Classical Horror by Sally Saunderson

Read a runner-up entry in our 2007 short story competition

Sally, 49, is a consultant in the voluntary sector. She lives in Yateley, Hampshire, and New York with her partner Robert.

Classical Horror
“It's just fear,” said Morgan, putting her feet up on a kitchen chair and watching her sister roll out pastry.
“It is not fear,” returned Elaine, “It's people actually getting hurt. And don't put your feet on those papers, they're the draft of the parish magazine.”
“I'm nowhere near them, and it's people fearing they're going to get hurt when there is in fact very little likelihood of it actually happening.” Morgan picked up the pastry cutter and began rolling it back and forth with the tip of her finger. “So they all start hiding out at home with the burglar alarm and the Rottweiler, when that's exactly the place most people get hurt, especially women.”

Elaine stopped what she was doing and frowned at her. “I spend quite a lot of time at the local refuge,” she said, “Are you really going to lecture me on domestic violence?”
“Of course not.”
“Good.”
“I am merely pointing out the fact that, statistically speaking, fear is driving people from a perceived risk area into an actual one.”
“Clever figures can prove anything.”
“Figures quite often prove what people don't want to hear,” answered Morgan. “That's why everybody shouts them down.”

Elaine retrieved the pastry cutter, gave it a good wipe and attacked the shortcrust with a vengeance. “So are you saying that people should just forget about the risks and get out there come what may?”
“No, I'm saying that this changing lifestyles all the time is making a major problem mountain out of a small hill of difficulty.” She grinned. “How's that for a phrase?”
“It's hopeless.”
“Spoil sport. Anyway, I though a vicar's wife was supposed to have more faith in her fellow man.”
“That,” returned Elaine, “is a cheap shot.” She pushed the baking tray across the table and pointed at the perfect circles of pastry. “Now make yourself useful and put these in the tray for me.” She crossed the kitchen to the cupboard for the jam. “And I bet you'd change your mind if…” She stopped suddenly. She had been about to say something automatic about real experience of crime, but remembered the bookseller with the crushed skull and the awful events that followed, and the desperate Christmas hunt for the elusive Mrs Hughes, and a long quarter of an hour on a cliff edge.
“If what?” insisted Morgan.

Elaine turned. “If you broke down on your way back from Chichester tonight and your new fancy mobile refused to work.”
Which, as it turned out, was quite prophetic.

The first thing Morgan did was mildly swear. At the car for having developed some weird and wonderful fault. At the phone for having had the temerity to run out of power, and finally at herself for forgetting to put it on charge. Then she sat back and considered her position.

It was just gone eleven at night and the car had coasted gently off a road that was little used even during the day. She estimated she was two miles past the Old Toll Cottage which was the nearest building, and it was about four miles to the village. That was by road. It was roughly two miles cross country. She could sit here all night and not a car would pass, or she could start walking and one would pass after 5 minutes. Of course if she walked on the road the driver would see her (or knock her down), but if the car remained hypothetical it was a long walk home. And should the driver turn out to be the stuff of nightmare she wouldn't make it home.

For a few minutes she imagined the headlines in the local paper when her mangled remains were discovered in a shallow grave by an inquisitive dog, the scratching of paws revealing a bloodstained and decomposing hand or a lock of muddy, all too human hair. Then she decided she really didn't much fancy the idea and didn't trust the local journalists to do the story justice.

She could always stay in the car and hope she would be missed and a search party sent out from the Vicarage, except that she had told Elaine and Victor that she would be late and not to wait up. She checked in the glove compartment. She was right, she did have a torch. She opened the car door, got out and felt the isolation close around her like a thick blanket. She stood and listened. Nothing, save the slight breeze rustling in the top of the trees. She checked all around. Not one hopeful sign of distant headlights. She looked up. The sky was fairly clear, so it was unlikely to rain and the light would be pretty good once her eyes had adjusted.

Decision one: she would walk.
Decision two: she would go cross country.

She knew the way across the common well enough. From the next bend a sandy path led up and through the first belt of trees to a small ridge, then a firebreak took you down the slope to another path through some more trees, coming out on the track that skirted the Colonel's garden and came out in the village near the pond, just up the road from the church and the Vicarage.
Couldn't be more simple.
The torch gave our before she reached the first lot of trees. It just wasn't her day for batteries.

She stood will for a while to try and help her eyes adjust, but it was too cold to remain stationary for more than a few minutes. The sand of the path was dry and shifted under her feet, making walking harder, and occasional clumps of heather reached out into her way. As she neared the trees she tripped over a large root falling heavily forward onto her hands.
“You're trying too hard,” she told herself angrily. You know the way, you've walked the path a thousand times. The only difference now is that there is less light.

In the trees there was so much noise. Twice she turned sharply in the direction of a sudden rustle, or the crack of a branch and all sorts of stories read once and thought forgotten came racing to the front of her mind. They all featured foolish action on the part of lone females, had dark shapes hiding behind trees and none of them had happy endings. She looked around and there were shadows moving in the trees, silently keeping pace, waiting their moment. Morgan wished she had led a better life and thought of several reforms to put into practice should she reach the safety of the Vicarage.

She was certain the slope of the firebreak was much steeper than she remembered it, and the sand was sharply ridged, with one of the deep ruts full of water. She now had one shoe that was thoroughly wet and another that was full of sand. She paused halfway down the slope as she thought she heard a sound, an uneven rumble of an engine carried towards her on the slight breeze. There was just a trace of it, then it was gone. Probably she had imagined it. It was not the time for off road vehicles to be trying out their tricks over the common. Anyway, all was quiet again.

She took the rest of the slope at a rather reckless trot and soon gained the second belt of trees which forced her back to a walking pace. The path through here was narrow with many low, overhanging branches, forcing her to move forward with one hand in front of her face for protection. All in all though, she was feeling pretty pleased. She had about half a mile to go and it had all been dead simple. She came out onto the track within yards if where she had expected, rounded the corner of the Colonel's garden wall and jumped back on her tracks as if she had seen a ghost.
If so, it was the ghost of a small flat bed lorry.

Keeping carefully close in to the wall, Morgan approached the corner again and peered round. The truck was over to the wall side of the track, its headlights still on, pointing away down towards the turn for the road and the village. Looking down along the wall itself she could see a ladder up against the brickwork among the ivy and the overhanging bushes. She was about to edge closer for a better view when she heard movement close at hand. Swinging round she was relieved to see the track behind her was clear, and realised the sound was coming from the other side of the wall. Whoever had gone over the ladder was about to retrace his steps. She watched from the shadows in the cover of the ivy, barely ignoring the tickling sensation by her left ear. The first thing she saw was the head and shoulders of a man appear above the wall, dark against a patch of sky. He hooked a leg over the top and felt about the ladder. Having manoeuvred himself thus far he leant back over the wall, reaching down. He called softly, but with a note of urgency to someone still down in the darkness of the garden.

The next thing to appear at the top of the wall was a half naked female.
For an instant Morgan had fascinating visions of arcane rites being practised in the bushes at the bottom of the Colonel's garden, but then sense prevailed and she recognized the appearance as the small statue that normally sat by the fishpond. The Colonel had a sizeable (and according to him expensive) collection of classical ornaments known throughout the village as 'the Ariadnes' mainly because of the preponderance of lightly clad nymphs. Obviously someone agreed enough with the Colonel's valuation to get out the ladders and go scurrying through the undergrowth in the middle of the night.

Another man now appeared over the wall and the pair carefully (and with some difficulty) carried the straying Ariadne to the truck. Leaning out, Morgan could see the shadowy shapes of at least four other statues already loaded. Quickly, the newcomer was packed away with the rest and the two men were back up the ladder and over the wall for the next one.

As the sound of movement died away Morgan crept out onto the track and approached the lorry. Here, she thought, would be another great use for the defunct mobile phone, blithely ignoring the fact that had it been working she never would have across this interesting situation. The problem now was to try and ensure the lorry stayed put until she had hightailed it to the Vicarage for assistance. After all, there was no guarantee there were after the whole collection. Some of the pieces were far too big for two men to be able to haul them over walls. As usual she had no paper in her bag, but she did have a pen, so she scribbled down the number down on her hand. Then, using a trick she had learnt years before, while watching a disaffected youth in the gloom of a February afternoon in Bognor Regis to let down both tyres on the side away from the wall.

Straightening up she listened hard. Nothing. She went up to the driver's door and tried it. It opened, allowing her the pleasing sight of the ignition key in position ready for a quick getaway. Gleefully she pocketed it as a rustle of bushes caught her ear and she made off down the track at her best speed.

Her entrance into the Vicarage was later described by Elaine as 'needlessly dramatic.' Her seven year old nephew on the other hand said it was 'really cool' and refused to return to bed until he had seen the police. A compromise was reached whereby he and his sister were allowed to watch the coming and goings from their parents bedroom window. Obligingly the police car left its blue light flashing as it sat in the drive creating a pleasing sense of urgency and importance. Another car despatched directly to the scene found the truck abandoned and its load unharmed, apart from a slight chip to a statue of Hermes unceremoniously dumped on its back at the bottom of the ladder.
“One thing intrigues me Mrs. Lyall,” said the Sergeant carefully, as he put his pen away in his pocket. “What exactly were you doing there at that time of the night?”
“I was walking home,” answered Morgan.
“Walking home.” The tone of voice admirably conveyed deep disbelief at such sheer stupidity.
“I was taking a short cut from where my car had broken down,” explained Morgan helpfully.

The Sergeant frowned and the woman PC with him pursed her lips and shook her head in prim disapproval.
“I can't say as I would recommend making that a habit, Mrs Lyall,” said the sergeant in his best fatherly voice, “Best just get yourself a mobile.”


Read the other finalists' entries in our 2007 short story competition

See a full index of Lifestyle or discuss similar topics on our forum