Conspiracy

April 29, 2026April 18, 2026 ~ Richard Meldrum ~ 3 Comments

It was their weekly coffee. Two middle-aged ladies, meeting for a drink and a chat in their local café. They’d been friends for decades, ever since university. Amanda often wondered why they’d stayed so close; they didn’t really have any shared interests. Maybe it was because they lived in the same town. Maybe it was because they were both single; Amanda had been widowed in her thirties, Linda had never married. No matter the reason, their weekly meetings had become routine.

Linda had always been a little odd, but as the years passed, she’d become downright eccentric. She was always coming up with new, crackpot theories. Today it was about doctors. Amanda patiently listened without comment.

“It’s the doctors that give you cancer and those horrible diseases. How many times have you heard about a perfectly healthy person dying a few weeks after a routine checkup? They walk in, healthy and fit, and then the doctor diagnoses some dreadful disease!”

“Well, yes, I’ve heard that a couple of times. But I don’t understand why you think it’s the doctors causing it. Those people were just ill without knowing it.”

Linda gave her friend a condescending look.

“Oh, Amanda, you’re so naive. I’ll tell you why. It’s the doctors, they have special toxins, poisons. Bacteria. They’re paid by the drug companies to infect you, so they can make more money! It’s a global conspiracy.”

The conversation was getting a little too much, even by Linda’s standards. Amanda spoke, trying to inject some sanity into the topic.

“Linda, you know I work at a doctor’s surgery. You think I wouldn’t have noticed a little thing like that?”

“Of course not! You’re not in the loop, the doctors keep it to themselves.”

“I handle all the orders, including the drugs. I would have noticed.”

“Don’t be silly, Amanda. The poisons aren’t going to be sent through the normal routes.”

Amanda sighed inside. It was aliens last month, now this. She wondered for the umpteenth time if she could simply stop talking to her friend. Would Linda let her?

The next day at work, Amanda thought it would be funny to mention Linda’s theory to her boss, Dr. Lansing. His eyes flashed in annoyance and some other emotion Amanda couldn’t quite identify. It almost looked like fear.

“How ridiculous!” he snorted.

“That’s what I told her.”

“I hate hearing nonsense like that.”

“I know Dr. Lansing. I tried to tell her. She’s always getting these silly ideas, she spends too much time on the internet. She believes all that silly nonsense and then insists on spreading it around. It was aliens last month.”

He picked up a piece of paper from Amanda’s desk.

“She is clearly delusional. Disturbed. Write her name and address. She needs help.”

Amanda hesitated. Lansing detected her reluctance.

“Amanda, anyone who believes such nonsense is obviously mentally ill. She needs some intervention before it gets worse. Don’t you want to help your friend?”

Amanda wrote down the required information, with a sense of disquiet. Linda wasn’t ill, just eccentric, but she supposed Dr. Lansing knew best.

Linda didn’t answer when Amanda phoned the next week to arrange coffee. That was worrying. Amanda went round to her house, but there was no response. Had Linda decided on a spur of the moment trip? Surely, she would have let Amanda know. Amanda briefly thought about phoning the police, but decided she didn’t want to make a food of herself. Linda would turn up.

It wasn’t until the next week that Amanda saw the headline in the local newspaper.

‘Local woman, Linda Evans, found drowned’

Amanda felt an overwhelming sense of grief. Only now, after this, did Amanda realize how much her silly friend had meant to her. But amidst her tears, Amanda sensed something wasn’t right. The article reported that Linda had died while swimming in a nearby lake. Her clothes had been found at the scene, indicating she’d decided to take a dip. The weather had been unusually warm. There had been no suicide note; nothing to suggest it was anything other than a tragic accident.

“Well, that can’t be right,” she said to herself.

Amanda knew something about Linda that no one else knew. She’d discovered it by accident at university, when Linda had been hysterical after being pushed into a swimming pool by some of their classmates. Linda had told her that she’d always been terrified of water; she’d never even learnt to swim. Linda would never have decided to go swimming in the lake, not in a million years. Amanda was reminded of the note she’d written for Dr. Lansing. There couldn’t be a connection, could there? Surely the timing was a coincidence. It had to be. She thought back to the expressions that had flashed across Dr. Lansing’s face. Anger, then fear. Despite herself, she began to wonder.

∼ RJ Meldrum

Once is Enough

February 11, 2026February 1, 2026 ~ Richard Meldrum ~ 3 Comments

“Dr. Lansing, enough is enough. I called you here today because I want an update on progress. You are already three months late!”

“I apologize, Mr. Brown. This therapy is so novel, the development took more time than anticipated.”

“And more money than you originally asked for!”

Brown’s voice was shrill, commanding.

“I did warn you the original amount may not be enough. This research is highly illegal, I had to pay extra just to avoid any…complications.”

“I’m not sure you can justify all the extra money you got, but no matter. Only one thing matters now. Are you reporting success or failure?”

“Success. We’re ready.”

“The stem cells, they finally worked?”

“Yes, we had to combine them with a cocktail of drugs, and we finally got the mixture right.”

“So, you can bring me back?”

“In theory, yes.”

“Theory is good enough for me. When will you be ready to perform the procedure?”

Lansing nodded to the bag he carried.

“I have the first batch with me. I anticipated you’d want to proceed immediately.”

Brown’s eyes gleamed.

“You can do it here and now? You need no other equipment?”

“No, the test animals revived after the injection alone. No CPR or defibrillation was required. But before we go ahead, please accept my advice and don’t do it.”

“I didn’t fund your opinion. I funded your research.”

Lansing glanced down at the man in the wheelchair. William Brown. An ordinary name for an extraordinary man. He had been a millionaire by thirty, a billionaire by fifty. Now, at seventy-five he was confined to a wheelchair with crippling arthritis. Lansing felt no sympathy; by all accounts Brown had made his wealth by being an unpleasant, grasping bastard. He was no philanthropist, he kept all his money for himself. Brown read his expression.

“I know you dislike me, Lansing. I don’t care.”

Brown spoke to the other person in the room.

“Push me over to the window, Lucas.”

Lucas, Brown’s personal secretary, did as he was told. Brown stared out at the lush garden beyond.

“I am a rich man, Lansing. Richer than you can possibly imagine. I’ve dined with kings and emperors. I’ve visited nearly every country on earth. I’ve even flown in space. ”

He pushed the chair round to face Lansing.

“In short, Dr. Lansing, I’ve lived a long and fulfilling life. I’ve done everything I‘ve ever wanted to do. The only thing I haven’t done is died. I am not scared of dying, quite the contrary in fact. I want to experience it, but I want to come back so I can savor the sensation. I want to experience what it feels like to die by poisoning, by electrocution; by a dozen different methods. Your treatment, the one I have paid so much for, will bring me back, restored and rejuvenated, so I can die again and again.”

Lansing was unimpressed. He’d heard the same speech a dozen times over the years.

“As I said, Mr. Brown, it should work…in theory.”

“Then let’s proceed.”

Brown looked at his personal secretary.

“I need someone to do the deed. Lucas, I want you to strangle me.”

Lucas didn’t move. Brown frowned angrily.

“Lucas, I order you to kill me. Lansing will bring me back, there’s no need to worry.”

Lucas laid his hands round his employer’s scrawny neck.

“Now Lucas! Do it!”

Lucas squeezed.

Lansing watched with horror and disgust. Lucas’s face was set, showing no emotion. Brown was ecstatic, his visage convulsed with pain and pleasure.

It was over within minutes. Lucas removed his hands and Brown slumped in his chair. Lucas was visibly shaking. His pampered existence hadn’t prepared him for such an experience. He looked up at the doctor.

“Dr. Lansing, give him the injection. Bring him back.”

Lansing smiled, a bitter grimace. He opened his bag, revealing an empty interior.

“I can’t, Lucas. There never was any therapy. I funneled all the money into cancer research. What he wanted was both immoral and impossible. I chose to help people instead. Despite himself, his money went to a good cause.”

Lucas looked stunned.

“Don’t worry Lucas, I didn’t completely cheat him. He wanted to experience death, and now he has. But once is enough, Lucas. Once is enough.”

∼ RJ Meldrum

A Christmas Story

November 26, 2025November 14, 2025 ~ Richard Meldrum ~ 3 Comments

The room looked like a scene from a Christmas movie. It was five o’clock and he was ready for their first Christmas together. Glancing round the lounge, he checked one last time to ensure everything was in place and just right. She would be home from work soon and he wanted it all to be perfect for her. It was a shame she had to work on Christmas Eve, but he’d lost his job and that meant she had to work as many hours as possible to keep up with the bills. He felt bad about it, but he did his best to make sure the house was tidy and there was always a meal ready for her when she got home.

The logs in the fireplace were burning brightly and the mantelpiece was festooned with a festive garland of holly, ivy and spruce. The Christmas tree sat in the corner of the lounge, resplendent with twinkling lights and sparkling baubles. It was a little bit too big for the room, but it was the perfect shape and you couldn’t beat having a real tree.

He’d placed Christmas decorations round the room, just as she had dictated. A pair of small pottery Victorian street scenes, backlit with tea-lights, sat on the mantelpiece. On the dresser was a small porcelain Christmas tree, complete with a tiny train winding its way up towards the star that crowned the top. Candles, dotted around the room added to the ambience.

He glanced at his watch again, if her train had been on schedule she would be at the station by now, climbing into her car to make the short drive home. He knew the roads were clear of snow, so it shouldn’t take her too long.

He clumsily knocked over a candle on the fireplace; it hit the stockings, causing an instant conflagration. Suddenly there was fire and smoke. He clutched his throat, he couldn’t breathe. His arms flailed about in front of him. He couldn’t see, couldn’t find his way out. He could feel the heat on his face, vaguely aware of the flames as they exploded from the fireplace and flowed like liquid over the Christmas tree. He stumbled over the furniture as he tried to escape. The noise of cracking wood and collapsing timbers was insanely loud. He fell to his knees in the smoke, blinded and choking. Darkness overtook him.

He woke and found himself still in the lounge. The room was a charred mess. He couldn’t quite believe it; somehow he had survived the inferno. He rose, checking his body. His clothes weren’t even charred, despite the heat of the fire. He stepped outside into the cold air of a winter’s night. The sky was clear, with twinkling stars and a full moon. It was quiet, the snow damping all sound. He glanced back at the house and saw skeletal roof timbers, black against the moonlight. The entire house had obviously been engulfed. Destroyed.

“How did I survive?”

He realised with a sense of infinite sadness he hadn’t. He couldn’t have. His body must have been completely cremated by the heat. He was…something. A ghost, a spirit. He felt nothing for himself, his sadness was for her. Thankfully, she hadn’t been home, that was the only saving grace. She had survived.

Weeks and months passed without notice. Time had no meaning in his new world. There were no seasons for him. It was always winter; it was always Christmas Eve. He knew he would forever be stuck in this ruined house, in the depths of winter. Alone.

His version of Hell was cold.

∼ RJ Meldrum

A Lovely Day

September 10, 2025August 30, 2025 ~ Richard Meldrum ~ 7 Comments

We gazed out from the promenade towards the sea. The tide was in and the sun glittered off the small waves heading towards shore. Despite the weather, the town was nearly empty. We’d snagged an ice cream from a harassed vendor who was on the verge of closing up. We wandered down to the sea front clutching our cones.

“Your ice cream is melting,” I said.

Lucy licked her fingers. Behind us a car roared away, its tires squealing. Maybe it was the ice cream vendor, there weren’t many folk left.

“What a waste of time.”

We watched the sea. I checked my watch. It was nearly time. I took Lucy’s hand.

“It’s been a lovely day.”

“It has.”

Above, the sky was ripped open and a fiery streak blazed overhead. It was predicted the asteroid would land somewhere in the mid-Atlantic. And then, that would be that.

“Yes, what a lovely day.”

∼ RJ Meldrum

The Winter Mice

June 25, 2025June 19, 2025 ~ Richard Meldrum ~ 4 Comments

In the summers they could forage or hunt to find food. Despite the destruction, food could still be found. Shelter wasn’t necessary, the weather was warm and they could comfortably sleep outdoors. It was only in the winters they needed to go indoors to seek shelter and scavenge for scraps to eat. They knew they couldn’t survive the harsh cold without refuge.

In late October the family, unnoticed, snuck into the lower level of the creatures’ habitation. They were awed by the size and scale of the structure; it was unimaginably huge and they felt very small and insignificant, but they had no other choice. They either sheltered here or they died.

The family avoided the traps, clumsily left out to catch them. The creatures were obviously aware of them, but didn’t seem to overly care about their presence. The pathetic number of survivors weren’t a threat to them, the surviving remnants had lost their status as the dominant species on the planet. The creatures no longer hunted them and except for the traps, the survivors were left to their own devices.

The family made a comfortable bed of straw and scavenged cloth amongst the other groups of other survivors. John looked round to make sure the children were settled. He saw tears cascading down Amanda’s face. She hadn’t really adapted to this new life, not even after two years. He took her hand and smiled, desperate to cheer her up.

“It’s not all bad, my love. The aliens might have eliminated most of humanity, but at least they let us shelter in their ships.”

∼ RJ Meldrum

The Grey Man

April 9, 2025April 2, 2025 ~ Richard Meldrum ~ 1 Comment

It was a lonely little spot, deep in the heart of the downtown sprawl. A small green space, neglected and forgotten. Developers had enthusiastically thrown up towering office and condo buildings all around, but for some reason this one spot had been saved. There was no particular reason for its existence. The towers surrounding it meant the space got very little sunlight and the grass and shrubs were anemic and wilted. It was rarely visited.

I was new to the city and frankly, unhappy. I hated my new workplace and I hated the people. It was all so…corporate, with ‘colleagues’ scrambling over each other to smarm their way to higher positions. Networking. Circling back. Thinking outside the box. Faking it until making it. Meanwhile, the companies my corporation owned continued to pump pollutants into the environment and pay huge dividends to the shareholders. After six months in the place, I was finding myself becoming a socialist. I decided to stick at it, but desperately needed a safe space during the day, to rid myself of the toxins generated by my colleagues. It was completely by accident that I wandered down a neglected alleyway between two buildings, a lane no more than six feet wide. There, I found the tiny, overlooked patch of faded green which seemed to be the perfect place for me, an oasis of calm for my lunchtimes.

The first time I entered the park I quickly realized that I wasn’t alone, something which initially disappointed me.

The small grey man sat quietly on the single park bench. He didn’t appear to notice me, despite my smile and muttered greeting. He simply stared ahead, ignoring me completely.

When I tell this story to others, the first question I always get is ‘what do you mean by grey?’. That’s probably in your mind too. That was just the impression he gave off. His fair, his clothes, his face. They all seemed drained of color. Grey.

Over the next few weeks, whenever I had time to take a lunch break I made a point of going to the park. Every time I went, the small grey man was there. Every time he ignored me, much to my annoyance. I was by this time aware of the legendary rudeness of city dwellers, but this was too much. I didn’t necessarily expect a conversation or even a greeting, but to completely ignore me after all this time was just beyond the pale. There wasn’t even eye contact, the most basic of human responses.

I decided to do something about it. Rather than settling on a bench as far as possible from him, I stood directly in front of the grey man. He still failed to acknowledge my existence. Feeling slightly enraged, I bent to touch him on his shoulder in an attempt to, at the very least, move his gaze from the middle distance towards me, his constant companion. To my amazement, my hand passed through his shoulder and, unchecked, bumped into the wood of the bench. I have very little recollection of my actions after that, but I came back to reality to find myself standing in the street, surrounded by people, cars and noise. I almost blessed the concrete jungle I had previously disdained. I glanced back at the narrow alleyway leading back to the park and shuddered at my recent experience, realizing the grey man was a permanent inhabitant of the park. No wonder it was always empty.

Suffice to say, I never returned.

∼ RJ Meldrum

Diversion

January 22, 2025January 18, 2025 ~ Richard Meldrum ~ 3 Comments

Initially, my journey had gone to plan. It wasn’t until I was instructed by the GPS to turn off the highway onto a narrow country road that the problems started. Just as my tires crunched onto the dirt road, the clouds, threatening all day, finally released their snow. I checked the GPS and saw I had about fifty miles to go. I decided I could make it, as long as the snow didn’t get worse.

It got worse.

I found myself crawling along at about ten miles an hour. The snow was settling and the going was slippery. I had neglected to put on my winter tires and could feel the car losing traction and sliding dangerously towards the ditch. I slowed to a crawl, worried I might lose control. The wind buffeted my car, making the going even more unsteady. It didn’t take me long to notice my GPS had malfunctioned, it was showing I was still on the highway. My cell phone had no bars. I realized I had no idea where I was going. The road was too narrow to turn round. I decided to keep going, to try to find a house where I could ask for directions.

“Why the hell didn’t he just agree to meet me at the office?”

I already knew the answer; rich clients expected their architects to come to them, not the other way round. I had to drive out of the city to meet my newest potential customer at his country estate. He didn’t care if it was February or if snow was forecast; the planning meeting was scheduled for today. If I refused to attend; well, there were plenty of other eager, young architects happy to step into my shoes.

The road started to incline. I floored the accelerator to keep my momentum up. My car wasn’t four-wheel drive. I reached the top, just.

As I crested the hill, there was a four-way stop. There was a police cruiser parked up and a cop standing beside it, wearing a high visibility jacket. I lowered my window, feeling the biting cold of the wind for the first time.

“Is there a problem?”

“The road is closed. Please turn left and follow the diversion.”

His voice was strangely flat. I guessed he was bored.

“Thank you!”

There was no response.

I turned left and headed down the hill. A sign told me a place called the Witch’s Gorge was two miles away. As I drove, an idea dawned on me. I nearly slapped myself. I should have asked the cop where I was and how to get to my destination. Luckily, this road was a bit wider, so I could turn the car round, albeit with some difficulty, and head back up the hill. As I arrived at the top, I saw him still standing by the police cruiser.

“Do you know how to get to the Croxley house from here?”

“The road is closed. Please turn left and follow the diversion.”

“I know, you just told me. I just want some directions. I’m lost.’

“The road is closed. Please turn left and follow the diversion.”

“You just said that. Are you okay?”

I got out my car, thinking he was suffering from hypothermia or something. As I got closer I realized something was definitely wrong. The figure was lumpy and misshapen. Instinctively, I put my hand out. My hand encountered something that felt like straw. I used my cell phone to illuminate the face. A pair of very human eyes stared out at me from a mass of dried grass, topped by a police officer’s cap. The eyes were alive, full of pain and despair.

“The road is closed. Please turn left and follow the diversion.”

There was no mouth.

The next few moments were a blur. I vaguely remember running through the snow, jumping into my car and hitting the accelerator. The next memory was reaching the highway. I made it home in record time. I never did get to meet my rich client.

No-one believed me. I wasn’t sure I believed it myself. It took a few days for the news to emerge, but then it hit all the main outlets. Five abandoned cars, including a police cruiser, had been found near the Witch’s Gorge, stuck in deep snow. There was no sign of the occupants. The assumption was they’d left their vehicles and wandered off into the snowy wilderness. The authorities termed the search a ‘recovery operation’, meaning they were looking for bodies. I suspected they wouldn’t be found and I was right.

The road hadn’t really been closed. Something had set up the terrifying straw effigy, something that was smart enough to understand the prey it sought. Something had taken the eyes and the vocal cords from one of the victims and crafted a facsimile; something that was close enough to pass for a cop. Something that could fool us. The victims were sent down towards the gorge, and God alone what happened to them then.

I was grateful I’d escaped, but it was pure, unadulterated luck. What still keeps me from sleeping is the sure and certain knowledge that whatever killed those folks is, without a doubt, still out there.

∼ RJ Meldrum

Nature is Red

November 13, 2024November 8, 2024 ~ Richard Meldrum ~ 4 Comments

The neighbor’s dog was staring at him through the fence. He quickly lifted the air rifle and fired. There was a distinct yelp as the pellet made contact. The dog disappeared. He smiled in satisfaction. First blood of the day; it hopefully wouldn’t be the last. There was a call from indoors.

“Jeremy dear, is everything okay?”

“Yes, mother, nothing to worry about.”

“That’s good, dear. Enjoy yourself!”

He reloaded his gun. His pockets were full of lead pellets and he was headed out into the countryside to see what he could kill. He suspected he would enjoy himself.

He walked down the lane towards the woods. It was Wednesday; he was meant to be at school, but he’d persuaded mother he was too ill to go. He’d also persuaded her to let him go to the woods with his air rifle. He told her it was for target shooting; he just hadn’t clarified the targets he had in mind were still alive.

It was spring, and the trees were green, giving plenty of cover for the wildlife. He entered the woods and sat on a log. He lifted the gun to his shoulder and peered through the scope. The woods were alive with noise and he watched the branches carefully. A bird landed on a nearby tree. He levelled his gun, aimed and fired. The bird fell in a pathetic heap on the ground. First kill. Keeping his eye against the scope, he surveyed the bushes. Pop! Another bird fell dead, then a third. Jeremy was both a sadist and a crack shot.

He moved from spot to spot, each time killing a couple of birds. He didn’t bother with the corpses; he wasn’t interested in anything but killing. Time passed quickly. Four o’clock found him sitting in a wooded glade, miles from anywhere. Through the scope, he noticed a pair of eyes staring at him from a bush. He recognized them as human, but he was still tempted to fire. He stood.

“You might as well come out.”

A kid of about ten emerged.

“You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you.”

“Cool gun. Can I touch it?”

“No, you’re just a kid. This isn’t a toy.”

He stretched.

“What are you doing? Are you hunting?” asked the kid.

“I’m heading home. I’m getting bored, shooting birds is too easy.”

“We could go up to the stone circle. I saw some bigger birds up there the other day. Rabbits too.”

The notion of fresh blood was too tempting.

“There better be kid, or I’ll thump you.”

“I promise.”

“Let’s go then.”

Jeremy climbed the hill to the ancient stone circle, with the boy following. The stones sat on top of a low hill, overlooking the village. Jeremy had been up here numerous times, forced by mother to go on Sunday walks, or with his teacher, on field trips. His teacher had mentioned something about the history of the circle in class, but Jeremy hadn’t been paying attention. Something to do with Pagan rites.

He knelt and propped his weapon against a fallen stone. The boy knelt down beside him. Jeremy scanned the area but saw nothing.

“There’s nothing here, kid.”

The boy pointed.

“There! A fox!”

He was right, just at the edge of the circle stood a fox, sniffing the air. It hadn’t noticed them. Jeremy put his eye to the scope and pressed the trigger. The creature dropped.

“And that seals the deal,” said the boy beside him in an adult voice.

“Huh?”

The boy jumped up onto the stone. He started to spin, round and round.

“What the fuck are you doing kid? Stop it, before I thump you.”

The spinning became a blur; it wasn’t possible, but it was happening right before Jeremy’s eyes.

“Stop!”

The boy stopped, but he was no longer a boy. In front of Jeremy stood a vision from hell. The figure had the legs of some sort of animal and the top half of a human, except for the two horns that sprouted from his forehead.

“What the hell? Who are you?”

The creature wagged its finger playfully.

“Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy. I thought you’d recognize me. Your poor old mummy would be disappointed after paying so much for that expensive school.”

He hopped down from the stone.

“I’m Pan.”

“Huh?”

“The god. Nice to meet you.”

“Huh?”

“You failed today’s test, you know. You killed too many animals.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh well, what’s done is done. Let’s not dwell on your stupidity, let’s move to the main act.”

“What’s that?”

“Nature, red in tooth and claw. Isn’t that what you humans say?”

“I think so.”

The creature stared at him.

“Gosh, you are dumb, aren’t you?”

“You’re rude. I’m going home now.”

Jeremy turned to leave the stone circle, but realized he was surrounded by all sorts of creatures. There were deer, foxes, badgers, rats, mice, dogs, rabbits and cats.

“I’m afraid you can’t leave. My friends have come to meet you, to see the monster that decimated their ranks. You killed for pleasure, for no reason at all. I wouldn’t have minded if you hunted for food, but just for sport? No. Horrible, only humans are cruel enough to do that. And so, I have a little lesson in mind for you.”

“A lesson? What do you mean?”

“Well, at the risk of spoiling the surprise, we are here to show you, convincingly I might add, that nature is indeed red in tooth and claw. Very red.”

The animals around him moved closer. Jeremy didn’t even have the chance to scream.

∼ RJ Meldrum

The Wolfshead

August 14, 2024July 31, 2024 ~ Richard Meldrum ~ 3 Comments

I’m an author. I specialize in ghost stories, but the ones I write aren’t very scary. My tales tend to be more of the cozy variety. Ghost pets, friendly specters and the like. I enjoy what I do, but there’s one thing missing. I’ve never achieved my biggest ambition of writing a truly terrifying tale. I wanted to write a story that will give my readers nightmares. Better still, I wanted to spin a tale that will stop them from sleeping altogether.

I realized the key was atmosphere. I needed to find somewhere away from the suburban streets where I live. Somewhere windswept and interesting. Somewhere on the moors. It had to be Dartmoor, the spookiest part of England. My job gave me four weeks of vacation every year. My wife allowed me two weeks, no more.

“If you can’t write a terrifying tale in two weeks, then you never will, especially surrounded by all that atmosphere. Me and kids need a break, that’s what the other two weeks are for.”

“Just you wait. I’ll bring back a story that will make me famous!”

I chose the remotest corner of the moor. I chose February, when there are no tourists and the weather was guaranteed to be lousy. I deliberately didn’t go through any websites to find a hotel; I didn’t want to choose a location known by anyone else. I simply drove the back roads until I found somewhere I could stay. It took a few hours, but then I turned a corner and there it was. An isolated inn, standing on the edge of a barren, wind-blasted stretch of heath. It was rundown, with faded, peeling timber and a mossy roof. The only clue it was open to the public was a sign hanging from a gibbet at the entrance. The Wolfshead. I parked and entered.

It was one of those old-fashioned places, so beloved by the British. Low ceilings, exposed beams and an array of agricultural equipment on display. An open fire warmed the room. The room was empty, except for a man standing behind the bar. I presumed this was the landlord. He sipped from a glass of amber liquid.

“I’d like a room for a few days.”

“Not a problem, we’re not exactly busy.”

He was clearly intoxicated.

I was shown to my room. It was small, with a low ceiling and a single bed. It was scruffy, but clean. There was a stained desk and chair by the window, which had a view across the moor. This was the atmosphere I craved.

My evening was spent in the awkward company of the landlord. He managed to assemble some bread and cheese for me to eat. I ate this meager meal and sipped a warm beer.

It reached midnight. The landlord, who was very drunk by this time, made a feeble attempt to tidy up a few glasses, but quickly gave up after he dropped one, the glass shattering over the stone floor. He clicked off the lights and stumbled out the main bar. I heard him wobbling up the stairs. It was obvious he’d forgotten I was there. By firelight, I finished my pint and went to bed.

In my room, I glanced out the window. There was nothing but darkness, with only the occasional light in the distance to show the location of an isolated farm. It was quite the contrast to my home in the city. I slid into bed. It was very comfortable and I was tired, so I dropped off almost immediately.

I was woken a few hours later by the smell of smoke. I leapt from the bed and switched on the bedside light. Smoke was seeping under the door. I placed my hand against the wood. It was hot. There was fire on the other side. I dared not open it, I knew the room would be engulfed. My only option was the window. I grabbed my phone, wallet and car keys. I opened the window and looked down. It was a drop of perhaps ten feet to the ground. I eased myself out, hung onto the frame and lowered myself. I let go and dropped the few remaining feet onto soft grass.

I ran to the front of the building, but I could already see that it was engulfed in flames. There was nothing I could do. I tried my phone, but there was no reception. I decided to head over the moors to the nearest lights. Since I didn’t know the roads, I decided to head straight across the heath on foot. It wasn’t the best option, but it was my only choice.

It took me about thirty minutes to reach the nearest farm. I was exhausted, scratched and covered in mud. I stumbled into the farm’s kitchen. Despite the hour there was a man sitting by the fire, drinking from a mug. I was gasping from my exertions.

“The Wolfshead! It’s burning to the ground. I can’t find the landlord!”

He remained sitting by the fire, and rubbed the stubble on his chin; not quite the reaction I expected.

“The Wolfshead, you say? Can’t be. That place burnt down years back. Just a ruin now. Landlord got drunk every night. One night he was killed.”

“It’s in flames right now! Even if you don’t believe me, can I least use your phone?”

“Don’t have one.”

Clearly, there would be no help here. I decided to head back to the inn, hoping the emergency services had been notified. I expected to see ominous red glow of the fire to help guide me, but there was nothing but darkness. I stumbled my way across the moor, wondering what on earth was happening. I found the inn after getting lost twice. I stared in amazement at the ruin I found. It was the Wolfshead, the sign was still there, but the windows were all boarded-up and it was surrounded by metal fencing, with stark No Entry signs posted. A forlorn For Sale sign had been attached to the wall near the entrance. The farmer had been correct, this place had been a ruin for years. My car sat in the car park, a very welcome sight. I jumped in, thankful for the chance to go home, to escape that bleak, haunted place. I tried not to think about what had just happened to me.

My wife was pleased to see me back so early, but disguised her emotions with a display of annoyance, complaining that I’d disturbed her ‘me’ time. I was bitterly disappointed, not just because of my traumatic experience, but because I hadn’t written my story. But every cloud has a silver lining. It was my wife who gave me the idea.

“Not that I believe you about what happened, but if it’s true, it all sounds pretty terrifying. Why don’t you just write that?”

And so, I have!

∼ RJ Meldrum

Hot Feet

May 15, 2024May 4, 2024 ~ Richard Meldrum ~ 2 Comments

It was hot; one of those vile, humid city days when the heat was oppressive and inescapable. Despite the early hour, the temperature was already ridiculously high. The heat wave had been going on for a week and even the overnight temperatures were ridiculously high. He stood at the bus-stop, waiting for the morning bus to arrive. It was late. He was already sweating, he could feel damp patches forming under his arms and sweat trickling down his back and face. The city streets were busy, the traffic roaring and honking through rush hour. Across the street the noise of drills, saws and hammering came from a construction site. The city noise disturbed and distracted him. There was a kid next to him, wearing headphones plugged into a cell phone. The kid must have had the volume turned right up, because he could hear the music over the sound of the city…the thump, thump, thump of a drumbeat, with some indistinct vocals screaming out. His head started to ache, the pain pulsing in time to the music. His feet, encased in cheap leather shoes, absorbed the heat from the sidewalk. He felt angry, on edge. Stupid kid, stupid music; a pointless noise. The temperature increased, his head felt as if it was about to split open, his feet burned. He could feel his fingers balling into fists. He was aware he was about to hit the kid, knock him down and smash his phone to stop the noise. He took a huge, deep breath of warm, fetid air and willed himself to stop.

It wasn’t the kid; it was the heat. The damned heat.

Without thinking he reached down, removed his shoes and pulled off his socks. He stepped off the sidewalk onto a small grassy area next to the bus stop. It was part of the entrance to an office building. A sprinkler sprayed water onto this modest green space. He stood on the freshly watered grass, feeling the cool blades between his toes and the moist soil on his soles. His headache suddenly diminished, the pain dissipating in an instant. He felt cooler and he could feel himself calming down. He looked up to see the kid grinning at him. He smiled back. He knew he looked foolish, but he didn’t care. Being laughed at was better than him hurting a kid half his age.

The bus arrived and he climbed aboard barefoot, clutching his shoes and socks. He whistled as he paid his fare. The air conditioned interior of the bus was a blessing, but it was only the icing on the cake. His day was already looking up.

∼ RJ Meldrum