In the Styx

By Isobel Wycherley

Radio host Barnaby Robinson is one of the few survivors of a catastrophic nuclear explosion.

Trapped inside his small bungalow and forced to face his inner demons, he inevitably descends into madness. He isn’t alone, however; his strange black cat, Hedley, keeps him in check. But is there more to her than meets the eye?

Join Barnaby through terrifying events and unusual calls with his listeners, and begin to understand where it all went wrong.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Feb 13, 2024

Book preview

In the Styx

IN THE STYX

ISOBEL WYCHERLEY

CONTENTS

5

4

3

2

1

We Are Live

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2024 Isobel Wycherley

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2024 by Next Chapter

Published 2024 by Next Chapter

Edited by Lorna Read

Cover art by Lordan June Pinote

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

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Dedicated to Gma & Gdad

5

The paper-thin walls of my modest bungalow quake under the might of the dusty autumn wind.

It is always quiet here, except for the creaks of my old wooden furniture and the little tapping feet of my only friend, my little black cat, Hedley. Every day I’m awoken by her, either for food, or she wants to tell me something important.

Today, it was that I was late for work.

I throw my thick, quilted covers to the side and lunge my way into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I turn the tap, but no water comes out.

Must have forgotten to pay the water bill again. I laugh to myself; I’m always doing that.

Luckily, I have a half empty can sitting on the basin. I quickly scrub my aching teeth with my dry, painful toothbrush. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the bristles were made of nails.

I tip the remainder of the can into my sudsy mouth, gargle, and spit into the desiccated sink. I run my hand through the slow trickle of spit and liquid, and smooth what is left of my orange, bristly hair down across my forehead with it.

I look into the mirror at my weary face; my bloodshot eyes blink at the big purple nose hanging below them. I try a smile. It looks pathetic, so I try again, repeating my show’s introduction to get in the zone.

Goood morniiiing, Polcaaaaig! I am your host, Barnaby… I sigh and try again. I’m your host Barnaby Robinson, coming to you from Bonny Scotland.

My face instantly relaxes into its now usual grimace and I feel ready to start the day.

I take the towel from the rack to wipe my mouth. Hedley swipes at it, thinking we’re playing a game.

Not now, Hedley. I laugh with her.

We head down the short corridor and into the open plan living room/dining room/kitchen space. She follows me all the way to my computer, which is set up on the dining table.

I put my headphones on, set up my microphone and begin my show.

Six, five, four, three, two, one, Good morning, everybody, it’s five a.m. here in Bonny Scotland. The wind and the rain are still falling with vigour, it must have scared everybody off, I haven’t seen a human outside in a long time. I pause in thought for a moment. I wonder when it will stop? I ask, looking out of the window.

Thank you, for tuning in to Polcaig FM again today, I am your host, Barnaby Robinson. I snap out of my trance and return to work mode. "I’ll be taking calls from nine a.m. onwards, but for now, as we all wake from deep slumbers ready to tackle the day ahead, please enjoy a rendition of Franz Liszt’s Liebestraum Number Three."

As the music plays, I get up from the table, Hedley watching me contently, perched next to the computer. I begin to make our breakfasts, humming along to the melody. Hedley sways with me. She, too, enjoys classical music as much as I do.

I have never been much of a singer, but ever since I was young everybody told me what a lovely voice I had. High-pitched and angelic in youth, and deep, dusky with age. The listeners love it.

I pry open the tin of baked beans I keep stashed in Hedley’s food cupboard, and begin slicing the onions. My eyes burn and begin to stream immediately.

I blink rapidly and look for the dark blur of Hedley’s silhouette. They’re strong ones today, Hedley.

She meows back to me in reply.

I wipe my eyes with my forearm and