Thomas Hunter

FOREWORD

This short story is an homage to one of the greatest wordsmiths who ever lived. Some of you will get it and others may not. Don't worry if you don't understand to which famous scribe I am referring. Just search for "famous Scottish Halloween poem" and hopefully you'll find what you're looking for.

*

As a regional sales rep, driving thousands of miles a year in his boring company car, Thomas Hunter usually found himself staying in boring hotels in boring towns that all looked alike. Very rarely he found somewhere slightly off the beaten track that was not another clone of every other place and could offer him something different and more interesting. Sometimes he was lucky, going those extra miles to somewhere no sales rep had gone before. On one occasion he stayed in a Vietnamese family guest house, enjoying some of the best food he had ever eaten, and another time he found a ranch house with log cabins and an excellent barbecue grill restaurant.

This time he was sure he would find an interesting place to stay the night. Tom didn't have to hurry home to Cathy. Cathy Sark had been his childhood sweetheart and they lived together for a couple of years before getting married last summer, so she was used to him being on the road most weeks. Nevertheless, when he called home earlier that week she had been annoyed to hear he had to visit a client late on Friday afternoon and wouldn't be back home in time for the annual neighbourhood Halloween party.

Tom thought about changing his plans, but when Cathy called him back the next day he set aside any concern that she might nurse her wrath and keep it warm. She was in a good mood, having arranged to visit a friend on Friday evening and stay overnight. With no reason to hurry home, Tom decided to take a detour on some country roads after his Friday afternoon appointment, find somewhere off the beaten track to stay the night and then drive home slowly on Saturday, taking his time to enjoy the scenery and avoid the motorways, or "moronways" as he was wont to call them.

The "peepers" who flocked to this neck of the woods to admire nature's annual silvan extravaganza were long gone. The narrow roads were lined with pale yellow mounds and only the very last of the golden and russet leaves of autumn were still clinging to the trees.

As Tom drove into the old market town there was a minor diversion due to road repairs on a hump backed bridge next to an old church and graveyard. Once he got his bearings, Tom quickly found the small family-run hotel he had booked. He was pleased his hunch was correct and he enjoyed an excellent dinner, with home-made venison pie and a couple of glasses of very good red wine.

After dinner he set off to find the Brewer's Droop, a local pub recommended by the hotel waiter, which was situated on the other side of the narrow stream that ran through the town. Tom called Cathy on her mobile a couple of times that evening, but she didn't answer, so he gave up and decided to settle back and enjoy the company of the regulars in the old pub. Everyone was extremely friendly and welcoming, but he drank a bit more than he had intended. That was largely due to the warm welcome and the encouragement of the other drinkers.

In the cosy confines of the pub, the boozy locals recounted tales of notable characters from previous generations who had supped ale with the best of them. In the good old days, the town blacksmith had allegedly drunk a beer for every horse's hoof he shod. A couple of farm labourers, Billy Chapman and Johnny Souter, generally regarded as rambling, blustering, drunken boasters, had spent every market day in the pub until they couldn't stand and had to be carried home.

Tom insisted on paying for a round of drinks and was rewarded by his newfound friends plying him with more stories, beers and whisky. Time flew by as tales of comedy, tragedy, love, betrayal and the supernatural followed one after the other. Drink was a recurring theme and even the women of the town were far from sober it seemed. A young widow, Jean Kirkton, was said to have grieved for her lost love by drowning her sorrows in the pub every Friday night for a year before she eventually stumbled or threw herself into the river one night and was found in the morning, well and truly drowned. Legend had it that her soul was saved, because her body had washed up on a small sandbank in the middle of the river and the devil and his acolytes could not cross running water to reach her.

There were no signs of the drinking session coming to an end, but Tom realised it was getting late and decided to head back to the hotel, despite efforts to persuade him to stay for yet another round. Emerging from the warm, well-lit interior of the pub into the cold, dark night, it seemed to him there might be a short cut back to his hotel via the hump backed bridge, if it could still be used by pedestrians despite the road repairs. There were no street lights, but the pale moonlight occasionally broke through the dark clouds and provided just enough illumination for Tom to follow the road.

Ten minutes later he came upon the old church on his way towards the bridge. Gradually, he became aware of a faint glow of light coming from the graveyard on the other side of the church and the sound of voices shouting or chanting. Curious, he made his way forward and peered over the graveyard wall. To his astonishment, it looked like some sort of dogging ritual was underway.

Lit by burning brushwood torches set around the inside of the graveyard walls, a couple of dozen shadowy figures in dark cloaks encircled a naked couple strenuously copulating atop a huge stone tomb, despite the bone chilling cold of the dark night. Towering over them was a tall figure in a blood red cape. He held a long stave or spear that he occasionally thrust at the couple, urging them on to greater efforts. The watchers were chanting repetitively in unison, "Adulterers, adulterers, adulterers..."

The fornicating man and woman had their backs towards Tom. The man thrust into the woman from behind as she bent forwards, grasping the edge of the old tomb to brace herself while she writhed and screeched like a tortured animal. The man paused briefly to adjust his grip on her hips and the demented woman then tossed her hair and turned her head to check what he was doing. Tom started in surprise. Her face revealed in the pale light had an abnormally cherry-red complexion, but he recognised the woman immediately. She looked straight at him and the look of dreadful despair that he saw in her eyes filled him with horror.

"Cathy? Cathy Sark!" he yelled. "What the hell's going on?"

In an instant, all was dark. The lights had suddenly been extinguished and a deep, gravelly voice thundered out of the blackness, "Get him!"

Tom didn't wait to try and resolve the mystery. Fearing for his life, he turned to flee towards the hump backed bridge. Running headlong in terror, it seemed he could feel some awful thing scratching and scraping the back of his leather jacket, like the fingertips of skeletal hands trying to grasp him. He stumbled briefly and something caught the trailing end of his scarf, tugging it violently from around his neck, just as he reached the bridge. To his dismay, he could see there was a yawning gap over the gushing waters below. With no second thoughts, he sprinted as fast as he could and leapt desperately for the other side of the bridge. For a moment he feared that he wouldn't make it, but he landed on the rough edge of the broken roadway with just enough momentum to send him staggering forwards to sprawl in a heap against a stone buttress.

Tom's heart was pounding and his lungs felt fit to burst, as he lay on the roadway, gasping and panting. As suddenly as it had taken hold of him, the terror disappeared. Whatever the hellish horrors were that had threatened to claim him, they were gone. He had no idea what sort of nightmare he had just witnessed, but he wasn't going to hang around. He set off at a brisk pace and was soon back at the hotel.

Two miniature bottles of whisky from the mini-bar helped calm him down, but Tom lay awake most of the night, trying to come up with some sort of explanation for what he thought he had experienced. Maybe he had fallen asleep on the way back from the pub and had a terrible nightmare. Maybe someone at the pub had slipped some sort of hallucinogenic drug into his drink. Finally, exhausted, he fell into a dreamless sleep.

He was awakened by loud knocking on the bedroom door. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was half past seven in the morning and the day was only just dawning. Who was at his door and what did they want? He quickly pulled on his trousers and shirt, experiencing a vague feeling of unease. Deciding to be careful, Tom made sure the security chain was in place before cracking the door open slightly.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"It's the police, Mr Hunter," was the reply. "Can we speak to you, please?"

Tom undid the security chain and opened the door to reveal two uniformed police officers and a little old man in a worn overcoat, wearing some sort of skull cap.

"Please come in," Tom said. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm Sergeant Sculder and this is Constable Mully. It's about your wife, sir. I'm afraid we have some bad news. There was an accident yesterday evening and unfortunately your wife was one of the victims. I'm sorry to have to tell you that she did not survive."

"Please sit down, Mr Hunter, this will have come as a huge shock," said the constable.

Tom sank into an armchair. "What happened?" he asked.

The sergeant grimaced. "It seems there was a build up of carbon monoxide from a faulty heater in the bedroom of the apartment where she was spending the night. If it's any consolation, she would have felt no pain."

Tom felt crushed. "I can't believe she's gone. What about her friend?"

"Unfortunately he didn't survive either," said the sergeant.

"Wait a minute," said Tom, perplexed. "Are you saying Cathy was with a man and they were sleeping together when they were killed by carbon monoxide poisoning?"

"That appears to be the case, sir," replied the sergeant. "I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings and I know it will be difficult for you to deal with this." He nodded towards the little old man. "Perhaps this gentleman will be able to provide some insight and support. He has many years of experience and is a widely acclaimed expert in love, heartache and loss."

"Who is he?" asked Tom.

"Rabbi Burns."