Author: Alexander Fawn

She was a quiet girl with red hair, and naturally had the freckles to go with it.

As unremarkable as she was, freckles notwithstanding, in general appearance, she had recently discovered something truly remarkable about herself that would irrevocably change the rest of her life. It had come to her in a vivid dream, after falling asleep still holding the notes for her school essay on reincarnation. It was during this apparent slumber that it was given to her to know that centuries ago, and in a past life, she had been a powerful sorceress. At some length, she found herself engrossed in a discussion about spells and enchantments and how they can be used, with some unseen second party. More surprisingly, she learnt that these awesome powers were still with her!
On waking, she had real doubts about the validity of these revelations, especially the latter one. It was for this reason, and because she had woken extremely early, that she proceeded to test her powers with a number of demonstrations performed in her room, proving conclusively that all that she had been told was undeniably true. Somewhat shaken by the entire affair, she nevertheless realised that her life, going forward, would take on a completely different direction.
Although it was not at all clear how any of this would pan out, the one thing she did know was that the nasty boy that sat behind her at school, who continually called her spotty and poked her in the back with his ruler, will have a hard job explaining why his few facial pimples had so rapidly multiplied in number and had developed into large, yellow pus-filled blisters.

They were in the back garden talking about the tree.
The man from the landscaping company was saying it should be removed as it was too close to the house for comfort and it was almost dead, anyway. The owner was not sure. His late wife had loved the thing. He said he would have to think about it. He was happy with the rest of the expert’s suggestions and it was agreed that his people would be there the following week to improve the look of the place. When the man had gone the owner stood looking at the tree and thinking about what she would have wanted, but maybe the man was right.
That night, he was lying in bed thinking about it. The tree was certainly close to the house because he could hear the thing scraping at the bedroom window, a sound he couldn’t remember hearing before. Maybe he was hearing it now because it was on his mind. He lay there, not being able to get to sleep with the constants scrapes and clicks. He listened for a while and became aware that there seemed to be some sort of repeated pattern to the sounds. The first thing he picked up on was the fact that a definite triple click was each time followed by a scrape. It was certainly repeated quite regularly. His mind went immediately to the letter ‘v’ in Morse code. He knew about the ‘v’, click, click, click, scrape; dot, dot, dot, dash… the notes from Beethoven’s fifth symphony. Surely not, he thought, but as he listened it became obvious that what he was hearing was without doubt a repeated sequence. The ‘v’ came around in the same spot within the cycle of sounds.
He was now sitting up giving the noises more attention. There were ‘e’s in there too. The most common letter in the alphabet. He could hear that being repeated over and over. They were just single clicks. Then he recognised the recurring ‘s’. Three distinct clicks. The ‘s’ from the SOS distress signal for Save Our Souls. That was about the limit of his knowledge regarding the code.

It was two in the morning when he got up. He used his computer to print off a copy of the Morse code. Now, back in his room, he listened carefully to the clicks and scrapes while he converted them to letters using the print out. He waited for the ‘v’ to come round, then noted down v, e, m, e, s, a, v, e, m, e, s, a, v… Bit by bit, the missive was coming together, and he quickly saw the words ‘save me’. Despite the fact that what he was experiencing couldn’t possibly happen, he actually slept very well that night. In the morning he made a phone call to advise the company of his decision to leave the tree standing when their work on his garden began the following week.
When the remodelling of the back garden was finished and a couple of weeks had passed, he noticed the odd tiny buds appearing here and there on the tips of the tree’s branches. Then, during the months that followed, the tree showed more and more leaves. It became something of a talking point when it became fully green. Several of his visitors would say that it was quite remarkable how it had come back to life. He would just nod proudly.
He never talked about the how of it.

There were so many sightings; so many cases of people going missing, all around the world.
There were believers and there were nonbelievers. He fell into the latter category. He had completed his schooling with good grades and now had a science degree under his belt. This, he was quite sure, meant that he was a perfectly intelligent person, fully aware of what was real and what was not. The fact was, there was so much bunkum being spread around by newspaper articles along with television news reports about supposed events. It was some kind of mass hysteria that was spreading worldwide, he thought. He would relish the thought that he, and he alone, could put an end to all forms of speculation about aliens buzzing the planet and their taking unsuspecting humans on board for whatever nefarious purposes the rumourmongers could dream up. This idea, this desire to be the one to put an end to the nonsense, seemed to grow with the titillating reports. In fact, he felt that the time had come.
He did his research. He found that so many of the most sensational and prolific reports were coming from a particular site in the UK. It was a specific area, close to a military base on the east coast of England. Supposedly, these nightly events were occurring with such amazing regularity, according to most news sources, that it meant that this would be the place that this valiant debunker would head for. He took a flight and made his way to the very spot that he had read so much about. So much so, that once there he felt a strong sense of familiarity with the stretch of open woodlands and even more so with the clearing he was standing in. It was this feeling of being surprisingly comfortable in this hitherto unknown place that had him quietly standing still for over an hour into the late evening.

Although he couldn’t explain it, he was not in any way startled by the sudden appearance of an alien craft hovering silently in the night sky. In fact, it was with a feeling of building euphoria that he watched the craft slide across and take up a position directly over his head. At this point, he was hardly aware of his raising his arms. He watched as a glow began to appear beneath the ship. The beam seemed to descend slowly. It finally lit the ground a short distance away.
He stood, waving his arms.
The spotlight moved towards him.
Then… he was gone!

The defendant was on trial for attempted murder.
There had been a lot of public interest in the case and as a consequence the courtroom was packed. Emotions were running high and the judge had needed to use his gavel several times.
The prosecutor rose. “Members of the jury, I put it to you that what we are dealing with here is a particularly distasteful crime. You have heard the testimony of the witness; that he saw the defendant deliberately cast the poor, helpless animal down the shaft to what may well have been its death.”

He waved his arm across the court. “Had it not been for young…” he glanced down at a paper, “…young Tommy Snout, seeing this atrocity and rushing forward to rescue the animal from the aforementioned well, before any real harm was done, there can be no doubt that the cat would have drowned.”
He picked up and held another document. “You’ve heard the testimony of the farmer, who has indicated the value he placed on the animal; in his opinion, it being an excellent ‘mouser’.”
He turned and glared at the accused in the dock.
Johnny Flynn squirmed.

He was known for coming up with all kinds of conspiracy theories.
So, it wasn’t unusual for his friend to get a phone call one evening telling him how he had unearthed yet another plot. They had known each other since school and the conspiracy theorist had been full of ideas about what was really going on in the world even back then. The only difference between this call and all the other claims was that he said he had proof, actual, real, hard physical evidence that something really dodgy was going on. He was extremely excited and wanted to come round straight away with the evidence. Although he didn’t always agree with his friends ideas, he was always happy to listen to them. Although this particular request to visit out of the blue was unexpected, he agreed.
His eyes were blazing with excitement when he arrived. Without wasting time, he held up a small thumb drive and asked, “Can I use the computer?”
The other said, “Sure, go ahead.”

He plugged it in, saying, “A friend of mine took this a couple of weeks ago.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll see.”
A video started to play. Staring at the screen, he asked, “What am I looking at here?”
“In short, Landfill Pit 9B.”
“I don’t see…”
“Just watch,” the theorist interrupted, “it only goes for a couple of minutes. Watch it first.” When it ended, he turned to his friend. “Did you see that? Did you see what was being tipped into the pit?”
The other just shrugged. “Well, rubbish, I suppose. That’s what rubbish tips are for, right?”
“Yes, but that’s not rubbish!”
“It isn’t?”
“No, my friend. That’s recycling material. You know, the stuff that’s put into special bins. It’s meant to be kept separate, of course. Let me show you.”
He ran it again, but stopped it at the point where it was cascading out of the back of the truck. “There!” he cried, pointing to the screen. See that? That’s not rubbish. These are items that have been saved for recycling. Look, paper, cardboard, newspapers, magazines, bottles, jars, milk cartons, aluminium cans, aerosol cans and other stuff. All items that people have gone to the trouble of separating!”
His friend was impressed with what he saw. With a questioning look, he said, “And your friend, what does he have to say about all this?”
‘Nothing, I’m afraid.”
“He must be a fellow conspiracy theorist like yourself.”
“He was.”
“What do you mean, he was?”
“Ah! He hasn’t been heard of for a while.”
“What do you mean? Where is he?”
“Officially, he’s listed as a missing person.”
“And unofficially?”
“Unofficially, Pit 9B.”

He was about to open the door when he saw it.
He had worked late in the office. It was dark in the open air carpark behind the building. It had been the briefest of moments, but he had registered the transaction in the few seconds that he stood watching. He recognise one of the men, a well-known politician. He was on the TV news regularly. He didn’t know the other, the man handing over a fat envelope. He shouldn’t have unlocked the car. He should have stayed silent, ducked down even; but he didn’t. The ‘blip’ of his car when he pressed the button on the remote made the men swing around. He had been seen. Acting as casually as possible, he climbed in, started the engine and drove out of the carpark.
That was yesterday.
He knows he had witnessed something he really shouldn’t have. There was nothing he could do about that. This night he had stayed even later. He looked down at the carpark from time to time, watching it empty. He was prepared to be the last to leave; to satisfy himself that he wouldn’t be followed. It was all he could do. It was very late when he went up to the third floor window to check. There were only two cars left; his and one other. A large, black, shiny saloon with tinted windows. He recognised it. It was the car the men had stood by the night before. As he watched, a door flew open and a man dressed in dark clothing jumped out. He stood looking up for a moment, then marched quickly towards the building.

The witness realised that he’d been seen. He raced out to the lifts. He was already on the top floor. He opened the door to the roof and ran up the stairs. He came out onto a vast, flat roof that covered the building. There was nowhere to hide! As he stood there in the quiet of the night, he heard the whine of the lift coming up. He had nowhere to run. He walked to the far edge and looked down. He heard the sound of the lift stop. He stood frozen until the man appeared. He had a gun; it was pointed at him. He looked back down again. He would never survive the fall. The man was moving closer, walking slowly, arm straight out, holding the gun. He knew that either the fall or a bullet would kill him.
The man was now in front of him, with the barrel pressed against his chest. He looked apologetic when he said, “I’m sorry about this. I’m sure you realise, I have no choice.” He thrust the gun forward and the other toppled backwards over the edge.
As he bounced in the safety net, the director shouts “Cut!”

She was no longer prepared to put up with his strange behaviour.
It was not a case of her being unaware of his weirdness, she’d known about that from the day she moved in with him. It was the weird practice of what he called ‘water gathering’ that she just couldn’t stand any longer. It seemed to be some sort of eighteenth-century ritual that he felt compelled to carry out on a regular basis. She could never see the point of it. After all, every tap in the unit had hot and cold running water: the shower worked just fine and the toilet flushed. It just seemed so much trouble to go to. Climbing up all that way to the town’s water reservoir just to get what was such a relatively small volume of water.
For her, the big wakeup call came when they both lost their footing coming down. Then, there was the bizarre business of him wrapping paper, soaked in something that smelt horrible around his head; some quaint old remedy, apparently. At the same time, she had been just about covered with bruises. It was at this point that she fully realised that he was a complete nutter.
Her bags were packed and she’d be long gone by the time he got home.
She sat, scribbling a note that she’d leave under a fridge magnet.
It read, ‘Sorry, couldn’t put up with it any longer. Goodbye and thanks for nothing. By the way, I put a big hole in your bucket!
Jill.’

She looked at the clock, knowing that hospital afternoon visits were two hours away.
A week ago she’d been told that it was only a matter of days. Considering her age and the fact that she was being made very comfortable by the nurses, she was quite content to end her days where she was. How much better than the way so many poor souls pass on, she thought. She had had a good long life, she considered, and had nothing to complain about. The only disappointment she felt was about her neighbour and very best friend that hadn’t visited during the morning, the way she normally did. They had known each other for just about the whole of their long lives and had always been very close.

She looks at the clock again. Maybe, she wasn’t able to make it and will visit this afternoon, she thought. She really hoped so, because the tiredness that had been growing over the past few days was becoming more intense. She was sure that she was coming to the end. It would have been lovely to see her just one last time. While she was thinking this, she began to slip into sleep.
The movement at the side of the bed woke her. She turned and saw her friend pulling up a chair and smiling. “Sorry I couldn’t make it earlier, dear,” she said, making herself comfortable.
“I’m so glad you could make it, because I think the time for me is close. It’s lovely to see you.” She looked at the clock and said in a weakening voice, “Ah! They let you in early I see. I’m sure that’s because they all know you here. It has been so good to see you each day. I can’t tell you how much your visits have meant to me.” Her friend took her hand and gave it a squeeze.
Minutes later, the nurse and the doctor were by her bed. The doctor was entering the time of death on her chart when he said, “I must say the timing is a relief for me.” He hung the clipboard back at the end of the bed. He let out a sigh. “I know how close she was to her friend. She was always talking about her. Once visiting hours had started I felt I should come and let her know that she won’t be visiting because she had a heart attack this morning and died before she arrived at the hospital. I wasn’t looking forward to telling her that.”

The billionaire had made his money and his empire ran itself.
He no longer needed to be on board. Those left in charge were capable of seeing that global profits only went up. He had worked hard to build what he had and was now intent on pulling back, pulling away. He had been planning his getaway to a hidey-hole for some time. It was finally settled with everything payed for. The deeds for the castle were now in his possession and he had made arrangements for his new life to be catered for with a selected vehicle and living-in staff all hired and in place. In short, the various hiring agencies and providers he had employed assured him that everything was as requested and in place, and all would be ready on his arrival in a quaint little town in Eastern Europe. The building was extremely old but quite magnificent. This fact that it was indeed a castle served to take care of one of his whims of childhood. Despite his being a hardened business man he had many of these.
It had come to his notice, while researching the history of his new home, that his own somewhat unusual family name being Rankenbine, did have a similar sound to the name Frankenstein, for the untrained ear. Such a thought was dismissed at the time, being seen as just another echo back to his childhood whims.
On arrival, he met the staff and thanked them all for being prepared to both serve him as master of the castle and to take care of and maintain such a large property. He noted a degree of nervousness, an emotion that they all seemed to have in common. He imagined that, peasants as they were, coming face to face with an illustrious man of wealth coming from the west, was likely to have this sort of effect at first. In the early few days, he chose to spend time familiarising himself with the town. He went for several walks, looking at shops and buildings, occasionally entering an establishment to make himself known as their new neighbour. Doing this, he detected the same presence of anxiety he had seen displayed by his employees. Even in the streets, he was aware of receiving odd looks from the locals.
His favourite room in the castle was the study that had been set up according to his instructions. He had chosen the furnishings and was pleased to find that the large desk he had chosen was located by the window as requested. This gave him an expansive view of the front grounds and the long driveway up to the building. He felt sure that in this peaceful and secluded place he would spend many an idyllic evening with no thought if anything other than his own well-deserved comfort.
No more than a week had gone by when, on one such quiet evening, while smoking a cigar and reading Dickens, his spell was broken. The silence was broken. He became aware of a growing cacophony of voices coming from outside. He pulled back the curtain a little and saw a great procession of people, far greater than the population of the town, slowly making their way towards the castle. Most were carrying torches. They all seemed to be armed with pointed staffs, pitchforks and scythes. The blazing procession grew nearer and the chanting louder.

It was only an ancient whim that stirred the peasants. Such townspeople and those from surrounding villages had long memories, going back generations.
They seemed to be chanting his name… or was it that other one?

He loved spending time in his garden, especially at the front.
The rose bushes that formed a hedge along the front of his property were his pride and joy; probably more pride than joy. For him, putting on his gloves and taking up his special pruning shears, made him a man with a purpose. These beautiful bushes, were, after all, what passers-by saw. They made a statement. He had planted them all himself and it was this pruning routine that gave him the greatest pleasure. This precious activity was brought to a halt when the man appeared.
“I should turn myself in,” was the first thing he said, looking around nervously. He went on with a crazed look in his eyes. “I know I should. It’s only a matter of time.”
The man waved his shears. “Sorry. Do I know you?”
“Probably not, I live a couple of streets over from here. But, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’ve killed her! I finally did it. I could see it coming. I knew it would happen eventually if she kept seeing… him!”
“Ehm. You’re not making much sense.”
The man lifted two bloody hands. “I’m on the run, you see,” he said. “Well, I think I am.” He stood thinking. “Maybe not. I know where he lives. Two murders? What’s the difference? I’m going out of my mind. Two murders or one, what difference could it make? Yes, I know where he lives. He caused all this!” He pulled a large, stained kitchen knife from the back of his belt and held it up. “Yes. I know what to do now, thank you.” With this, he ran off laughing maniacally, and shouting, “Yes! Yes!”
The gardener leaned forward, parting the thorny stems and watched the man racing up the street at great speed. As he did this, he noticed something that horrified him. The blood ran cold in his veins as he pulled on the stem with a trembling hand to inspect the leaf.

With a short cry of, “Black Spot!” he dropped his pruners and ran to the shed for his fungicide spray.