The Old Maid and Other Stories
Three weird tales by
Rufus Woodward
Olgada Press
Chapbook no. 2
2015
www.shorecliffhorror.com
First published in the United Kingdom in 2015 by The Olgada Press, Edinburgh, UK.
All rights reserved
Copyright Olgada 2015
The right of Olgada to be identified as the authors of this book has been asserted by them under the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form, by any means, with prior permission of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Contents
The Old Maid
Cold Companion
Ghost Story (Not Scary)
The Old Maid
Three figures walk along an empty beach. It’s mid morning. The sun is climbing in the sky, the tide far out. Great flocks of seagulls sit on the wet sand by the water’s edge, basking in the morning summer sun. Occasionally they stir themselves to pull an insect from the sand, to flap and peck at one another, their sharp calls rising and shrieking above the low, lethargic roll of the sea. It’s warm already, getting warmer all the time. The three figures are walking in their shirt sleeves and bare arms, sweaters tied around waists or stuffed in the bags they each carry slung over their shoulders. It’s going to be one more hot day of a hot summer, each day longer and more languid than the last. Everyone has been feeling it. All the way along this coast, the seaside towns have been filling up early, the popular parts at least – every grey, concrete promenade, every brightly painted pier, every amusement arcade, every sticky, sweaty cafe - even this early in the day they’re filling up with families, with couples, with groups of sulking teenagers, everyone looking for a breath of cool air or a cold splash of sea water to keep the heat away.
Those are the towns, though, and it is not like that out here. Out here where the three figures are walking there’s no one else to be seen. Whether that’s because this is too far from the deck chairs and the ice cream vans for anyone else to venture, or whether there might be some other reason, is not important. All that matters is that they have the beach to themselves. They’re walking quickly. Two girls. Sisters. One just a few years older than the other. And a boy, of an age with the older sister, his shirt wide open at the neck, his fair hair flopping carelessly over his face so that he has to flick it back or push it aside with his hand every few steps. They’re walking quickly and talking quickly too, their faces bright and happy, their smiles wide and naive. The sound of their laughter carries far across the beach, mixing in with the seagulls and the waves as though they’re in competition, each staking a claim for their ownership of the shore.
They are friends, obviously, but, just as obviously, they haven’t known one another for very long. They’re still getting to know each other, this fair-haired boy and these two sisters. The girls are dancing around themselves as they walk, sometimes skipping ahead arm in arm, sometimes linking arms with the boy and pulling him along with them. Why they should be in such a hurry no one, not even they themselves, could say. Maybe they’re not. Maybe they’re just aware of how short even the longest, hottest summer’s day can be when set in the context of a lifetime. Maybe now, so young (even the older girl can’t be more than 20, the boy barely older than that), they know how few opportunities they will ever again have to be so free as this, so happy and untroubled.
The older girl is called Charlotte. She has dark hair pinned tightly back against her head, though her sister always tells her it looks better when she lets it fall freely. She wears a narrow fitting, green dress that curls and wraps around her ankles as she walks and over her shoulder hangs a linen bag filled with provisions for the picnic they’ll be having later in the day. Her sister, three years younger and named Sissy, wears a white frock that seems to shine brightly in the glare of the morning sun. It’s her new favourite dress, one she was bought only a few days previously and is decorated all over in tiny red flowers, roses and carnations, the colour of which plays nicely with the long, copper blonde hair that floats around her shoulders.
The younger girl is the real beauty of the two, that much is sure. Her older sister is more serious, less striking by far. Even when she laughs she reveals, for those who look closely enough, the effort in her eyes, a constant self-awareness that her sister is so completely free from. Not that any of this seems to bother the boy. No, if anything he is more taken by Charlotte than by Sissy, forever stepping back to take the older girl’s side, to meet her glances, letting the younger sister dance off ahead on her own whenever the chance arises. It’s nothing obvious, perhaps, just an impression he gives, a small hint as to which way his preferences lie, but Charlotte has noticed it. Her smile widens and her cheeks flush whenever their eyes meet now. She has the air of a girl not looked at often and she likes it, she wants it to carry on. Sissy notices too, you can be sure, but it’s much harder to know what she thinks. Her young face is so bright and so naïve, she never lets anything cloud it, not even for a second.
The girls are summer visitors to this area. The daughters of a country pastor, they live in the far side of the county, some four or five hours journey away from here by train and by coach. They’re here to visit and look after an elderly aunt, although in truth the old lady requires little in the way of care and has only limited demand for the company of two such young things. So it is they have come to spend the day out here, enjoying the hot sun in the company of the boy, whom they met a few days ago. They’re revelling in the freedom they’ve found, far away from the claustrophobic, disapproving atmosphere they endure at home. Part of the thrill of the day for them is the knowledge of how little their Father would approve of an excursion like this. He would think it unseemly or inappropriate, for certain, to carry on like this with a boy they barely know, but their aunt is far less worried about such things. “Young girls should enjoy themselves,” she says to them each morning. “Get out with you. Get some sun on you, then come back and tell me all about it.”
As they walk, the beach narrows suddenly and the broad sandy shore they’ve been following turns rocky and slippery. The boy takes charge and leads them off to the left where a faint path takes them gently inland through the grassy sand dunes that dip and rise, dip and rise all the way along this part of the coast. Rising up onto a sandy hillock, they have a good view of everything around them. The rocky shore stretches ahead and curves south, the view out to sea scattered with tiny island outcrops, each one thronged with birds and surrounded by surf. On the landside, sand dunes stretch in a great maze, an intricate pattern of dips and mounds that stretches for miles before rising into cliff and forest. Even in so bright a day as this, long sea grass waving gently in the warm breeze, the girls are struck by the bleak desolation of the area. It wouldn’t take much to get lost out here, they’re thinking. Every few steps there are new paths striking left and right, each one heading off in different directions across the dunes, each one in its turn producing its own new set of paths that branch off one another again and again in a vast pattern that circles in and around itself for mile upon mile. On a day as bright as this, it is beautiful, but forbidding too. There is a coldness about this place that strikes them as they look at it, no matter how bright the sun shines.
S
taring out at this landscape, the girls hesitate for a moment but the boy soon sets their minds at ease. He knows where they’re going and he pulls them along with him. He grew up in these parts, he tells them, has spent his life, in fact, exploring all the hidden corners of this coastline. He’s taking them to a bay just a few miles south of here where, he says, “the water is warm and safe for swimming in. The sun gets trapped in there and stays all day and, best of all, no one else ever goes there. It’s a secret place. Hardly anyone but me even knows its there.” This is an exaggeration, of course. Everyone in the nearby towns knows about Old Meiga Bay, but it is true that few ever visit it. Too far for the families and their cars and pushchairs, too far for the dog walkers to venture, only the occasional hiker or naturalist comes this way, and on days as hot as this even they are few and far between. As for the boy himself, something about his manner makes you wonder how often even he has really been out so far along the coast. How many pretty, young girls has he brought out this way to strut alongside and impress? Not too many you would wager, because for all his certainty, for all his youthful arrogance, there’s a nervousness about him that does not sit well with the confidence of his words. He’s too excited, somehow. Or rather, is trying too obviously hard to disguise how excited he is. There’s nothing sinister about this, just a naivety he’s anxious not to expose. In some small way, perhaps, he’s taking advantage of these two girls. He’s enjoying the fact that they don’t know him too well yet. He’s making himself up as he goes along. His name is John.
#
Down at their feet at the side of the path, a strange object lies untroubled in the grass. It is a small bundle of twigs, some dozen or so sticks, each one stripped of bark, trimmed carefully and neatly cut off at either end to the length of a pencil. The sticks are clean, the cuts fresh, as though made recently, though there is no sign of anyone else being around, nor anything else to suggest anyone has been along this way today. The bundle is bound together, tightly and deliberately with long strands of filthy cloth torn from what looks like an old dress. Underneath the dirt and the dust, it is just possible to make out the floral pattern that once decorated the cloth, something intended to be ladylike and genteel but which, in this context, carries a strangely unsettling effect. It is a peculiar object, altogether. A tiny, manmade intervention out of place, it seems, with the raw, untamed nature of its surroundings here. There is something about the size of it even, the tiny, precise way the sticks have been trimmed, the knots tied, that is disquieting to look at. Someone has taken great care over the making of this thing.
John is the first to spot it. He stands and stares quietly at the object for a few moments before calling the others over. “Come look at this,” he calls. “Isn’t it odd?”
Charlotte is next to come, only a few paces behind him, and stands quietly at his side while they waited for Sissy to catch up, both saying nothing, both strangely fascinated by the peculiar item lying at their feet. It lies on top of a crop of grass, not dropped casually, not thoughtlessly thrown aside, but placed with obvious deliberation, as though, to its maker at least, this were a precious thing.
“What do you think it means?” asks Charlotte. The more she looks at the object, the less she likes it. There is something unsettling about this bundle that is putting her at unease. She has to fight off the urge to keep looking over her shoulder, to scan the horizon.
“I’ve no idea at all,” says John quietly. “It is odd, isn’t it?”
As she looks up at him, he frowns strangely, as though trying to shake off an unwelcome thought. “Where is Sissy?” he says with a sharp sigh.
“I’m here, I’m here!” sings Sissy, skipping happily along the path behind them. “Oh, I say! What’s this?” she says, and bends down to pick up the bundle of sticks.
“Oh, don’t touch it! Please, don’t touch it! Sissy, please!” Charlotte’s voice rises out, shrill with sudden anxiety. Her eyes are wide with panic and her arms reach out to take hold of her sister and pull her back sharply. She can’t help herself. A fear comes into her. A quick, cold feeling of dread when she sees her sister reach out towards the object. She can’t explain it, but she knows that something terrible will happen should any of them lay their hands upon those sticks. She knows, with a true certainty, with an absolute knowledge that she has never felt before, that this bundle was not left by accident. Rather, it was placed here for them to find. Whoever put it there wants something from them, something they will not give up willingly. This understanding comes upon Charlotte in such a rush that she cries out without thinking. She grabs her sister and pulls her away, dragging them both down into the sand.
“Lottie, really! What on earth…! I mean, really!” Sissy stands first and dusts herself clean of sand and grass. “What on earth is the matter with you, Charlotte?” she says, her tone sharp and annoyed. She looks over to John whose mouth is wide open with surprise. When their eyes meet they both burst out laughing at the shock and absurdity of the situation. Charlotte, embarrassed by her outburst, stays sitting on the ground. Her cheeks are white, her hands shaking with fright.
“I … I don’t know what happened. Can we just leave it alone, please? Can we just go now?” Her sister laughs again and is about to protest, but John interrupts before she can say anything. “Of course we can,” he says, putting an arm out for Charlotte to take. “Probably best we just leave it as it is. Come on, let’s get on. I’m too hungry to hang around here any longer!” He picks up his bag and begins to stride along the path again. Charlotte pulls herself together and skips after him, eager to be moving along. As they walk, John curls his arm around her waist. Sissy watches them go for a moment, then turns her gaze back to the object at her feet. She frowns slightly, a small crease appearing on her forehead, then turns away again.
“Don’t you dare go off without me!” she shouts to the others, and runs off after them.
#
The sun beats down on them as they walk. The path they’re on has risen now and leads along the edge of a set of steep cliffs. Down below the sea rolls slowly, beating steadily into the rocks. In this heat, even the waves don’t have the energy to move quickly. They stop for a drink and take in their surroundings, the maze of sand dunes behind them, forest and hilly farmland to their right. “It’s not much farther now,” says John as they begin to set off again. “We reach the next bay along the coast, then we climb down. Trust me. It’s worth the wait.”
“Do you think it was witches?” says Sissy, half to herself, half to the others as they continue their walk. She is lagging behind the other two, forever stopping to pick flowers, to stare down the edge of the cliffs, to explore the grassy hillside off to the right of the path. Every time she falls behind, she squeals with mock panic and runs off after them again. Her cheeks are pink and she’s breathing heavily now, as much from all the extra exertion she’s putting herself through as from the heat alone. Right now she’s just walking, her attention focused for the moment on the flower head in her hand and the petals she’s picking off one by one, one by one. She’s far enough behind the other two that at first they don’t hear her speak so she repeats the question, more loudly this time.
“What do you mean, Sissy?” says Charlotte. She’s trying hard to shake off the incident with the bundle of sticks, helped no doubt by John’s comforting arm which has hardly left her waist for the last half hour. She’s joking and laughing again and as she speaks now she does so with a deep, pompous tone of voice that matches perfectly that of a Swiss Governess the two girls had once when they were younger, one whose patience for Sissy ran significantly less deep than it did for her more sensible, more dependable older sister. This is a tone of voice she’s been using a lot lately. Sissy scowls every time she hears it.
“Those sticks we found. Do you think they were made by witches? They looked like a witchy sort of thing to me.”
&n
bsp; “You being such an expert and all, I suppose?”
Sissy sticks out her tongue at her sister’s back. “Don’t be such a bore, Lottie,” she says, then skips forward alongside John, putting her arm around his waist just as he has his around Charlotte’s.
“What do you think, John? Don’t you have witches around here? I bet you do?”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know, Sis.”
“Oh come on. A place like this. I bet its positively heaving with all sorts of strange stuff!”
“Oh, if you’re talking about stories, of course there are. There are ghost stories, I know. There are old smuggling tales about this place. And there are probably some stories about old witches too, but that’s all they are. They’re just stories. They don’t mean anything.”
“I don’t see why not. I’m not sure I see the point of being alive if you can’t believe in things like witches and ghosts and wood sprites and nymphs and, oh, goblins and things like that.”
“Sissy always wanted to be a fairy when she was a little girl,” says Charlotte. “It’s a regrettable tendency that she has never quite grown out of.”
“Poor Sissy!” John laughs. “I’m afraid this world is going to be a terrible disappointment for you!”
Sissy scowls and thrusts all her weight against him, pushing him off balance and sending him, along with Charlotte, tumbling down into the grass.