by Gary Fry
Nevertheless, on the eve of returning home, something began to trouble him. He’d spoken to his wife on the phone the day before and she’d sounded trustworthy and devoted, eager to have him back. These were encouraging sentiments, but Jim nonetheless felt unsettled. Even a few glasses of red wine in the late evening did little to calm him. Rain fell against the cottage’s windows like heavy droplets of blood.
Or ink, he thought with disconcerting intuition, but quickly dismissed the thought. He ran a bath, and after stripping to render himself vulnerable, he believed for one treacherous moment that the waiting water was as black as liquid about to be deployed by some printing device…He dismissed this notion, too, and then soaked his body for an hour, until the wrinkles on his fingertips look like smudges from a newspaper.
He had to stop thinking this way and get a good night’s sleep. After dressing in pyjamas, he slipped beneath the bed sheets, feeling hesitant about staining their crisp whiteness with his damp body: another foolish idea he suppressed at once. Then he switched out the light and plunged the room into an inky realm of nothingness.
His dreams when they came were nebulous and frightening, involving figures, hardly solid enough to succumb to gravity, drifting towards him in liquid-like patterns…When he awoke with a start, Jim felt uncomfortable, disorganised. He washed in the bathroom, suffering no further fears about marring his skin with any ineradicable substance. After dressing, he returned to the lounge and saw his half-empty bottle harbouring only dark red wine, which could never be loaded into a pen for writing. He blamed consuming this for disturbing what should have been a pleasant evening, and then gathered together his gear to head outside.
He got no further than the front door.
Astonishingly, today’s post had already been delivered…Well, Jim assumed the letter on the floor had arrived this morning, despite it being caught under the property’s doormat. He might have inadvertently kicked it there yesterday, after returning from conducting interviews in Great Yarmouth. At any rate, he stooped to retrieve the envelope and tore it open.
It was from Meg. He recognised her use of language immediately. And the letter proved to be a heartrending confession.
She’d handwritten it on a piece of paper he recognised, the same as those in his trusted notepads. He’d just begun another, having filled the previous one with notes he’d left with her to decode…But instead of that, she’d clearly set her mind to another task.
Meg revealed everything about her affair with Brendan, how a period of weakness, probably associated with the encroaching middle age, had led to her succumbing to the man’s lascivious advances. He’d come on strong and she’d yielded, though she made no excuses for doing so. For about a year, she’d felt old and used up, but a number of tawdry, sometimes humiliating nights with Brendan (she went into few details) had reminded her of the value of personal security over the base pleasures of lust. She ended by saying that she was truly sorry and that she loved Jim greatly and hoped he’d forgive her.
Jim’s first thought in response to this passionate, handwritten account was concerned with its pleasing lack of double spaces.
Nevertheless, feeling more powerful than he ever had in his reticent life, he found himself admiring his wife’s honesty. He understood why she’d sent the note here, while he was away on business and would have time to think over her words with no interference. He also respected her for not conveying her thoughts via an electronic device. Computers were inherently duplicitous, he reflected, their deletion keys allowing for manipulative artifice. A handwritten account, by contrast, implied spontaneous sincerity, invoking a previous era when life had been less crafty, and its communication not subject to so many nefarious concerns…Meg had even used a page taken from one of Jim’s old-fashioned notepads.
Jim turned over this sheet, wondering whether his wife had added anything on the other side.
And saw the curse.
It was inscribed in his own handwriting, of course; this was the same sheet he’d used to jot down the Latin phrase in Suffolk. His mind began racing. Could the curse be cast just once? If its powers were renewable, however, how would he be made to suffer? And did he really believe that his old friend Brendan had been killed by anything other than taking a sexually deviant game too far?
Jim opened the door and headed out, crumpling the page in one hand before dropping it behind him. He’d made the journey here by car because the Broads were not served well by railway networks. He climbed into the vehicle, triggered his wipers to clear the windscreen of a mercifully clear-looking liquid, and then started driving back the way he’d come days earlier.
If his wife’s letter had been delivered yesterday and he’d only just discovered it, might this account for the weird visions he’d experienced in the last twenty-four hours? These images continued to dog him, twitching in the corners of his eyes, causing the lake along one side of the car to shimmer like a pool of darkest ink. Rain fell like black bullets lashing the trees all around, as if etching each trunk with indecipherable text. In his rear-view mirror, multi-coloured blotches of water wriggled down his back window, but this was surely just an effect of uncertain light this afternoon, setting words and phrases alive in Jim’s uppity mind.
Then he saw the figure emerge from a hedge way behind him.
As an undergraduate at Oxford, he could recall taking an interest in all intellectual matters, even issues outside his chosen disciplines of history and literature. One subject that had fascinated him was psychology, especially material about perception and memory. He recalled a technique called the Rorschach test, which had involved ostensibly random patterns of ink presented on a page; these were supposed to summon material from the subconscious, releasing deeply repressed concerns.
And if that was true, what should Jim make of what he now saw lurching along the winding country lane in his wake?
It looked like nothing other than a mass of ink, collapsing and reforming, squirming and splashing. It was surely about the size of an average-sized human, and occasionally bore the form of such a figure, before separating anew, its limbs evaporating as if they were wet flames, the head shimmering like a pail of liquid following an aggressive shunt. If it left in the road a number of blotchy footsteps, these vanished too quickly for the accelerating Jim to observe. By now, he was able to see nothing behind him other than the pursuing creature, as it grew larger and larger.
Soon it was near enough to touch his racing vehicle. Then it skittered around one side of the car, sticky hands—or whatever it used in lieu of such appendages—feeling along its flanks…the windows…and then the bonnet…
Jim, snatching his face forwards with terror and a need to steer along the winding road, saw a patch of glistening darkness bearing what resembled moist fingers. As the thing flexed against one windscreen wiper and then shuffled glutinously onto the glass, rain mixed with its blackish substance, the dilution causing it to sluice and spill. And when Jim reactivated his wipers, he saw this part of the creature whipped away, like a typographical error elided by some ruthless copyeditor. For one stupid moment, Jim experienced joy—he’d beaten the terrible, half-formed entity—but then realised this was only half the story.
The rest of the figure reared up in his peripheral vision.
Clinging to the side of the car with what served as its remaining arm and a pair of dripping legs, the head and body resembled ink scattered in a ferocious wind. The rapid speed of Jim’s vehicle did much to challenge the creature, making the largest ragged hole in its sorry excuse for a face stretch and tear. Then what passed for its eyes opened wide, and Jim noticed that it looked like…his oldest friend Brendan.
But surely that was only the Rorschach factor, dredging material from Jim’s brain like some pernicious demon.
Nevertheless, he now thought he’d forgive his wife anything, would even apologise to the spirit this latest invocation of the curse had summoned…He didn’t feel powerful any more, just weak, humbled, guilty.
Jim pressed his accelerator to the floor.
His friend Brendan had been undone by an electronically generated double space, and his punishment—asphyxiation by a computer’s cables and wires—had reflected his modern predilections.
For Jim, however, the source of retribution, accidentally cast, was more old-fashioned…yet no less sentient and sinister.
The thing, still clinging to the side of his vehicle—little more than a mass of ink gathered together by dark magic to assume the shape of a person—was eventually snatched away and sent reeling against a patch of vegetation, which instantly turned as black as the symptoms of some withering disease.
Jim tried putting as much space as possible between himself and the horror he’d just encountered. With luck, he thought he might even make it out of East Anglia before the thing regrouped and came—sloshing and gurgling with insatiable rage—to close him down again…But when he glanced one last time into his rear-view mirror and saw the reformed thing still loping wetly along the otherwise deserted lane, he realised that his native Kent was but a remote possibility and that a drowning here, among the mysterious Broads, was eminently more likely. He only hoped that whoever found him could distinguish fresh water from printing fluid, however much this dark agent might be washed from his helpless corpse.
Then, distracted from driving, he lost control of his vehicle; it left the lane and hit a river.
He grew delirious, not knowing which way was which. As liquid began subsuming him, his only wish was for nature to do its worst, before something infinitely more terrible set its viscous hands upon him.
BIOFEEDBACK
———
The following author biographies have been extracted from selected editions of the annual anthology Year’s Best Spooks, edited by Simon Jackson. They are presented here with no editorial modifications.
Extract from Year’s Best Spooks, 2012
Gordon Franklyn lives in Leeds with his wife, Harriet, and their two young children, Nadia and Toby. Fans of ghostly fiction need little introduction to Franklyn’s work. His frightening first novel Truth Twice Removed was a supernatural treat and won a stack of awards the world over. And so we’re delighted to welcome him to this, his first appearance in Year’s Best Spooks. Despite the nature of his work, Franklyn claims to be a sceptic about the “other side. ” He writes: “I find the supernatural genre imaginatively appealing in an emotional sense, but it’s certainly vulnerable to intellectual analysis. Its power, I think, derives from its ability, when done well, to peel away rationality. Under its surface, life is disconnected fragments, and that frightens us. And ghosts can serve as a powerful symbol for that fundamental uncertainty. ”What follows is a creepy tale some might say lays waste to the author’s scepticism. The story came to Franklyn, as often the case, in the form of a playful idea: “I’ve long been drawn to the notion that a living man can become a ghost to others on the basis of negligence, or perhaps as a result of detached tyranny. That forms the core of this story. The absentee factory owner haunting his staff is based loosely on a guy I used to work for, before my writing became successful. Christ, never let it be said I haven’t earned my right to make some money out of this game!” In his mid-thirties, Franklyn likes cigarettes, fine food, drink, and—when he’s not writing—walks with his family.
Extract from Year’s Best Spooks, 2013
Gordon Franklyn lives in Leeds with his wife, Harriet, and their two young children, Nadia and Toby. Franklyn’s second supernatural novel— Lott’s Mirror—more than fulfilled the promise of his first, the genre-defining Truth Twice Removed. Indeed, we at Year’s Best Spooks predict big things for this author, and that’s why we’re delighted to see him back in our annual anthology. Another reason is that he tells one helluva scary story…and the one you’re about to read is no exception. Franklyn writes: “On the strength of sales of my novels, I recently quit the day job—Lord, never put me in a classroom again!—and moved into what me and the family consider our dream home: a lovely, secluded 17th Century property in North Yorkshire. And does this place have ghosts, I hear readers ask? Well, I’m afraid to say that, despite my wife and kids reporting a few spooky incidents, I’ve personally encountered nothing that cannot be accounted for by reason. Which is not to say the house isn’t a source of inspiration. Solitary walks in the surrounding countryside have done much to stir my creative juices, and I now have enough dark material under development to inform years of work. ” I think fans of supernatural fiction will agree that, in the tale that follows, Franklyn shows little sign of losing of his touch. Its ruthless narrative about a man haunted by a former owner of his new home with a penchant for liquor is incongruously powerful in its brief span, and hints at more of the novel length fiction we crave from this sterling new master of terror.
Extract from Year’s Best Spooks, 2016
Gordon Franklyn lives in North Yorkshire with his wife, Harriet, and their two children, Nadia and Toby. It’s been a while since we welcomed him to the pages of Year’s Best Spooks, and that’s because he’s been writing a number of increasingly popular supernatural novels. After showing early promise in Truth Twice Removed and Lott’s Mirror, Franklyn has published Still Waters, The Family Man, and Nothing Changes, all well received by readers and critics alike. Nevertheless, it troubles him that certain sections of the supernatural community, originally defenders of his work, have recently accused him of selling out. Franklyn writes: “Any fool knows that commercial success involves concessions to markets that pre-exist the artist. Hell, I worked long enough in the real world to realise that life is often about compromise, especially when economic survival remains so challenging. It’s my working class background, much of it spent in the mean streets of Leeds, that makes me fond of fast cars. I also have a family to clothe and feed. So come on, guys, give me a break here. ” Fighting words, we must surely agree. Indeed, Franklyn has lost little of the boozy rage that fuelled his early fiction; by way of illustration, witness the following tale. “On doctor’s advice, I recently quit smoking, ” Franklyn explains, “and that involved a month of hell for me and others. I found myself feeling intolerant of many things, even my wife’s belief—unsuspected until this stage of our marriage—in the supernatural. This got me thinking about psychological demons. Imagine a guy who so vehemently denies the existence of a ghost haunting his partner that it shifts its attention to him…” The tale you’re about to read, dear readers, shows that commercial success has done little to dull Franklyn’s sinister disposition. He remains as exquisitely warped as ever.
Extract from Year’s Best Spooks, 2019
Gordon Franklyn lives in North Yorkshire with his wife, Harriet, and their two children, Nadia and Toby. Since his last appearance in Year’s Best Spooks three years ago, Franklyn has moved away from the supernatural genre, writing crime novels in an attempt, he candidly admits, to “remain afloat in a market unsympathetic to [his] previous fictional focus. ” Nevertheless, despite rumours of its death, we at this annual anthology believe that our field is in rude health, and we offer this latest collection as proof. Unsurprisingly, Franklyn’s story is one of its strongest offerings. We can only assume that the tale, a harrowing depiction of marital and paternal abuse, is based on Franklyn’s childhood, which he’s alluded to in many frank media interviews. His depiction of a husband and father haunted by a brutal, ale-enraged ancestor is a bold attempt to understand an abuser’s behaviour from the outside. Perhaps it’s time for Franklyn to address these issues; we know from public statements that his father—from whom he’d been estranged since teen-hood—died recently. In an interview earlier this year, Franklyn said, “Despite my contractual commitments with the novels—they alone pay for petrol and put food on the table—I’ve never lost my love for short stories. They offer me the opportunity to take risks, to dig a bit deeper into life. ” When asked about his infamou
s scepticism concerning the afterlife, he added, “As I get older, I become less certain about many things, and the supernatural is one of them. Let’s just say I’m more open-minded now than I was even a decade ago. ”
Extract from Year’s Best Spooks, 2021
Gordon Franklyn lives in NorthYorkshire with his wife, Harriet. Fans of genre fi will realise that this has been a demanding one for the author, and we at Year’s Best Spooks don’t intend to add to media speculation about the challenges he and his wife have faced. Needless to say, we wish them both well during this period of recovery, and hope inclusion of a new story by Franklyn in our latest anthology is a way of supporting them. Not that the tale doesn’t earn its modest fee. It’s often said that writers’ best work comes from duress, and that certainly holds true here. One wonders whether Franklyn’s latest novels, alluded to in rare interviews, have also returned to the frightening territory of his early work. We can only hope a publisher snaps them up soon. In the meantime, we have this treat to savour, and it’s one that seems more autobiographical than Franklyn’s usual portraits of haunted men whose circumstances are quite removed from his own (formerly) idyllic lifestyle in North Yorkshire. The central character likes fast cars, hard liquor and even psychotherapy. One might say he’s racing from his past, and his sudden shift from gad-about-town to a cripple’s carer is certainly disturbing. Perhaps the cocky ghost of a man killed in the same crash that crippled the carer’s wife serves as Franklyn’s attempt to castigate the person he once was: arrogant, rash, intolerant…Understandably, Franklyn didn’t reply to emails asking for comments about this piece, but he made a telling statement in the last interview he gave before suffering his familial tragedy:“All of us haunt; we haunt everyone around us and the places we occupy. We’re all ghosts. ”