Q is for Quantum: A-Z of Horror, #17

By Carlton Herzog, Christopher Pate, Damir Salkovic and 10 more

Q is for Quantum is the seventeenth book in an epic series of twenty-six horror anthologies. In this book you will find a collection of thirteen mind-bending tales from some of the most skilled independent horror authors writing today. From time-travel to space exploration, parallel worlds to futuristic technology gone wrong, Q is for Quantum brings an unsettling selection of sci-fi horror tales that will have you questioning the reality of this dimension.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Cape Publishing
• Release date: Apr 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223528098

Book preview

Red Cape Publishing Presents…

The A-Z of Horror: Q is for Quantum

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2023 Red Cape Publishing

All rights reserved.

Cover Design & Interior Artwork by Red Cape Graphic Design

www.redcapepublishing.com/red-cape-graphic-design

With special thanks to

Lesley Drane

Michael Fowler

Craig Crawford

Blazing Minds

Support us at www.patreon.com/redcapepublishing

www.ko-fi.com/redcape

How’s The Walk Home? X

Luke Walker

Joe Gardner waited for a break in the traffic on Willow Road, his back to the office complex, the July evening pleasantly warm on his shoulders and head. Three weeks into the new job, the new house, the new city in Surrey and the first time he’d see more of the suburbs thanks to the walk home. The usual fifteen-minute drive on the parkways with the air-con on high would have to wait until Monday. Unexpected work for his car’s MOT meant either a taxi after work or this opportunity to take in the streets and avenues he and Sara would hopefully have chance to come to know over the rest of the summer and the autumn. The baby was due early December. A Christmas baby to go to with the life they were building now that the chaos of the endless phone calls about the mortgage and his place in the company were dealt with. At forty-one, the pregnancy had been a surprise, but a great one. The best one. They’d explore the city while Sara grew bigger; they’d make it their home and they’d do it quickly. There were roots to put down here.

Joe crossed, grateful for the shade of the trees on the opposite side. Willow Road connected these suburbs with the hub of the city a couple of miles away. Around here, the homes had grounds rather than gardens; cars were hidden inside double garages, not left on display on drives, and the side roads branching away were silent with their detached houses and clean pavements. He needed to take Elm Avenue in a few moments, follow it to its end and join Ash Lane. Half an hour through this part of the city he knew only because Parks & Harrington Pensions had set up a new office in an exclusive development discreetly tucked away from view, and the relocation package had been too generous for Sara and he to ignore.

Someone honked as they drove by. Unsure which of his new colleagues it was – possibly his boss Martin – Joe waved. There’d been a few offers of a lift home which he’d declined. The opportunity for any walking or running over recent weeks had been limited; he felt sluggish and had definitely put on weight. The walk would get muscles moving again.

Joe joined Elm Avenue, the junction lined with several healthy trees. Warmer than he expected after such a short time being exposed to the evening, he loosened his tie, then took it off. On the other side of the road, a middle-aged man returning to his home with his Rottweiler on the lead saw Joe and offered a brief wave, but no smile. Joe returned the wave. The man headed for a side entrance in his home. The big dog looked back. For a split second, the animal bared its teeth.

Charming, Joe muttered. The dog barked once and the owner pulled it closer before glancing again at Joe. Again, no smile. Only a stare. Joe looked away for a couple of seconds, then returned his gaze. The man and his dog had vanished.

Joe pushed the image away, slightly uncomfortable. They’d entered their home, not vanished. The real oddity was someone having a dog like that in a neighbourhood like this.

Except that was just snobbery and he knew it. There was money here. Valued homes. It made sense for owners to have guard dogs.

Passing drives and gardens behind high bushes and fences entwined with pretty green and garlands of flowers, Joe walked on. This was an area for solicitors and bankers. While he and Sara were doing very well and might one day afford a home here, he had no real urge for that. They’d been lucky over recent years, but both remembered life before money. This wasn’t anywhere they’d ever truly fit in.

Reaching a section of the avenue unprotected by trees, Joe walked into unbroken sunshine and hissed. It was like opening the oven door and leaning in. He wiped sweat from his forehead. Perhaps this walk home hadn’t been a great idea. He needed movement; getting out first thing or over this weekend would have been a better plan. Too late now unless he called a taxi. They’d yet to find a new car for Sara, so she couldn’t pick him up. He’d walk; he’d have a cool shower as soon as he was home and he’d drink a few cold lagers. Not the most wild of Friday nights, but one that appealed right now under the strong sun.

He passed side roads of smaller houses and fewer expensive cars, the signs naming those roads obscured by low-hanging branches and lettering faded from time and weather, and crouched to tie his shoe. Rising, he paused.

Cracks in the pavement spread from the wall beside the nearest garden to the road. Until here, pavement and road were freshly covered and perfectly smooth. It was as if the work had come to an abrupt halt once it reached...

He looked back to the side road, trying to name it. From his position, the sign was little more than faded black on a dirty grey. A sign more fitting for a sink estate. And the poor condition of the pavement belonged to the inner-city – if there was one here.

Weird.

He’d checked the route on Google last night: Elm Avenue curved to the right near where it met Ash Lane. For no good reason, he wanted to reach Ash Lane soon. Increasing his speed, ignoring the sun on his thinning hair, he focused on the now visible curve instead of the uneven surface of the pavement. Evening light blazed on windows at the edges of his vision, turning them into featureless white sheets and hiding anyone who might be watching from them.

Joe shook his head. Too warm; too flustered by nothing at all. It was to be expected. There’d barely been any time to take a break for months. Couple that with life-changing events over this year and it was no wonder he was having a momentary brain melt. The promise of the shower and being able to relax once he was home was grounding. They’d sit in the garden and watch the sun go down in a red fire. They’d—

Elm Avenue ended.

Joe stopped. He’d followed the curve to the right over the last minute. Where the avenue joined with Ash Lane, it should have been pavement alongside a small woodland. Instead, the curve ended with a tight cluster of houses that didn’t belong here. Five cramped terraces: old brick; single glazing; guttering and downpipes. In place of gardens, the doors beside small windows probably opened straight into a living room, not an entrance hallway. At either end of the short row of terraces, gaps of no more than few feet wide were black tongues separating the buildings from their neighbours of four or five bed detached homes. Their gardens. Their drives. Their white windows with their faintest suggestion of an outline behind each.

Joe backed up and seized on logic. He’d taken the wrong turning from Willow Road. Ash Lane would be nearby. Phone in hand, he found his location and zoomed in.

He was on Elm Avenue. Ash Lane was directly ahead.

What the hell is this?

Joe dragged the screen. There was no lie on it. Ash Lane was all of a minute away exactly as he’d seen the night before while Sara told him to get a taxi home.

The image could have been out of date, but not by years or decades. The terraces blocking his way had been there for God knows how long. And what were they doing there, anyway? It was as if someone had uprooted a few old buildings from another part of the city and dumped them here for a bad joke.

Joe backed up again, turned and saw into the nearest house through a bedroom window momentarily clear from the sunlight. A silhouette up there, motionless. Lurking.

He walked away, long strides taking him from the odd houses and the windows. He’d been gripping his mobile for a few moments without realising it; the solidity of it along with its normalcy in his hand was sense. He held that and walked without looking back. Moments later at the turning with the obscured sign, he peered down the side road and then the length of Elm Avenue towards Willow Road. Ash Lane had to be nearby. This side road could lead to it if the turning to the right became a straight line. Or he could retrace his steps and call a taxi from the office. By the time he did that and got home, enough time would have passed for Sara to believe he’d walked. He’d tell her he had and everything would make sense.

His phone vibrated. The message was from Sara.

How’s the walk home? X

Joe turned in a circle, checking windows and the road free from any traffic. The sun wasn’t at the right angle here to white-out windows. They were all black and empty as was the road. There’d been no traffic at all since he left Willow Road.

Walk is just fine, Sar, he muttered. Absolutely fine.

He typed a quick reply. All good. Warm though. Cold shower and colder beer. Home in 20. x

Not allowing any more debate, Joe walked to the side road and brushed the branches from the worn sign. Cædmon Lane.

He didn’t need to check his phone. There’d been no Cædmon Lane – however it was pronounced – when he went through the route.

Turn around. Get back to the office.

Sara had once told him she didn’t think he had much imagination and while he’d been oddly hurt by the remark, she’d been quick to tell him it was a quality she liked. She knew where she was with him. Surprises and unpredictability belonged to her past. She wanted stability and she definitely had that with him. Right then, imagination flared into a rare light. Cædmon Lane wasn’t right. Retreating was.

Joe marched, retracing his steps. He’d call a taxi when he was out of Elm Avenue; get picked up from the office and have it drop him off two minutes from the house. And never try this walk home, again.

Sweating freely, pretending there was no stabbing pain in his side and wishing for a faint breeze to cool off the sunlight that didn’t seem to be easing as the evening wore on, Joe left Cædmon Lane behind. He passed the same silent houses with their fenced gardens and grounds and neared the spot where he’d waved at the man walking his dog and looked for any traffic. He saw no cars. Heard nothing but the tread of his shoes and the sound of his breath.

Looking straight ahead, Joe slowed. He’d been watching for signs of life in the houses as he approached his starting point; now that he was much nearer it, he saw the grouped trees which gave the avenue its name growing tall beside an iron fence that had to stand twenty feet tall. It grew from the sides of the houses on either side of the road, coated with vines that snaked over the struts and the supporting frames thicker than his leg. There was enough space in the gaps to shove his arm through but only to his elbow.

Out of reach, Willow Road was devoid of all life while long branches and their healthy leaves were motionless in the sparkles of early evening light.

***

Joe stood beside the sign for Cædmon Lane and wiped some of the dirt from it. Grit on his fingers; the sensation of age and time etched into his skin. His mouth ached for a cool drink. Half an hour since he left the office and he was barely ten minutes from it. Twenty to six. He would have been home by quarter past if he had his car.

He could make no sense of the wall or the old houses at the far end of Elm Avenue and so had stopped trying. They existed in their own universe; he belonged to his. And the way through his universe was to take Cædmon Lane. The sole option. And what was the word? Or the language?

Latin? Welsh? What is that?

He spoke too loudly and cringed, embarrassed to be seen in public talking to himself. But there was nobody to witness him.

His phone buzzed. Another message from Sara.

How’s the walk home? X

Joe ran his thumb over the words. The same message as if she hadn’t read his reply. Or more logically, this was a duplication of the original text.

Weird Welsh Lane it is.

He would walk without rushing. He would keep his eyes ahead and he would not stop. Roads were connected; paths didn’t simply end. He would come out somewhere. Ideally Willow Road.

Joe sent a reply. Took a wrong turn like an idiot. Going back on myself so will be a bit late. Nothing to worry about. X

He walked for another few seconds, passing the old sign and checking for more cracks in the pavement. His phone buzzed with Sara’s reply.

How’s the walk home? X

Shit. He muttered it and pulled at the back of his damp shirt. Either his phone was playing up with repeating the sole message or Sara’s phone had a glitch. He thumbed her name and put the phone to his ear. It rang, then broke into hissing. Joe jerked his hand away from his head. The hissing was still audible, rolling and flowing like black water. Static from a dead channel or an old radio tuned to the spaces between stations. It eased a fraction and he heard Sara.

At once, he brought the phone back to his ear, wincing at the static now slightly quieter. Again, he thought of water in the dark; a river in the middle of the night surrounded by damp earth and weeping willows trailing their arms across the surface.

. . .Joe. . .there. . .you. . . don’t know. . .what. . .something changed. . .

Sar? Can you hear me? The line’s awful. Are you there?

Joe? It was clear but only for the second it took her to shout his name. The blast of static that followed immediately could have been a bomb detonating.

Jesus. Joe jerked again, his ear throbbing as if the phone had punched him. The static cut out and the screen went blank. The call was over.

Joe spoke to the evening. What the hell is going on?

The sound fading in and out even though there was no breeze to carry it to him or away, footsteps marched on the pavement. He checked ahead and behind, saw nobody, and tried to place the walker. They could have been fifty feet away and closing in; they could have been at either end of Elm Avenue. Down there with the brick wall that shouldn’t exist, or the other way with the shitty terraced houses that belonged to the Victorian and Edwardian backstreets. Nearby or several minutes away, they remained a constant sound: soft but insistent. Old shoes, the heels still sturdy, snapping on the cracks and splits in the tarmac, crossing the uneven road that had been freshly covered in the early summer.

Joe walked, his speed edging towards a run. He focused on the middle distance, refusing to take in the decay and damage left untended to the pavement, fully aware of it by the sensation of foot on ground. Likewise, he didn’t let himself take in the houses waiting at the corners of his eyes.

Smaller than the homes with their grounds on Elm Avenue; packed closer together with no expensive cars in their drives; barely any with drives or gardens; gates broken and rusting; fences close to collapse; brown rectangles over the doors which could only mean boarded-up entrances.

Joe saw none of it. He didn’t allow himself to see any of it.

The footsteps remained a constant, somehow no nearer or further. Acoustics from the open road and the air and the sun and whatever else he could think of.

Cædmon Lane eased into a curve ahead. A wide section of grass, yellowed and patchy after weeks of dry weather, grew between the pavement and the road. It was ugly but it was usual. If he hadn’t watered their garden a couple of times a week, it would look the same. Except their garden didn’t have grooves flattening the grass; grooves side by side running the width from the pavement to the kerb.

But he wouldn’t see that as he wouldn’t see the houses. So what if something had been dragged over the grass? None of his business.

Joe reached the curve and another sign equally as faded as the one for Cædmon Lane with the added bonus of dry mud caked into the lettering.

Dræfend Way.

He didn’t bother checking his phone. There was no Dræfend Way on the map. No street names that weren’t in English. He gripped the top of the sign, squeezing it. The wood was cool despite the heat of the evening. Squeezing harder, he felt a faint vibration. It was like hearing a digger moving earth at a slight distance. The humming rising from the support posts of the sign into its frame and then to his hand. Rising from the ground.

Joe withdrew his hand and wiped it on his trouser leg. His hold dislodged a small piece of the dry mud. It fell with a soft tap, leaving a faint smear on the last letter. The smear was pink, not brown. And the sunlight on the rest of the mud revealed it to be closer to red.

Joe wiped his hand again. The grooves dug into the grass. The pink and red on the sign. Dræfend Way.

Welsh? English? Latin? Fucking Greek? What am I looking at here?

He needed to go back. He needed to retreat to Elm Avenue, find the house where the man had returned home with his dog and knock on the door.

Excuse me. Do you mind if I use your phone to call a taxi? Only my walk home no longer exists and I don’t know where I am. And please don’t let your dog rip out my throat.

Right. Do that, admit he had either gone insane or. . .

Or the footsteps were still coming closer while somehow remaining behind.

Go back and draw closer to whoever was walking on Elm Avenue. Go forward. And…

The footsteps decided for him. At least forward meant silence.

Joe turned with Dræfend Way, doing everything he could to forget about the grooves dug into the tired grass or the smeared mud that wasn’t mud on the sign. The sun seemed to spin for a moment, breaking over the sky to dazzle him. He might have been in a woodland, sheltered from the daylight by sturdy branches before stepping into a well-lit clearing. Squinting, shielding his eyes, Joe blinked a few times.

He was inches from a brick wall. As the impossible fence had done the same, it extended from the sides of the houses on either side of the road, forming an impossible barrier.

What? Joe whispered. This wasn’t simply insane. It was impossible. Nobody would end a street with a wall like this.

It’s a Way, not a street.

Fuck you.

He had no idea who he was swearing at and didn’t care. He’d find a gap in the wall; he’d climb on the trees and get over it.

His darting eyes froze on a section of the brickwork level with his face. Similar to the lines on the yellow grass, lines were visible on the stone. Scratches. Faint but definitely visible, red stained the brown bricks around those scratches.

He wasn’t the first person to encounter this wall. Nor was he the first person to try for a way through it.

He was going to scream soon. And when he did, he would break open.

Holding his breath, counting to ten, Joe put everything from his head and pressed nine three times on his phone.

It rang once.

What’s your emergency? a voice asked. They might have been male. He couldn’t be sure.

I’m trapped, Joe whispered.

Speak up.

I’m trapped. I can’t get out of Elm Avenue or back to Willow Road. Joe cleared his throat. I don’t know where I am or what’s happening, but I need help, okay? I need –

They were giggling, the secretive laughter muffled perhaps by a hand over their mouth, but not enough. They wanted him to hear it.

What are you laughing at? I need help. I—

In place of their sniggering, they uttered an animalistic growl followed by a series of high-pitched yips. Joe stared at his phone. The yips increased in pitch; the growling returned at the same time. Someone else cackled wild laughter, the sound of a drunk out of control. Far behind the confusion