Fey: Four Fantastic Stories

By Jonathan Broughton

A colony of forgotten zombies, a young werewolf, Victorian Steampunk and the end of an old lady's life. Four stories in which extraordinary events occur in everyday settings. Mystery, fear, cunning and dark humour each reveal a different surprise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Broughton
• Release date: Jan 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310109652

Jonathan Broughton

Jonathan writes fantasy, horror, paranormal and urban stories. Any story in any genre in fact, depending on the idea or the plot that pops into his head.For many years he lived in Hastings on the south coast of England and all of the stories in these books were written when he was by the sea.Many of Jonathan’s short stories have been published in Rayne Hall’s ‘Ten Tales’ books and April Grey’s ‘Hells...’ series.He has worked as a Poll Clerk and a Presiding Officer for various local and general elections, an examinations invigilator and as a puppeteer in theatre, films and television. He now lives in the University City of Cambridge, UKHis Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/jonathan.broughton.5And his Twitter handle: @jb121jonathan

Book preview

Fey: Four Fantastic Stories

by

Jonathan Broughton

Copyright © Jonathan Broughton.

(This edition Copyright © February 2016)

Smashwords Edition

Cover: Rayne Hall

Model: Maria Amanda Schaub

Photographer: Helle Gry

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

These stories are works of fiction. Some of the place names are real locations, though the characters and their situations are the work of the author’s imagination and any likeness to people alive or dead is a coincidence.

Table of Contents

Furzby Holt

A census collector has the shock of his life

Betrayed

The Establishment is under attack in Victorian London

Hatch, Match and Despatch

Steampunk in Victorian England and the State rules

A Lady Calls

Old secrets are revealed

About the author

Furzby Holt

A census collector has the shock of his life

Pick up, Sandra! Kevin flung the mobile onto the passenger seat. See if I care! But he did care and he ground his teeth. And he’d forgotten to bring his hands-free kit. At least out here no CCTV recorded his crime.

Where was Furzby Holt? The satnav hadn’t spoken for miles. The orange arrow rested on the green line which stretched to infinity against a grey background.

Queen’s ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ trilled from his mobile. Sandra! At last and he pressed the first button that made contact with his thumb. Look – its ok, no need to say sorry, but...

I should hope not, replied a male voice. Where the hell are you?

Oh God! Mr Richards, his boss. On my way, Mr Richards.

You mean you haven’t even got there yet?

The bare horizon stretched before him. It’s further than I thought.

That’s because you started late, barked Mr Richards. What’s the excuse this time? No, let me guess, your watch stopped.

I’m going as fast as I can. Lame but true.

I want those census forms at my front door by ten tonight. Or do I have to come out there and collect them myself?

Kevin flicked the satnav. The picture didn’t change and the voice stayed silent. I’ll do my best.

You’ll do better than that.

I’ll get them to you... The line went dead. Mr Richards?

He brought the car to a shuddering halt and the satnav’s orange arrow melted into the green line and disappeared.

He unclipped his belt and pushed himself out of the car. Why didn’t people post their census forms back like they were told? He rummaged through the junk in his boot and hooked out his Road Atlas. Why did he have to go traipsing round the country like a nanny?

The sharp retort as he slammed the boot lid alerted him to the silence. He noticed his surroundings for the first time since he had stepped out of the car. Beds of reed marsh stretched away on either side for as far as the eye could see. The breeze ruffled their feathery tops and whistled a low note through their stalks. The western horizon blazed orange from the setting sun and the eastern sky darkened with the approach of night.

Kreeeee! A small bird rose vertically from the reeds.

No traffic on the road. Road? Big word for the narrow strip of asphalt that was barely wide enough to let two cars pass. He squinted. What was that? Like a smudge against the sky, far ahead on the horizon. Were they trees, or houses? Could it be Furzby Holt?

He flicked the pages of his Atlas. East Sussex, between Hastings and Winchelsea, the B - the B what? A thin beige line edged with dashes stretched towards the coast. It wasn’t even listed as a B road, it was a track. It stopped millimetres from the English Channel and there in brackets was the name, Furzby Holt.

That smudge must be it. He flung the Atlas onto the passenger seat and put his foot down.

Why didn’t Sandra return his calls? Twenty minutes ago he had asked her why she was cooling off. All right, he blurted it out, it wasn’t tactful, frustration made his tongue flap. She accused him for her behaviour. He only wanted her for one thing, she shouted, and he wasn’t very good at that.

The insults flew like fists. It was a spat, all couples had them. He loved her, he told her that. Right now they should be making up.

The smudge ahead defined itself into trees of different heights. No sign of any houses or a flicker of light amongst the shadows. Please... let this be the right place. He needed to get back to Sandra, time spent on explaining who said what and why was such a waste.

He flicked on his headlights. The white beam hit the road and a mass of black night that came hurtling straight towards him.

The rolling dark hit the car with a loud thud and a piercing screech tore the air.

The blackness rolled across the bonnet and cannoned into the windscreen. In the confusion of images, an open blood-red mouth with yellow teeth pierced his mind and lingered.

No! He squealed to a halt. The car slewed sideways and the creature rolled off.

His breath came