HERO OF THE DAY By Michael S. Collins

Hero of the Day


Well, here’s my fairy tale. I hear they are all the rage these days. This one is an old story, but no one has ever heard it from my perspective before, and since I was the hero of the show that seems a strange enigma that needs overturned. So here I am, all words on the page to give you my version of events, that dark day in history when the grizzled, evil beast stole away Belle to his tower.

Her father had three daughters, all of whom would have been the prettiest face at any given dance, but of all of them, Belle shone the best. Her radiant, glowing, smiling face is one I remember well. The father had been a big shot merchant in the district, until his merchandise sunk to the bottom of the Atlantic. After that, he was just another failed money man, plying his trade as a farmhand to try and get the bread on his table. Not a very good farm hand, I hear, but he was reasonably well liked in the area, so I guess that’s Farmer Williams sympathy for you.

His daughters strove to keep up his spirits, and helped bring messages to and fro the town for a tidy sum. I would occupy the eldest two as newspaper deliverers, but I must admit, it was the youngest I had my eye on. Innocently, of course, she was fourteen back then, but she would have made a fine wife for someone in time. You could sense that in her. And with her innocent charms and wide-eyed niceness, she had the eyes of the village on her.

It was three years after the ships went down that The Incident went down. The father had heard word that the shipwreck of one of his cargos had been found, and the cargo retrieved. At once he set off for Calais to see how much was salvageable. He never returned for a month. His daughters, all of them, were getting worried. Then suddenly he was back, and in that same instance, Belle was gone. Vanished in the blink of an eye.

Naturally, I was worried. This was no age for a girl to go wandering off in the middle of the forest. But as weeks went by, we began to realise just how serious the situation was. Until Belle’s father finally broke down and told us all the horrible truth: Belle was taken away by a hideous brute of a monster, who lived in a Castle somewhere five miles east of our village.

At this point, I could take no more.

We were in the tavern when I made my stand with the locals. It was a Friday, the beer was flowing mournfully, and people sat about disenfranchised instead of deciding on plans to save the day. That was my jurisdiction. I stood on top of the nearest table and banged my beer mug off the ceiling to get silence.

“Men, and womenfolk”, I said. “Let’s be under no illusions that the fate of Belle is a tricky one. Some foul wretch has stolen her away from our midst, from the protective arms of her father, and we must do something about it.”

“What can we do?” came the cry from the bar. Little Tommy, no doubt.

“Well, we can’t just stand around here moping and hope that one day she was turn up. We can’t just sit around here and make it someone else’s problem. Belle was one of our own, therefore her kidnapping is our problem, and we need to get her back.”

A murmur of support began to rise up from the rest.

“What I suggest is we set up a militia, of our strongest bodied men, ride into the depths of the forest, find the Castle, kill this demonic imbalanced creature, and save our Belle from the Hell she is no doubt in!”

An uneasy silence filled the room, broken by Timmy, Tommy’s brother.

“Well, sure”, he said, “I’d love to join this little Militia of yours. Only, I think I left the gas on.”

Laughter, from every portion of the room, in response to him. It filled every essence of my soul, and anger burned up in me.

“This isn’t funny!” I yelled. “If you are not with me, then I’ll have to do it myself.”

“Look, Gary”, replied Timmy. “We are all with you, in spirit, but that forest is dangerous. All kinds of wild animals live in there. And we have no idea of where this Castle actually is. It’d be a fool’s errand.”

“Fine”, I said. “I’ll go myself, and I will find Belle, slay this vampiric disease, and then I intend to marry Belle.”

I dropped back down to the floor and was on the way out of the door, my hand resting on my trusty sword, when Timmy put his arm out.

“I don’t want to see you going out into the unknown like this, Gary.” He said. “I’ll go with you.”

Old friends. You can always count on them in the end.

Together we rode through that evil forest, heading east, all kinds of hideous monstrosities attacking in the rare instances our guard was down. Snakes and wild boars and cats and animals you would never believe in. The forest is a home to all kinds of hibernating deadliness.

And then we found the Castle. Weeks after the trek had started. The quest.

“Cyclopean leviathan, we have found you at last” I said, starring up into the vertigo inducing towers. We stormed over the drawbridge, but then disaster struck. Timmy died. I’m not really sure what happened, what dark forces the evil at the heart of this stone asylum had used, but he was dead. And I was on my own. I let him drop slowly to the ground, and grabbed my sword tightly in caution.

I knocked on the large oak front door.

A voice called out from the other side.

“State your name, occupation and business being here” it said.

“Gary Gaston, tailor, heroic quest.”

“Very well” said the voice. It sounded bored, but the door swung open. The servant the voice belonged to welcomed me in.

“I hope you had a trouble-less journey” he said. “Now, what is this heroic quest you are on?”

“To save the lady Belle from your evil clutches” I cried and stabbed him through the heart.

He yelped in pain. At this point I realised he was actually invisible, but not to worry, I got him anyway. You never know, that servant could easily have been Timmy’s killer.

Inside the castle, were books everywhere. Shelves of books rising up to the ceilings on every side, and the ceiling were ten men high at the very least. A librarian’s wet dream. I strode up the stairs, dispatching demonic invisible servant after demonic invisible servant, and finally I found myself in the bedroom.

There was the grotesque gargoyle in all his wickedness, draped across a chair. He acted like a King lion regal. And sitting next to him, laughing, in some form of ecstatic joy over a terrible joke, was Belle. The object of my quest. Having fun. She was meant to be suffering and being tortured to make my heroic saving of her from the hands of desperate destitution and criminal civility all the more heroic. Instead she was here, laughing her head off, seemingly having the time of her life. Clearly, she was brainwashed. I could stand it no longer.

“Monster, rise and face your enemy” I yelled.

They both turned around.

“What is the meaning of this?” said the creature. His voice boomed out over the room, and echoed down the stairs and along the castles Cyclopean walls.

“Gary, what in Hell's name are you doing here?” said Belle. She seemed surprised by the appearance of her knight in shining victory.

“I am here to save you from foulest Hellspawn” I cried aloud. Impressively.

“And where would that be?” she said.

“Why, right here!” I cried.

The monster rose to his feet.

“I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave.” He said. “You will upset my wife.”

“WIFE?” I yelled.

“That’s me” said Belle.

I could take this slight no longer. I lunged forward and plunged my sword into the deep abscesses of horror that was his chest. Blood began bubbling out of a wide wound, and he sunk to the ground. Easily defeated. It was now that I could triumphantly take Belle home.

Only she wasn’t happy to see me. She was screaming, and screaming, and screaming. And fawning over the body of the dead villain, and crying, like a woman in deep mourning would. And she pushed me away when I went over to see how she was, and ask why she was crying. Strange, women always do weird things at the moment of success.

It was as I was thinking this that she began to attack me, with a fury gained straight from the bowls of Lucifer itself. Unwomanly power. She was a possessed harlot. I struggled from the blows, and fought to defend myself, but then, it was not to worry, as she died. These things happen.

Belle was dead, but at least the foul monster of Hades was defeated. I think, as heroes go, that was a pretty good job on my part.

It was then that there was the knock on the door. I waited patiently for a servant to answer the door, until I realised that I had rid this world of them. So I went down and answered the door.

Two policemen stood on the front door. They were dressed in the Metropolitan Police’s finest outfits.

“Excuse me, Sir”, said the first one, “We’ve had reports of a disturbance.”

“A disturbance?” I said.

“Yes, Mr Gaston, a disturbance. We had reports from the pub that you had gotten drunk and started yelling out abuse against your ex-wife. Then you and Mr Granger set off to her house to ‘sort out that husband of hers’.”

“That’s not quite true”, I said. “I had a heroic quest to fulfil.”

“We have found Mr Granger dead in the driveway, stabbed to death with a kitchen knife. Attempts to raise Mrs Beast’s parents have been thwarted. Tell me, Mr Gaston, where is the homeowner and your ex?”

I shrugged. “They are upstairs”, I said.

I never understood why so many police showed up so fast. Why they surrounded the streets and looked at me with a mixture of loathing and fear. I accepted the handcuffs without any debate. The charges happened without my understanding, and the judge put me down for life. I still don’t understand it, to be honest. What a way to treat a hero! I rid my village of that evil scum. So what if my village was London, and my forest, in reality, Hyde Park. It still counts. I still succeeded. Nothing could ever have thwarted me in that heroic quest to save my Belle from the clutches of bestial viciousness. And I did. In death, she was saved. And that was all me. I am a hero, you see. That’s what we heroes do. Save folk.

There’s an old saying around here, that Beauty killed the beast. And if you ask me, that beast killed beauty, because she was dead to me when she started going out with him. This was my fairy tale. I don’t quite agree with how the end turned out. Seemed far better when I was going over it. The Beauty didn’t kill the beast. I killed the Beauty. To save her. Because everyone needs saving, in the end.

It was a mercy. She’d have thanked me if she could. I know this. I believe this. Trust me, I am an honourable man.

Just, don’t look at me like that. With those critical eyes, through the bars of my cell. Don’t look at me like that! Like I’m some sort of serial killer. I’m not a serial killer, for gods’ sakes, I’m a hero!

PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT By Michael S. Collins

Practice Makes Perfect

ACTION!


And then the scene changed. The audience turned silent, in expectation, and started to shimmer out of mind’s existence, replaced by trees on either side. The sound of thunder played throughout the Hall, not from the rinky CD player in the janitors’ closet, but from the air itself. The extra to my side was no schoolchild grumbling over his one line only part and waving to his parents, but an actual servant, real dust came up from his brush. The walls were no longer painted cardboard but actual Cyclopean structure. The lighting came no longer from the lighting box, complete with strobe effects, but from the small cracks in the oak door in front of us. The smoke machine had transformed into a proper Scottish mist, choking and freezing. There was no stifling heating, with only rags to put over the normal clothes to keep warm.

And I was no child anymore. I was Brett Stamerton, and I was knocking on the door to the castle of Professor Death, for real!

KNOCK KNOCK.

The real oak door loudly echoed as the knocker hit it. The sound reverberated throughout the uneasy silence. I turned to my manservant, who muttered under his breath and shivered and held on to my suitcases.

Footsteps. Slowly. One at a time, as if walking down a large corridor. The door creaked open halfway, and I was face to face with a grotesque facsimile of a face, which appeared between the crack.

It belonged to the butler, I assumed.

“Good evening” he said, “You must be Mr Stamerton.”

“Indeed I am”, I said, “And you must be the Butler.”

“Indeed I am” he said, and shivered in the mist.

“May I come in?” I inquired.

He turned his almost decaying head inwards, as if looking for a cue, before opening the door wide, and motioned for me to come inside. I walked in. No electric central heating inside either, but at least they had a few thousand candles burning to compensate. The butler turned to my manservant.

“I’m awfully sorry, young man, but you are not to be invited in.”

The man began to close the door on the poor servant.

“Baws.” Said the Servant who continued to freeze. His one line. The door was barely closed when he screamed, and blood began to flow under the door.

“Got to be careful of the wolves in this part of Scotland, I’m afraid.” Said the Butler. “The Professor will give you compensation in the morning.”

And we walked off. The servant’s dying screams ignored. He was only an extra, after all.

We walked up a long, steep, uncomfortable flight of stairs. My character had a hereditary weak ankle; I had seen it in the explanatory notes, so it made sense to me that I now had a limp to go along with my walk, even if I had no such weaknesses beforehand. This is show business, I guess.

The butler walked down an even longer corridor, opening a smaller door at the end of it. I followed him as fast as a man can on a newly acquired limp.

The new room was vast. On every side of the room stood portraits of great men and statues of every former Prime Minister, and all of them life sized and fitting in the room. Not cardboard and paper mache, but life sized and made out of stone.

In the midst of the room stood a large dining table. Hundreds of seats lined around the table, at each seat, a sumptuous feast. Chicken pie. I never liked chicken before, but had read that the character had, so it didn’t surprise me that I suddenly had a longing for the poultry.

And at the head of the table, sat the Professor.

“Aha, Mr Stamerton, I have been expecting you” He said triumphantly.

“Scene Five” said the Butler, helpfully.

“Professor Death!” I exclaimed. “You can’t succeed!”

He smiled, and showed off his fangs. Not made up. Real fangs.

“You look most delicious, dear boy” he said. “And I can’t have you ruining my plans, so I’m afraid I’ll have to have supper now. Have you eaten?”

“No” I said.

“Good. Me neither.”

And he rose from the table and into the air. No hooks and cords. Just flying.

It suddenly came to my attention, that if this was no longer the school play, and I was really Brett Stamerton, then Professor Death was probably a real vampire.

“I shall rest at last” said the Professor, “Once I have drunk your blood!”

And he prepared to swoop.

“No!” I screamed.

And the curtain fell. At least, it would have, had we still been in the play.

The scene stayed still for a second or two.

“Uh, Professor”, I said.

“Yes, boy?”

“The scene ended there. I don’t have anything left to do.”

The vampire growled at the back of his throat.

“But this isn’t the school play anymore, you fool. This is reality.”

“The stage is the life and the life is a stage” I said.

“Something along those lines” he added. “You got into character so well, I am as alive as you and more so. “

“But the scene ended here! So did the play!” I said.

He sized me up.

“I don’t care” said the Professor. “That was only in the play. There are no cliff-hangers in real life!”

And he pounced, and presumably drunk my blood, as the Curtain rose, and the lights came up.

Everybody clapped. The audience, no longer trees, came to life with applause. The extras were on stage, smiling at their mums in the crowd. The director was on stage, taking as much pride and credit as possible.

I excused myself, to go to the bathroom. I washed my neck, and rubbed my hands around my aching ankle. Then, I checked my newly won fangs in the mirror.

Reality and performance, it’s a very thin line, I think you’ll find.

So, until tomorrow, I’m off to practice.

THE UNDERGROUND by Michael S. Collins

The Underground


The Clockwork Orange is one of the greatest metro systems in the world. It seriously is. I use it frequently to get from my house to the West End of Glasgow, to the City Centre, to Ibrox Stadium, to my mums, to anywhere. It really is fantastically useful.

Ticket prices go up. Ticket prices always go up. It's an unfortunate element of going by train. Just when you get used to what the ticket prices used to be, suddenly they go up, and you are out of pocket yet again. It's a terrible fact of life, but unfortunately, it's one we have to cope with.

So there was a lot of people in the queue moaning about the prices. I took my ticket. I needed to go. It was important. I had to go and see my family in town.

It was early morning. It was a rainy day. An unpleasant day, but then again, this is Glasgow. I took my ticket, I went through the barrier, and I went down to the platform.

“Passengers keep all your belongings at your side at all times.”

A friendly warning. The screen tells me that the train will be coming in seven minutes. Just sitting, watching the screen, looking at the people around me. Oh, there's the mothers, kids, they're late for school you know. There's... shouldn't he have a job to go to? Doesn't look like he's got one. Typical. There's some students. I can tell they're students. They look studenty, scruffy, drunk, hungover even.

Everyone is waiting for the train. When is the train coming? Five minutes. It always takes forever. That's the longest time in the world, watching that screen count down to the next train. Waiting for the train to come in the underground.

The trains on the other platform are running faster. This always happens. One just passed and there will be another one in three minutes. I don't like it when this happens. Why does the train always have to come faster at that end? It's blooming ridiculous. Nothing less than ridiculous. And if I was going that way, it would happen at this side.

It's like the universal fates are conspiring against me. I... it's a nuisance, its nothing less than a nuisance. Another trains gone past that way, can you believe it? It was full as well. Full! How many people are going that way into town? How can it be full? What is going on with the world today?

The platform is milling with folk. A load of people from the nearby Stadium. A load of people from the nearby job centre. A load of people from the nearby hostel. A load of people from the nearby school. All kinds of folk, waiting for the train to come.

That was a long minute. Waiting. For the train. When will it come?

Keeping away from the edge. Away from the edge. Further. You can never be too careful. You might fall. I've heard of people falling onto the tracks. The tracks might be electric and even if you survive that the train might get you. Best stay away from the edge. Best stay up against the wall. Best place for you.

Still two minutes to go. I'm sure another minutes passed since my last look. What's going on? What's happening here? What's going on? I want my train. This platform is very crowded. There's another train going the other way. What's going on?

I don't know. What's going on? I don't know. What? What? Whhhhaaaat? I'm confused. I'm confused. I'm lost. I have no sense of direction at all. I'm underground, I'm undersea, I'm claustrophobic, dead. I need to breathe. I need to breathe. I need to breathe.

I am breathing. It's OK! It's fine! Everything is fine, everything is OK, everything is secure. One minute to go. Another minute to go. Just a minute to go. I can hear it. I can hear the train in the tunnel. I can hear it coming. I can hear it. I can hear it roaring. I can hear it thundering like a tune in the night. Thundering, thundering, through the tunnels. Coming.

Closer. Coming closer. Closer. Coming. I can hear it. Approaching, approaching. I can see it on the screen. Train Approaching! It's coming! It's coming for me, it's coming at last. Oh thank god!

Message.

“This next train will not be stopping for passengers at this stop. We apologise for this delay.”

What? No, no, no. Not for me? Got to stop. Stop. This is my train. My train. This isn't right. What's up? Come.

Come back, come back for me. No, this isn't right! No!

The train slowly slunk into the station. The red light was up. It had to stop. The driver looked shadowy and secret as he sunk into the dark of his cabin. The lights were off in the front and final carriages. Only the middle carriage was lit.

That carriage was a sea of desolation. Seats ripped up. Muddy foot prints on the ground. Broken bottles. A gas mask lying, discarded, ripped. Murky green glowing light, gaseous. A red dripping from the walls. The far platform was seen through a luminescent sticky red substance bathed across the entire of the far windows of the carriage.

The train started to move. Into the tunnel. As the last carriage went by, two pairs of red piercing eyes stared back at me. From the darkened carriage. The last car. It moved into the tunnel.

I turned to the nearest person next to me. A business type. Worried. The usual type. We stared at each other for a second. Sharing a moment.

I took the bus that day. And many days afterwards.


BIO:
Michael S Collins is a member of GSFWC (the Glasgow Strange-Fiction Writers Circle). and has been published in several countries (including Literature E-zine websites, ad writing for Bob Furnell). Michael writes book reviews for magazines such as The Fortean Times and his short fiction has appeared in magazines such as Aesthetica, Clockwise Cat, The Short Humour Site, MicroHorror, TBD, and was included in the DemonMinds anthology in 2008.

THE FOX-SQUIRREL by Michael S. Collins

Michael takes us to bonnie Scotland on his debut...

The Fox Squirrel

I used to suspect that there was more to life than what there seemed to be at first glance. A perfect day may hide lurking shadows. Many people, less easily spooked than I, have often wondered just what seems to beckon to us, just beyond the corner of the eye. Something with mean designs on our souls or dark desires. Especially on those cold winter days when darkness falls early, and the creeping shadows of long oak trees fall down upon suburban streets.

However, there is nothing to fear in the dark of the street. Nothing more frightening than a squirrel or, on the rare occasion, a fox.

And yet the mind plays tricks on us, to the extent that we believe. We believe, as we walk, somewhat more hurried than before, that the movements that we sense on either side are more than imagination and fox combined. Out there, there is something waiting for us. Something less than friendly.

The trouble is this path is one those who fear shall be forced to continue to tread. We have nothing to fear in the shadows. Nothing that can do us terminal harm. Alas, my friends, that is a false ideal. Only one that helps us not to dwell on the possible as we hurry along on our way.

Three months ago was when I was first laid eyes on the creatures. When I hit upon one of my more fatal curiosities. Please forgive me, for you must be asking the question: what are the creatures? In my state, I'm trying to sum up words that could describe them. Grey like a squirrel, small as a terrier, with bushy tails like foxes. I christened them the Fox-Squirrels, because they had reminded me of such timid creatures.

A long time ago, when I was a child, my dad had taken me to Whipsnade, and I had seen the baby animals in their petting area, all wide eyed and yawning and looking for attention, so utterly harmless, and these creatures – these Fox Squirrels, reminded me of those babies. They looked like someone had taken a fox, and a squirrel, and morphed them into the one creature.

I'll start at the beginning. That always seems a good place to start. My many years of freelance photography work had earned few plaudits outside of an esteemed circle of peers. You don't happen to remember those peregrine falcon photos in the newspapers the other year , do you? Probably not. That was me, though, and that was what I was famed for. Animal photography! A low paying, low acclaimed profession, but one that I was good at.

If I can forgo modesty for a second, I would claim to be a genius at capturing the animal in its natural existence. Others may be more celebrated for their arts, but I persevered to capture the animals as they were had the camera been absent. A shot like that takes days to set up, and the whole affair is not without some degree of luck. Yet results like the falcons make the whole job worthwhile to me. Except that, for all that it satisfies, forever inside I forged a burgeoning desire to be better known. Not merely a little popular, like, say, the Great Gatsby, but full blown fame. To be respected by the general public for my enduring talents. An innocent pipe-dream, one might surmise. Yet, it has lead me down the path on which I am now.

It had been a mid-October afternoon, and I had been sitting in the garden. It was unseasonably sunny, so I was making the most of the break in the deluge, and read through a photography magazine. Slowly, I dozed off. For how long the empire of tiredness ruled I don't know, for it was many hours later when I was awoken by the howls from my dog, Sparky. The dog had seen something. It was scared.

I awoke fully, dazed by the darkness. Foolishly I had slept from mid-afternoon to late night in my own garden! The sloping fences of the neighbours let their shadows drop forwards into my own yard. The trees that started at the end of my garden and the large, looming, semi-detached house left the entire garden shadowed. Above us, the sky was filled with foreboding clouds, and the wet of the dew and the mist that hung around knee height suggested it had recently stopped raining. As my eyes got used to the dark I listened out for Sparky. Something had spooked the dear dog, but what? I found him, yelping at the trees. I moved forward to comfort the boy, but suddenly stopped.

There, right in front of us, was the cause of his distress! A new shadow fell upon the garden. My eyes followed the shadow, and at once I gasped. There, almost completely drenched by the darkness, stood a creature unlike anything anyone had ever dreamed of. I called them “Fox-Squirrels”, but that was born out of a necessity to have some form of name for them. The grey body easily blended into the shadows as it looked upwards. At me! Looking into those yellow eyes, I thought I recognised something, but my memory failed me at that moment. The eyes still burned into mine as it turned and moved beyond the trees.

At this point I should have called it a day and moved house. But that never was my style. Instead, I was fascinated by the prospect of having discovered a brand new type of creature indigenous to Scotland! The very thought of it, that such an implausible notion was being tested out in my own garden of all places gave me such a thrill that I failed to think any serious consequences. The only note that caused me any distress was that of proving the existence of the creatures.

A cursory glance over a history of British mammals showed me no discovery of these Fox-Squirrels. So they were unique, and I was their finder! All I needed was proof, and what more proof do you need than an actual photograph of the creatures! I knew at once that my destiny for now was to take a picture of these unknown entities, and enter my name into the history books. I realized that to get the best photograph possible of the creatures, I would need to go further into the trees.

Deep into the forest I strode, until I came across a small clearing. I had no idea how far away the house was, for the oak trees grew so tall I could not see even the small of the chimney. But what a perfect clearing! I set up the camera, and waited for what seemed forever for something to happen. In such times as these to which I am fully adjusted to, I often hummed along to some ancient tune to keep my spirits up.

However, with the enormity of the situation, silence was my only companion. In the dark enclosure I stood still behind my camera. It was, however, getting dark and I realized that sleep would soon be upon me. And yet, as I was convincing myself to go to bed and try for more positive results the following day, a flash of grey! Sadly I had no time to picture this flash. Cursing my bad luck, I moved out of the trees leaving my camera where it was. This scenario was carried out each day for the next two months.

Until three nights ago. By now it was early January, and with darkness becoming more easily welcomed in the habitat, a torch was required to move inside and out of the trees. Sparky had become increasingly bad tempered this night, and was cowering in the garden moaning somewhere. Man’s best friend indeed! I stood by the camera watching slowly for a Fox-Squirrel to appear. Silence. Then one did appear. Its yellow eyes burned brightly into mine, yet its nature seemed placid. In the flesh it seemed more like a small dog than anything else, waiting for my next move.

I slid behind the camera and took the photograph. The creature however was unmoving. Curious, I moved slowly closer to this animal I had discovered. Its eyes mournfully fell on the direction of my walk. I leaned over but it remained still. Instinctively, I patted it on the head. The eyes looked upwards, peaceful. I wondered what it was I had discovered.

Then it scratched me. The sudden pain drove me to my knees. A glimpse of the torch revealed free flowing blood. The thing had cut me! But why? I heard the silence more than before. And then as I watched the yellow eyes burning brightly into mine, I saw out of the corner of my eye a second pair in the trees. And a third pair of eyes. And a fourth!

Suddenly the dark of the clearing was brightened by hundreds of pairs of eyes, and a chill developed down my spine. The first creature stared into me, and I recognised the same stare as that of the very first creature I had seen. Only now my memory did not fail me, and I recognised the look of the hunter sizing up his chances and his prey. And then I screamed. The Fox-Squirrels moved slowly out of the shadows towards me.

Summoning up adrenaline - addled strength, I jumped to my feet and ran. Ran faster than I ever thought I could, through the trees. And they were chasing, I could sense it. Straight through the trees, into the soggy garden, up the path, down the stairs, through the door and put the key in the lock. Turn! The door locked, I could hear them scratching at the door. But for now, they were defeated in their purpose.

I pondered what my next move should be, when suddenly an uneasy thought crept into my mind. When I was encountering the Fox-Squirrels, there had been a silence. An eternal silence. So… what had silenced the dog? I probably should not have, in my then state of mind, but I moved towards the window.

No sign of Sparky, as far as I could see. But what was that on the grass. Certainly the grass did glisten more than it usually did. The torch miraculously still in my hand, I shone it into the garden. And immediately involuntarily gave up my lunch. For the entire garden was a sea of red. The fences dripped, the blades of grass shone, and from the trees a small murmur could be heard. Sparky was never going to yelp again.

And so there is my tale. Each night the screams come up from the foot of the garden, and the door is pounded. Tonight, the door hangs on but one hinge and I daresay I have not long to wait now. I queried long and hard about why these creatures had not attacked me on first sight. But then it came to me. Some predatory creatures are timid to start. But what I realized most was the significance of the yellow eyes. Not the stare of the hunter, but the look of the blind! The Fox Squirrels were blind creatures and hunted by scent. And I had just given them two months to get used to mine!

It is from all moments of true genius that the moments of stupidity arise. They know my scent, and they are hungry. Now I plan to put this document in the wooden chamber and lock it, far away from innocent eyes that might gaze upon it. I can hear the cries rising up from beyond the darkness. If you want a proper look at a Fox-Squirrel, I guess my camera is still in the woods capturing the creatures for all posterity. Just, I’d not linger too long in there if I was you. Like I did.

Forgive me now, they are coming!


BIO:
Michael S Collins is a member of GSFWC (the Glasgow Strange-Fiction Writers Circle). and has been published in several countries (including Literature E-zine websites, ad writing for Bob Furnell). Michael writes book reviews for magazines such as The Fortean Times and his short fiction has appeared in magazines such as Aesthetica, Clockwise Cat, The Short Humour Site, MicroHorror, TBD, and was included in the DemonMinds anthology in 2008.