A Very Dark Place

By Martin Marriott

Get ready for a thrilling journey through A Very Dark Place, a gripping collection of eleven horror and heart-wrenching short stories that are sure to captivate you.

Experience the haunting tale of Under the Shade of Sorrow, the chilling account of Clickbait, and the poignant First World War story, The War Boys.

Step into Inception on the Iris and witness the inexplicable, or meet the intriguing characters of Twisted Wishes. Delve into the drug underworld in The Endearing Simplicity of Mr Babíc and experience the tension and fear in Zach's Requiem.

Embark on the emotional journey of The Boy, The Angel, and The Unbearable Choice. Finally, uncover the truth about Her Other Half. With each story, you'll be left wanting more. So, settle in, sit back, and let these tales take you on an unforgettable journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Martin Marriott
• Release date: Jul 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223727897

Book preview

A VERY DARK PLACE

~A Collection of Short Stories~

Copyright © 2023 by Martin Marriott

All rights reserved.

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 your favourite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Published by Martin Marriott

First edition: June 2023

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

For information regarding permission, write to:

[e-mail]

Twitter: @martinmarriottX

OTHER WORKS BY AUTHOR

Eternal Waters

The Queen of New York City

The Pearly Gates

The Awakening

Blacken Your Soul

The Haunting of Cringlemire Hall

Betsy Breedlove & Professor Foxton’s Notebook (Novella)

Killing the Dead (A Zombie Short Story)

The Bad Liars’ Club (Novelette)

Contents

The War Boys

Her Other Half

The Reimagining of Albert Carney

Under the Shade of Sorrow

Twisted Wishes

Inception on the Iris

Tale of Arbee

The Endearing Simplicity of Mr Babić

Zach's Requiem

The Boy, The Angel, and The Unbearable Choice

Clickbait

The War Boys

Granddad Tucker was a quiet man. I don’t recall him talking much. He would just sit in his armchair, gazing out the living room window. That was his routine every day. Just staring. And drinking copious amounts of tea. But mostly, his eyes never left the window. It seemed as if he was expecting someone to walk down the garden path.

One day, my curiosity got the better of me.

Who are you waiting for, Granddad?

Granddad Tucker slurped the remaining lukewarm tea from his cup, his gaze never meeting mine.

Those who never came home, he muttered, seemingly changing his mind, In here, anyway. He tapped his wrinkled temple.

Beyond his quiet nature, I knew two other things about Granddad Tucker. The first was that he was eighty-two years old. The second was that he’d fought in World War One, a fact I learned from my father. Granddad Tucker never spoke about his time in France. Not to Grandma, Dad, Uncle Perry, or Aunt Lydia. All the horror that happened in France, Granddad Tucker kept to himself. Even though I was only twelve years old at the time, I wondered if storing up those memories was good for him. I often thought that’s why he was so silent.

Would you like me to make you another cup of tea? I asked him.

Granddad Tucker nodded and handed me the cup. Not too milky this time.

Okay.

Charlie?

Yes, Granddad? I leaned against the doorway of the kitchen and looked at him.

I know you want to ask me about what I did in the war. Granddad Tucker didn’t turn his head to meet my gaze. He continued to look out of the window as if his old and fragile life depended on it. You’re not the only one who’s wanted to know. There’s been many. Granddad Tucker let out an exasperated sigh. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to talk about it. I don’t think I ever want to.

It’s okay, Granddad. A thought then popped into my head as I turned away. You could always write about it.

For the first time in I don’t know how long, Granddad Tucker’s pain-riddled eyes sparked with hope. He didn’t say anything. He turned away, and as ever, continued to keep a watchful eye out of the living room window.

Granddad Tucker passed away two years later. Grandma Tucker found him lifeless in his armchair, his eyes still trained on the garden path. A week after the funeral, Granddad Tucker’s will was executed. My dad, being the eldest, inherited his father’s wedding ring and £200. Uncle Perry received Granddad Tucker’s watch and £150. Aunt Lydia got his engagement ring and £50. Some were unhappy with what they got, but at least they received something, my disgruntled mother pointedly mentioned to my uncle and aunt.

This is for you, Charlie, Grandma Tucker said. She handed me a journal that was bound in red leather. Your granddad wanted you to have this.

I didn’t realise Dad took up writing, Uncle Perry remarked snidely.

Grandma Tucker shot him a glare, then laid her hand on mine. Read it when you’re ready. That’s what your granddad said.

I turned the journal over in my hands. What’s inside?

Grandma Tucker gave me a solemn smile. Your granddad made me promise not to peek inside. I’ve honoured his request.

That was the last time I saw that journal until a few weeks ago. Thirty-five years had passed in between. I can’t remember why I never opened the journal when I returned home. You would have thought I was eager to know what was written inside. But being twelve at the time, I was easily distracted. The journal was probably tossed somewhere in my room, buried underneath heaps of clothes, or stowed in a wardrobe drawer. I simply don’t remember. Looking back, I’m quite surprised my parents never asked me if I had read it yet. Perhaps, like me, they too forgot all about it.

The journal resurfaced when my dear wife, Emma, decided to clear out the attic.

The stuff we no longer use, we can always sell on eBay, Emma said. She was huddled over the portable lamp going through a large cardboard box of various items.

I was sitting on a wooden box, engrossed in Candy Crush. Good luck with that.

Are you going to help me or not?

In a minute. I’m nearly there.

I’m going to shove that phone where the sun doesn’t shine if you don’t come over here and help me.

I reluctantly put the phone away in my pocket. Violence doesn’t solve anything.

I think you’ll find it does. Now stop being a moron and help me.

For the next hour or so, we rummaged through box after box, black bin liner after black bin liner. And what did we have to show for it? Nothing. Well, that’s not entirely true. We had at least a skip’s worth of junk to discard.

I was about to continue my Candy Crush saga when Emma found a small cardboard box labeled ‘Charlie’s Stuff" in black felt tip.

What’s this then? Emma asked me.

I got down on my knees and used a Stanley knife to cut through the brown masking tape. I opened the flaps and a wave of nostalgia washed over me. The box was filled with toys, books, and photographs from my childhood.

And you accuse me of hoarding stuff, Emma teased.

I forgot this was up here. Mum gave it to me when Dad passed away and she moved in with Lydia. I was nearing the bottom of the box when Emma spotted the journal.

Is that your boyhood diary? Emma inquired, I’ve got to read that! I wonder what kind of naughty thoughts young Charlie Tucker had.

Probably the same as old Charlie Tucker, I replied, running my finger over the aged red leather. It was my Granddad’s.

Well, go on then, Emma urged, Open it up!

And so, I did. On the very first page of the journal, in the handwriting of an eighty-something-year-old man, was written, ‘The War Boys.’

I NEVER EXPECTED TO live as long as I have, let alone have children and a grandchild. Despite my circumstances, I’ve led a relatively healthy and fruitful life. Yet, whenever I feel a moment of happiness, the past punches me deep in my gut. The happiness and supposed contentment I’ve displayed has been like a heavy, old noose around my neck. You can never forget your past transgressions, and you can never outrun a guilty conscience. I’ve tried, Charlie, I really have. I know I haven’t been the best father or grandfather. For the last sixty-five years, I’ve felt like a shell of a man.

Who we become stems from the challenges life throws at us. Until my sixteenth birthday, I was a confident lad, living and breathing as if I were invincible. It wasn’t just me, Charlie. Others, including my childhood friend Winky, shared this reckless abandon. It was Winky who proposed that Dolly and I enlist for the war. Though hesitant at first, Winky’s persistent taunts eventually swayed us.

I can’t believe I call you lot friends. You know what? I’m not going to call you friends anymore. Traitors...no, wait, cowards. That’s what I’m going to call you.

Despite us being just sixteen, under the legal age to enlist, Winky was undeterred. He argued that we all looked older than we were and could lie about our ages, like many others were doing. When questioned about these other boys, Winky, in his usual charming manner, dodged the issue and instead focused on the ‘adventure’ we would embark upon, a story for our future generations.

A pathetic fistfight ensued between Winky and Dolly. After a few minutes of watching them roll around on the damp grass, I intervened, only to receive an elbow in the face from Winky. He claimed it was an accident, but we all knew otherwise.

I know I can’t see your face, Charlie, but I’m guessing you’re curious about our unusual nicknames. In my day, we used to give each other nicknames. Winky, for example, was actually named Norman Winkleman, but as you can see, he easily gained the nickname ‘Winky.’

As for Dolly, he was closer to me than Winky, despite all of us referring to each other as best friends. Dolly, actually named John Robertson, had been in my life since our childhood. Winky only entered our lives when his family moved from London to Windermere when he was seven.

Dolly earned his nickname as a baby, when he wouldn’t sleep or be seen without his older sister’s ragged doll. As you can imagine, Dolly’s father wasn’t thrilled with his son’s attachment to the doll. Yet, after several attempts to get rid of it, they concluded that life was simpler and quieter when baby John had his doll.

Now, the major sticking point for us enlisting to join the war effort was our parents, and subsequently, our jobs. I was an apprentice carpenter and Dolly was an apprentice blacksmith. Winky worked as his father’s assistant in their grocery shop. Initially, Dolly and I were stumped on how to break the news to our parents and employers that we were going to enlist to fight in a war for which we were underage.

It’s not hard, Gilbert, Winky said to me. We’ll just sneak off. We’ll be back before you and they know it.

The war’s in France, Winky. Not Manchester.

Winky did what Winky did best. He grinned mischievously back at me.

Listen, lads. We’ve got a reputation to maintain. We can’t be seen to be dilly-dallying about. Let’s get our stuff together, get enlisted, fight the Germans, defeat the bastards, and then return to Windermere as heroes.

That simple, eh, Winky, Dolly said.

It’s that simple, Dolly, my boy.

Even now, as I look back, I can’t believe we actually went through with it. Three young boys wanting to join a war they weren’t prepared or grown up for. That’s what we were. Boys. Not men. We may have thought of ourselves as big strapping men, but young arrogant thoughts can be so destructive. Hindsight is a beautiful concept, Charlie. I wish I could have been more persuasive than Winky. But I wasn’t and neither was Dolly. All three of us went willingly into Hell.

At the end of September, we all wrote letters to our parents. I can’t remember exactly what I wrote but I bet it was bolshie and cocksure. Something along the lines of defending freedom, the realm, and the lives of my family springs to mind. We then secretly packed what little clothes we needed for our little adventure. On the morning of the 1st of October 1915, we rose early, left our letters on the kitchen table, and then walked the nine miles to the town hall in Kendal.

We were enlisted into C Company of the 11th Lonsdale Battalion of the Border Regiment. Nobody questioned our ages, and they gave us little attention. Our enlistment papers were hurriedly filled in with our fake dates of birth and other personal attributes. We were soon bustled along with other recruits onto a carriage that would take us down south to Codford to join the rest of our battalion.

We knew some of the recruits on the carriage. They didn’t say anything to the commanding officer about our real ages. If anything, they had great admiration for us.

We arrived at our headquarters in Codford three days later. Salisbury Plain HQ would be our home until we left for France, which was rumoured to be sometime at the end of November. For the next month, we drilled, marched, and paraded until we became competent soldiers. The spirit in camp was full of positivity and humour. Dolly, Winky, and I soon found out that we weren’t the only ones to enlist underage. A lad called Tommy Blithe from Penrith was only fourteen. How he got away with it, I still don’t know. He actually looked his age, if not younger. But in camp, age didn’t matter. You were brothers in arms and that’s all that counted.

I must admit, Charlie, I was enjoying myself far more than I had expected. I thought I would be homesick, desperately missing my parents, brothers, and sisters. But I wasn’t. If anything, I was revelling in my newfound freedom. I’d never felt more alive. Winky was enjoying it even more than I was. Dolly, on the other hand, was more reserved. I think he found it all overwhelming.

During our time at Codford, I wrote three letters to my family and received three back. Dolly sent six and received three in return. Winky, on the other hand, didn’t write or receive any letters. In his gruffest tone, he said it didn’t bother him in the slightest. However, Dolly and I could see it was hurting him deeply.

If he doesn’t write them a letter, how does he expect to get one back in return? Dolly had said to me when Winky wasn’t within earshot.

Winky and his old man are as stubborn as each other, I replied. Maybe Winky’ll write one when we get to France.

After seven weeks of drilling, parading, and marching, we were informed that we would be sailing from Folkestone on the Princess Victoria bound for Boulogne.

So, our adventure begins, Winky had eagerly said to me and Dolly as Lieutenant Colonel Machell, the first in command of our battalion, addressed us on the parade ground.

Charlie, when I refer to our escapade as an adventure, I need you to understand something. Up until the moment that we boarded the carriage that took us from Kendal to Codford, Dolly and I had never been as far as Barrow, which, as you know, isn’t that far from Windermere. Winky, on the other hand, had traveled extensively around the south of England as a child for his father’s business. So, the journey from Kendal to Codford wasn’t anything new to him.

But for me, Charlie, my family and I had never been on a day trip or any kind of holiday. Life in 1915 was grim and unpleasant, a world away from the luxury that you experience now in 1981. If I could describe my life as a color, it would be a murky grey, while yours, Charlie, is an array of spellbinding bright colours.

So, at 9.30 am on the 23rd of November 1915, our adventure took a big leap into the unknown as we sailed from Folkestone for Boulogne. I was sick with anticipation. Dolly hadn’t said much to anyone since leaving Folkestone. Winky... well, I had never seen Winky look so excited in my life. A fire burned bright in his eyes. He couldn’t wait to land in France and get his hands dirty. It was at that point I knew we had made a horrible mistake by enlisting. I think Dolly had the exact same thought as we left Codford.

Norman, I asked Winky solemnly as we stared out onto the grey sea. Are you scared?

Of dying?

Not just dying but...You know, getting hurt or not seeing our loved ones again.

Nah. Winky tapped me gently on the shoulder. As I see it, Tucker, me old mucker, there’s no point in being scared. Just like there’s no point crying if a bee stings you or if your old man wallops you with his belt. Crying doesn’t make the pain go away. Just like being scared doesn’t make your situation any better.

I just think that we made... I didn’t get to finish my sentence. Winky slung his arm around my shoulder and began to sing a ditty in my ear as we came off deck and went looking for Dolly.

After arriving in Boulogne, we marched through sharp frosts and torrential rain towards our camp at Millencourt. It took us eighteen days to reach our destination. I can still remember the names of the villages we came across as if I had only visited them yesterday: Longpré, Gorenflos, Picquiny Villers, Bocage, Molliens-au-Bois, and then finally on the 12th of December, we arrived at Millencourt.

The true nature of our enlistment hit Dolly and me hard as we progressed towards the end of the year. The machine gun fire. The mortar bombardments. The casualties. The dismal weather. And of course, the trenches.

It was on the 23rd of January 1916 that I knew something was wrong with Dolly. The previous day, we had been stationed at the trenches at Aveluy Wood. We came under intense heavy fire from the Germans. With every gun fired and every mortar that exploded, I could see Dolly was mentally unravelling before my eyes. His left hand began to twitch uncontrollably, and he muttered rapidly to himself. When he saw me looking at him, he fell silent, looked away, and held his shaking hand.

I think Dolly needs to see a doctor, I said to Winky in confidence as we billeted the next day in Albert.

He seems fine to me.

I don’t think he’s coping very well.

He’ll be alright. We’ve had a rough few days, that’s all.

February came and went, and so did March. Life was repetitive. We fought in the trenches, repaired the trenches, billeted in our makeshift homes, did fatigue duties, wrote letters home, and received letters. Winky had written several letters and got one back. But day by day, Dolly slowly disappeared from my grasp. Even though we barely left each other’s side, it felt like he was back in England, in mind and spirit anyway. On the flip side, Winky had totally embraced France and its hellish ways. He couldn’t get enough of the action. He took great umbrage with Lieutenant Brown, the new leader of C Company, when we were relieved of duties from the trenches to billet back at camp.

I began to feel that the war had taken Dolly and Winky from me. It seemed to have chewed up Dolly and spat him out, while it invigorated Winky. I prayed daily for a change in our fortunes, for the war to end, for us to be sent home. In one of my darkest thoughts, I even prayed that all three of us would get injured and sent home. With each passing day, Dolly seemed to deteriorate, despite his attempts to hide his shaking hand and constant self-muttering. Only years later would I understand that Dolly was suffering from what we now call shell shock.

On the 17th of April, my prayers seemed to have been answered. Due to a measles outbreak, all of C Company, including us, was placed in isolation at Contay Wood. After a few days, I saw a noticeable change in