All stories

The tents were up, the campfire lit. We drew nearer to the flames to hear Akela, the heat roasting our fronts as our backs froze in the chill mountain air.

He made his voice soft, so we listened all the harder.

“This is the story of Ol’ Ranger Joe” he said. “And the terrible things that happened right here where Joe lived. And where he died. And where, some say, he walks still.”

An excited gasp rippling around the group

“Now Joe looked after the campgrounds hereabouts. Got from place to place on his old rusty bicycle”

On cue, from the darkness, the repetitive creak of a squeaky wheel turning, turning…

“They say it was the loneliness that did it. Up here alone for so long. Why, it would be enough to send anyone crazy. But Ol’ Joe? He really went for it.

“One hot summer night, like tonight, Joe had a group of lads camping on one of his pitches. Maybe not this exact one, but near as like. He sneaked off to his cabin in the woods…”

Crunch, crunch footsteps on gravel

“Sharpened his axe…”

Grind, grind, scrape

“...and crept back to the campsite, opening the tents one by one…

Soft, soft steps

“ ...and CHOP!”

A dull, wet thud

“He murdered every boy, leaving their bloodied corpses strewn around the site. Every boy...except one.

“Jack Brady played dead until Joe’s bloodlust was slaked and he headed back to his cabin on his tired old feet. Jack grabbed Joe’s bike and raced ahead, stringing a guy rope between two trees over the stile he knew Joe would cross to get home.

“Joe, in a madman’s rush, ran into the trap and fell, breaking his neck. Jack was saved!”

SNAP! A branch cracked, echoing in the hush

“But no-one knew that Jack was alone up here with the bodies of his friends. Stranded, poor Jack lost his mind, just like Ol’ Joe.

“When the rescue party finally came they found that nearly all the bodies were savaged and torn and bore small, human toothmarks.

“As for Jack? His body was never found. They say he and Joe walk these campsites together still, looking for fresh flesh to feast upon”

A huge crash and a rabid fearsome roar

Baloo, Akela’s assistant, burst into the clearing brandishing an axe, salivating and howling like a madman at the moon.

After the screams and excitement died down we were ushered to bed, still talking excitedly about Ol’ Joe. Michael Callaghan swore he saw a figure watching from the trees. A delicious thrill coursed down my spine at the thought.

We climbed, chattering, into our sleeping bags until one by one the other boys fell asleep and only I lay awake. I imagined Jack’s last lonely moments as madness descended.

I imagined him cold and alone, his mind eaten away, his body wasted and suddenly the story wasn’t exciting; it was devastating. Had he suffered before his mind was too broken to realise what was happening?

The slow crunch of teeth on metal, the fresh coolness of air in a stifling tent

Slowly, in pitch darkness, the zip of the tent begin to rise...

It’s obvious, there’s nothing in the box.

Why would there be anything in the box?

You put a man in a hole – a deep hole - sides sheer smooth as though dug by water, and a plug of what looks to be concrete for the bottom, you put him there, up here in the mountains, a day’s walk from anyone then you don’t need anything in the box.

Except, the note said there could be something in the box.

It’s a wooden box, about twelve inches wide, six inches high. It’s hinged at the back and clasped at the front with brass buckles which are stiff to the touch but they can be opened. There’s no lock.

There is a note.

What’s in the box, it says. Satellite phone? Or ampoule of nerve toxin set to release upon opening?

Is it salvation, or is it termination? Only one way to find out.

Of course, in the end, it is the end, a slow death from exposure.

The hole itself isn’t all that very much deep. It’s not say a hole dug by questing diamond miners, not a hole as might be used to pour the foundations of some vast skyscraper. But it’s deep enough. Deep enough that a jump still leaves its summit a good three feet from straining fingertips, and that’s even using the box as a launchpad.

So, back to the box.

What if there’s a gun? One swift bullet through the brain, and that’s it, torture over. Oh, the irony, the shot heard by the search parties and they redouble their efforts only to discover the still warm – but lifeless – body.

Or there’s a flare gun. Point it at the sky and shoot, guide them here, because right at this very moment a party of young Cub scouts is crossing a stile, they’re walking away, they’re getting further away, drifting out of earshot.

Or sit there, box on the knees, nails bitten to the quick.

Try to outthink the owner of this box and the digger of this hole. It’s not like a bullet to the back of the head, and not like being walled up either. Him, her, whoever; they want you to see the sky, they want you to hope, they want you to wrack your brains. They want you to despair.

They want you to slowly starve, for the hunger pangs to rise through your body an escape through the top of your head taking all good sense with them. They want you to slowly grin in triumph, because of course, it’s a hole, and holes fill with water when it rains. Men float. Wooden boxes float. Let the heavens open, let the rain come, let it fill this hole and float you serenely to your sweet victory.

Only it’s eight days now and not a cloud in the sky.

The brass buckles are open but when that happened is unclear. It must have happened because you’re clever, you’re using logic. You must give time for the search parties to discover you, and if there is a nerve toxin leave it till the last possible moment to find out, but of course, by that point you might be too weak to lever open the stiff catches.

Perhaps there’s a magic bicycle in the box and you will ride it freedom.

Or perhaps there’s nothing, except a final cruel twist.

Open the box, go on.

Do it.

29-04-2020

Why the hell did I agree to this? Dave and I thought it would be a bit of a laugh to join these flat earth idiots, now we're stuck out here in Antarctica, freezing our balls off attempting to prove the ice wall barrier of a disc shaped earth. We must have been fucking high.

I hate the cold; no scratch that, cold is like a summer's evening here. No, what I hate is the freezing of your extremities in this white hell. Oh, and speaking of which all this damn white for miles plays tricks with your mind, you see things that aren't there. When I'm up on deck taking in some air, I'm constantly tricked into seeing impossibly huge mountains shimmering in the Arctic sun. I really wish the team would just cut sailing the coast of Antarctica short (to try and prove it's one 60K wall of circular ice and snow) and get us back to somewhere more civilised. We can't even leave the ship due to the stupid Antarctic Treaty.

Additional: There's some commotion happening on deck - nothing new here, we're all a little stir crazy. Suppose I'd best go check it out.

30-04-2020

Dave is dead. I'm ... I don't know.

He was found in the gym slumped over an exercise bike; his Chicago Cubs hoodie soaked in blood. One of the deck hands was found with gore drenched hands bashing his head against a ladder stile. He's locked away now in the brig, but the Captain can't get any sense out of him; he just keeps mumbling the same incoherent phrase over and over. His eyes though are bulging, staring into something the rest of us can't see.

That's not all, other members of the expedition have gone bat-shit. Jane has stripped off all her clothes and is now frozen to the deck rails screaming at the wall of ice; she'll be dead soon. Engineers came tearing out of the engine deck as if chased by some unseen foe and threw themselves into the waters. Captain Hollister has been trying his best to contain the situation but it's completely insane here.

I've locked myself in my cabin, I'm scared.

01-05-2020

Power has gone on-board the ship; I'm having to use battery torches to generate enough light for continued writing. The screaming stopped an hour ago but I hear things, inhumanly wet noises in the corridors. There's a smell in the air a salty rotting scent. Every time I catch it my stomach heaves.

I hope one day someone finds what remains of us, I'm going to leave this journal somewhere easy to discover as it may shed some light on any future investigation. There is more going on here than just a shape of the earth conspiracy, something otherworldly and beyond the sanity of mortal man.

I'm not getting out of this alive I know it; I think it's now a question of the manner in which I choose to die …

He ran through the field screaming, his long rank hair flying behind him. “The sky is falling.” He shouted at the group of 6 young Cub Scouts and their startled newly promted Akela. The children fled in terror followed by Akela, looking over his shoulder frantically at the oncoming creature. The man was naked except for a dirty torn pair of trousers, his eyes were stretched wide and his dirt encrusted face was spotted with flecks of spittle. The children scrambled over a stile and disappeared into the forest. Akela, heavily invested in his image of the unphased cool Scout leader, bravely waited the onslaught of the lunatic. “The sky is falling” He cried, slowing down now as he approached. “You there, the sky is falling, tell everyone you know. You must get underground as soon as possible.”

“Excuse me but do you mind not terrifying the kids.” Akela said, trying to sound calm and reasonable. His eyes telling a different story to his mouth. The semi naked man stopped and looked at him. “Just because you are closer to the sky in the mountains, it doesn't mean it will hurt you any less when it falls.” And with that he turned and ran down the field. The faces of the children peaked through the trees, drunk on a cocktail of humour, adrenaline and fear.

“Well now i think we should get back to camp don’t you?” Akela suggested. The children set off mimicking the cries of the man and dancing around the path. In the distance behind them a meter long rectangle of blue, suddenly dropped crashing into the grass. Sending up a small but unnoticed plume of dust.

That afternoon the children, to various degrees of success completed their fire safety badge with minimum burning and with Akelas energy fading, their outdoor challenge badge with minimum challenge. At one point John, age 7 and with a keen eye for detail, commented on the strange shape the sky had turned. This also went unnoticed.

By dinner the mountain sky had closed in, quite literally. Sandy whilst out looking for a good bush to wee behind was startled to a stop mid-flow as a meter long chunk of blue bounced off a nearby tree and landing next to her. Akela filed this under over active imagination and focused on getting dinner ready. Meanwhile Amir wept when he saw a cow obliterated into the ground by a 2 meter chunk of blue. Steve laughed in shock when an unfortunate sheep disappeared without a bleat entirely to be replaced by another chunky blue brick. Akela had his own troubles trying to get the rice to cook and had no time for the fantastical cries of the kids. Until he reached his limit shouting at then to sit down and shut up whilst he finished the…. The brick dropped with a gravity of something very heavy. Akela, the bolognaise and the table sprayed out across the campsite. The children were silent, unable to fathom the scene in front of them until John spoke. “I saw a cave not far from here.”