‘Hello?’ I ask again. ‘Are you all right? What are you doing out here?’ I glance again at his grubby slippers. When I look back at his face, I see something awful.

His skin is grey and wet. Bubbles have filled his mouth and are expanding and then popping between his sagging grey lips. His eyes have lost all colour. The eyeballs seem to swim in grey liquid before rolling away into his head. The skin on his nose is flaky and as I stare in horror, a chunk slips away and hits the ground between his slippers.

A foul smell meets my nostrils and as he lifts his hands from his pockets, I see dirty stream water running from his arms down to his wrists. It spatters against the ground, quickly forming puddles.

He opens his mouth and I fear a scream. I start to lift my hands in anticipation, to press them over my ears.

‘What?’ I yell at him then, staggering backwards. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’

He lifts his awful swollen hand and points right at me. ‘One of us now.’

‘What? What?’ I shake my head, keep walking backwards. ‘No, I’m not. Leave me alone. Get away!’

He laughs and more stream water pours out of his mouth, revealing grey rotten stumps for teeth. A small silver fish wriggles through them and drops to the ground where it writhes and gasps. I stare in horror and his mouth stretches wider. I expect a scream but again, it doesn’t come.

‘We are all dead here…’ he gurgles as more filthy water fills his mouth. He starts to choke then, choke on the water and on the wet leaves and pine needles and he twists his head, as if trying to escape it, and then finally, his lips part and the skin tears open, revealing the bone of his jaw and he shrieks.