Cyber Punks!

“I thought the view would be better than this, ya know?”

Ahead, the Vandenberg Spaceport spread out across the horizon, grey tarmac merging seamlessly with the imperceptible horizon. Weak sun, seeping through the toxic Californian smog, glinted off the distant skyscraper of a Transport. Nothing moved in the dirty expanse beneath them, save the neon flickering of the sharp red lights of a landing pad.

The girl pressed her cheek against the harsh black fabric of the boy’s hoody. Fuel pipelines and boarding walkways hung slack from the underside of the launch gantry they sat on, like the bowels of a freshly butchered animal.

“You’re really going then?” she asked, ignoring his complaint about the view. They’d spent hours getting there, bypassing security and hiking across the featureless cement desert of the launch complex. The climb up the launch tower had been long- 1400 steps, she’d counted.

“Yeah,” he sighed apathetically. He took a final drag on the cigarette and tossed it into the mist below them. He watched the orange-glowing tip recede until he could no longer see it. The ground itself was only just visible, 130 stories below them. The whole structure creaked just a little in a wind that blew in off the sea.

“You don’t sound happy about it,” she replied. He looked at her.

“Would you be happy if your parents were dragging you to some fuck-off rock in the middle of nowhere?”

She scoffed, “It’s hardly a rock, moron- you’re moving to Mars!”

“Oh yay,” he spat. “Another planet for us all to screw up, hooray for me!”

She frowned. “You’re sounding like one of those dickhead anti-colonial terrorists.”

“Whatever,” he sulked half-heartedly, looking off at the invisible horizon. A pause hung in the air, as heavy as the polluted clouds. They could hear the sounds of the distant surf as the wind picked up a little, rolling in off the dead Pacific coast.

“Look at the lights,” she said, changing the topic. A concentric snowflake pattern had started to play on the landing pad, spiralling inwards.

“The 17:34, back from Venus station, right on fuckin time,” he said. “Hold on to something, it’s gonna be quite something.”

She tightened her grip on his arm, wrapping both around him and squeezing in close. He sighed.

“Fine, but if you fall, don’t blame me in the couple of seconds you get before you hit the sidewalk.”

He sidled over slightly, hooking his arm through the triangular support struts beside him. They both glanced skywards as the roar approached.

Suddenly, like the whales of old, a leviathan breached the heavens. Sides scorched with re-entry heat, the rocket rode down through the sky, a pillar of bright fire supporting it as it descended. Flashes of bright control jets flickering on and off, making automated course corrections. Other thrusters came on and off ten times a second, adjusting the orientation as the ship’s speed slowed, eventually sliding effortlessly towards the flashing beacon. With a last thunderous crash, the engines flared up and seared a mark onto the pad. Then it was quiet, save for the final creaks of the vessel settling on its sturdy legs, and the Pacific waves.

The girl let out a silent wow. Once the sonic booms had finished reverberating off the ground, the boy shrugged her off.

“We should get going soon. They’ll let the passengers off at the ground level, but later this evening they’ll roll this gantry out and get the cargo off.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“You really don’t give a shit, do you?”

“Thanks,” he smirked.

“No, not that,” she sighed. “Look, you’re just… dull. Do you have no sense of wonder left?”

“Wonder?” he laughed. “Take a look around you? What’s wonderful about this?”

Her mouth dropped open. “What do you mean. This is sorta amazing, don’t you think? Fuck, 50, no, 30 years ago, no one could have believed that this would happen. It was god-damn science fiction for them.”

“Yeah, dystopia more like.”

He looked at her, and she turned away. Her pink, half-shaved hair stretched into the wind, a rare speck of colour in the Californian miasma. He looked beneath that, though- the sallow skin, stretched thin across her bones. He could see the bumps of her spine as it went down into her violet sweatshirt.

He’d watched a documentary the other day, some Martian production, and they’d talked about that- the “Terran Rot”, they’d called it. Average life expectancy had been shrinking for the last three decades.

“Look, you said something about it being like sci-fi, right?”

She nodded, quiet.

“Yes, fifty years ago they didn’t have the rockets, or the spaceports, or even VR, but… ah, fuck it.”

“What?” she asked.

“It sounds stupid, but you realise California was pretty much a nature reserve back then? There were millions of animals on earth in the ‘tens. Now, we’re living in a wasteland and we fucking built it.”

She slumped, resting her pointed chin on her hand. “I thought you didn’t give a shit?”

“You know why we’re moving there, don’t you?” he asked.


He nodded. “They’re covering up the whole crater. Don’t listen to what the company says, they haven’t done a full survey of the area. They don’t know any more than you or I do that there’s nothing native there.”

She gazed at him quizzically. “You mean you’re being this much of a sulky jackass just ‘cuz of a few alien bacteria?”

“It’s not just there,” he said. “It’s terraforming writ small. Once they dome over Schiaparelli, there’ll be nothing to stop them from filling up Hellas Planitia, the whole Southern Basin. All it takes is just one of their test-bed projects to be successful, and they’re gonna take that whole planet and turn it into as much of a shithole as this place is. Mars may be the red planet right now, but don’t worry, it’ll be grey and corporate within a few years.”

She stood up and stretched. The boy noticed goosebumps on her bare calves, and shivered himself.

“Well, as you said, I better get going. You gonna come?”

He shrugged. “Nah, I’ll wait here a little while. See ya.”

She walked off a little way along the gantry, back to the staircase. There were heavy clouds coming in, and she briefly worried about thunder striking the gantry. She looked over at the boy, but he was already staring off at the recently-landed Transport.

“Hey, look on the plus side,” she laughed. “Keep this up, and you might be the first punk on Mars!”

She heard a brief chuckle from the boy and, without turning, he raised his fist and flicked up a middle finger at her in response.

As she started down the stairs, she gazed back at the boy sitting on the end of the gantry, his legs dangling over the drop. A cloud engulfed the top of the tower, and he disappeared into the grey.


Devil’s Laughter

[Author’s note: This was an entry in the UCA Ghost Story Challenge. Deamhaich is pronounced Deem-Hake.]


Growing up in the town of Deamhaich, Cornwall, there always were stories told. The one that frightened me the most as a kid was that of the Devil’s Laughter.

The United Kingdom is a honeycomb of mines, and nowhere is this warren of tunnels denser than under the Cornish peninsula. Occasionally, this makes local or national news when a tunnel implodes and sucks down cars, houses, or entire streets.

The story went that the mines of Deamhaich were abandoned quickly, a little before the end of the 19th century. I still remember my grandfather telling me about the miners. He said that they dug too deep, compelled onwards by greed and a few ancient rumours that, beneath the tin there was something rarer, older. This quest ended in horror, though. The miners dug through the earth to the gates of Hell itself, causing them to flee the tunnels at once and never return.

It’s said that, still, you can hear the screaming laughter of the Devil at the gates. He howls after the souls of the townsfolk and the miners who disturbed his lair.

Jumping forwards a few years, I was in a dangerous position. Intoxicated by a mix of teenage arrogance and the desire for a girl, I agreed to go into the mines, alone. Her name was Suzanne. She was a couple of years older than me, out of my league and at the forefront of Deamhaich’s burgeoning emo community. She’d dared me to descend into the mine and go to the edge of hell, and to bring back a pick-axe with me to prove it.

I didn’t believe the legends any more. There were other dangers though.

These excavations were old, and I was on my own. I genuinely, foolishly thought I’d prepared well before going down there. I’d packed a bag with two torches, a bottle of water, three chocolate bars. One of my friends, a Greek mythology fan, suggested that I take some twine down and leave one end at the surface. The plan was that I’d spool it out behind me to find my way back. If I got into trouble, I would tug on the twine three times to signal to Suzanne, who would be on the other end, that I needed help.

The entrance was barred with wooden panels, emblazoned with warning signs against exactly my kind of idiotic, hormone-infused bravado. A friend of a friend had a mechanics shop in town, and through them I had been able to find the crowbar that I used to pry the boards away.

As the wood sloughed off, a gust of stale, dead air flowed out of the now gaping tunnel entrance. There were marks in the wood that looked similar to the ones I was making. Whereas the scratches I left were fresh, these had clearly been there for a while. Someone else had gone down there, but whoever they were they’d done it many years ago.

I was only a little way into the tunnel before everything went wrong. I should have stepped back as soon as I noticed that the first few yards of the tunnel had a wooden floor, not stone. I didn’t, though, and I strode onwards, careless, and put my whole weight on some rotten floorboards.

I fell through two layers of wood before finally coming down hard on the gravelly floor of the mine. I swore once, loud, and lay there for a second trying to take stock of my situation as I got my breath back. Careful about harming myself further, I sat up.

I’m lucky that the fall deposited me on my chest. If it had been my legs, I would have been crippled, and a fall on my back or neck might have even killed me. Still, I was in a bad way. Prodding my chest, I winced as I encountered tender, shattered rib. I’d later find out that I’d been fortunate too that none of the shards had penetrated my lungs or heart. My limbs were functional, asides from a blazing pain in my left ankle. I tried to put weight on it, but it hurt too bad and I had to collapse back down. Later, I’d learn that the fall had snapped two tendons.

It only then occurred to me that I was in complete darkness. The torch was shattered, and I thanked my lucky stars that I’d brought another. At least until I tried to turn it on. The batteries weren’t quite dead, but the dim light was flickering, so I decided to save it in case I needed it.

I was in trouble so I pulled on the string, which I’d somehow managed to keep a hold of. When the other end came falling through the hole above me, though, I couldn’t help but let out a sob of fear. It repeated, then, and grew into full screams of fear.

I couldn’t help but think about how alone I was. The only person who’d known about my expedition had abandoned me. I could only assume that she thought the collapse had killed me, and that I had no way to get back to the surface. I was far from the entrance, now, and there were no maps of the tunnels. If there even was a rescue operation, there was no guarantee they’d find me. I knew it was illogical, that no one would hear me and that I was only wasting the precious few breaths I had left. I just couldn’t stop screaming.

I eventually did when I realised that there was another scream alongside mine.

A shiver of fear ran over me as I recognised that laughter, distorted and screaming. The tunnel walls and the demented energy with which the noise was produced warped it. Disregarding my inflamed ankle, I leapt up and, steadying myself against the wall, picked up my backpack.

I don’t know how far I’d limped when I heard it again. To my surprise, the noise was clearer. A high, keening wail now, it sounded less like laughter and more like screaming. I cursed the labyrinthine nature of the mine, reasoning that either it was following me or I’d been all turned around and walked closer to the source. Tears flowing down my face, I turned around, and walked faster.

I tripped on something, ruining my ankle more, and the screams began again, louder, as if I were in the same room with them. I was too scared to flee now, and I crawled to a corner and into a foetal position. It just kept going, not laughter now, not screams, but something worse- the crying of a baby. I pulled out the chocolate bars I’d brought with me, and accepted it as my last meal. I turned on the torch and laid it down, pointing it at the granite wall of the tunnel, simply to give me something to look at. After an hour or so, it blinked out.

After seventy-two hours in the dark, the fire brigade found me. They had been drawn by the crying. Suzanne had, of course, called them immediately. In the tunnel with me was what I’d tripped over- the tiny, shrivelled skeleton of a child, wrapped in a silk shroud. Pinned to the fabric was a handwritten note, yellowed and ancient.


My darling Emily, I’m so sorry. You were brought into this world too early, and remind me of forbidden love. May you find peace here, buried deep within the earth. Always love from your mother, LW.”

After some forensic analysis, the child’s body was buried in the local churchyard. People still claim to hear the Devil’s Laughter even now, but I believe that’s an urban legend. I think Emily has finally found peace.


The story of the “Nazi Gold Train” is an enduring one. According to the legend, a German train loaded with gold confiscated from Polish civilians and Jewish prisoners was buried in the woods near the Polish city of Walbrzych, formerly the German city of Waldenburg. Some sources quote the train as containing up to three hundred tonnes of gold, as well as jewels and several lost masterpieces.

The most recent attempt at finding the treasure was undertaken by two Polish men, Piotr Koper and Andreas Richter, in 2015-16. Though they initially claimed to have been told by the death bed confession of a concentration camp guard, they caused a media storm when they changed their story to claim that a government official had leaked the information. Although a minister from the Polish government claimed that ground penetrating radar had shown the presence of a 100-meter long train buried under the surface, this evidence was later shown to be false, the data instead suggesting the presence of a collapsed tunnel. After a seven-day dig, no train was found.

This excavation, though, was preceded by another attempt in the early 1990s that received less attention from the worldwide media. The exploration, attempted by another Polish national, was bankrolled by two Swiss bankers. Having studied as many documents possible relating to the Russian advancement through the area, the team placed the train’s location roughly ten kilometres north of the city, underneath an embankment near a long disused section of railway.

The exploration lasted two weeks, beginning on the 3rd of August, 1991. For the first five days, the area was swept for unexploded munitions and booby traps. When this initial exploration turned up a couple of dozen German land-mines that were mostly defused by the rust and time, the archaeologists and treasure-hunters assembled began to become confident of success. For the next two days, the clearing in the forest around the railway tracks was scanned with radar and, when the presence of a seventy-metre long mass was discovered, the go ahead was given to start digging.

It was as the excavators started to bore down that the issues started. Electrical equipment present started going wrong, usually nothing major. A large setback occurred when the discs containing the radar data were wiped, as if with a magnet, and the scanning had to take place again to confirm where the supposed train was located. Rumours started spreading around the hired workers that something was trying to disrupt the expedition, that something was trying to stop them from reaching the train.

The most major mishap happened on the night of the 15th. The workers had been living in a large tent in the forest. When one of the men fell asleep smoking, a large fire broke out and a dozen workers were hospitalised for smoke inhalation, and a few more with serious burns. Some of those present claimed to see figures in the smoke, gaunt men all in some sort of uniform, with a badge on their chests. The rumours of these “ghosts” spread quickly through word of mouth and local media. Many of those who weren’t injured quit, believing that the ghosts of German soldiers were jealously guarding their riches.

Still, the dig went on, with the few archaeologists ventured deeper. While some were still a little scared of what was dubbed the “curse”, they were lured onwards by the call of treasure and imminent renown for finding the storied vehicle. The JCBs worked through the night of the sixteenth, and as dawn broke on August 17th the expedition finally struck the metal hull of the train.

It was only when they opened up the crates inside and found ashes, charred bones, a few small children’s teeth, that they realised that the ghosts weren’t those of the soldiers.


The scratching of graphite on paper. The short, whispered phrases. The gentle, distant ticking of a muffled old grand-father clock. These are my recollections of my time talking to Thomas Berkley in January, 1980.

I was called in to see Mr Berkley at short notice. My time in Boston was brief, but just two days before I was supposed to leave, I was contacted by a colleague of mine employed at the Enfield Sanatorium with the details of a rather peculiar case which, he suspected, would pique my curiosity. It did.

Mr Berkley had not talked in 18 years by that point. Before his internment at the facility, he had been an electrician of some success, running his own business out of a small, modest rental unit down on the East bank of the river. At 32 he married a woman named Harriet Jameson and, a year later and just two months before he was taken in by my colleague, they were given a baby girl, who they named after Thomas’s mother, Nancy.

One afternoon in August, when the mercury peaked at 93 degrees, Thomas Berkley disappeared. He had been walking through Boston Common where he stopped at a café, presumably to visit the restroom. Witnesses reported seeing him enter, marked out in their memories by his red hair and pencil moustache, but not seeing him exit.

The alarm was first raised when Berkley did not arrive for his 4:15 appointment at the doctor’s (he was usually fastidiously punctual), at which point the family doctor called Harriet. For the next few weeks, she searched everywhere she could for Thomas, all the while desperately trying to look after their baby daughter. She got the police involved on the second day and, while they did their best, searching as much of the local area as possible and interviewing witnesses, every lead they followed turned up cold. After a week, police involvement was severely stepped down. After three weeks, the search was called off.

That evening, a dejected Harriet Berkley walked home, heartbroken at what (she assumed) was her husband running out on her and leaving her alone with Nancy. Slowly and sullenly, cradling a child who cried whenever the wind picked up a little and brought a chill reminder of imminent autumn to her cheek, she walked down Dartmouth Street towards the river and came to a stop outside the door to their small apartment.

There was a man curled up on the step. He was naked save for a thin piece of dirty cardboard that he fiercely clung to himself. Nowhere on his body could a single hair be seen growing, and his skin was ugly and burned, blistering painfully in places where the dull red flesh flared up into yellow, pustulent time bombs. Gently, she laid a single tender hand on his shoulder and the man bucked and reared, back arching in pain as he swerved around. With a sharp cry of horror, Nancy saw that this man, under his melted flesh and scarred face, was her husband and, worse, that there was fear in his eyes.

The doctors did their best to help him. Over the course of the next few months, he stayed at the Massachusetts General Hospital at Cambridge Street, where he was treated for his burns and given an in depth medical examination. Aside from the superficial burns and scars, though, Thomas Berkley seemed uninjured and, once he had recovered from the external damage, they had no choice but to release him.

According to Harriet, he had seemed alright in the car on the way home, if a little jumpy at times and, when not terrified and paranoid, at the very least pensive. In all the time that he had been kept in the burns ward, he had not said a word, other than certain terrified screams at the sight of needles (he had no such fear before). She seemed to think that he simply needed to recover from whatever shock he was dealing with and he’d eventually open up to her.

When they got home, she left him alone for a couple of minutes in order to tend to Nancy. While she changed the baby’s diaper, she heard a thud from the other room.

She walked in to see Thomas collapsed on the floor, knife slipping from his bloodied hand. He’d grabbed the blade as soon as possible and, it was obvious, hacked viciously at his wrist, as if trying to extract something from the flesh. Through her tears, Harriet dragged him back out and into the car and drove as fast as he could to the hospital.

This time, Mr Berkley would not be released. After a brief stay at the hospital, Thomas was transferred to the nearest mental hospital, the Enfield Sanatorium. Eighteen years later, he was still being treated there. In all that time, he hadn’t uttered a word and the truth of his disappearance, nearly two decades ago by that time, remained a mystery.

I finally met Berkley on the eighth of January. The man who I saw sitting in the comfortable leather chair of my colleague’s office barely resembled the photographs I had seen from the case files. Whereas he had once been a sombre, handsome man, dignified and smart in his dress sense, this person looked as if he barely remembered how to put on his own shoes which, due to the still strong suicide risk, were slip-ons. His once characteristic red hair was gone save for a few thin clumps that still poked out of the gnarled, damaged flesh of his scalp. His once neat moustache too was gone, replaced with a scraggly layer of unshaven fluff. Berkley had not been allowed near a razor for nearly twenty years.

“I shouldn’t let you in there by yourself”, my colleague said to me as I prepared my equipment, separated from the patient by a single door. “He’s still a risk”.

“A risk?”

He nodded. “The poor man is paranoid beyond all belief. Screams wordlessly at any warder that tries to touch him. We had a nurse a couple of years back, tried to clean up some food he dropped on himself. You should have heard the howls at her touch, and her terror as he tried to bite her. My word, and when we brought out a sedative in a syringe for him, his animal fear…”

“Good god,” I muttered. Tales of violence were not uncommon in our field, but to see someone be affected so greatly by mental illness was always terrifying and, moreover, sad. Quietly, so as not to startle Mr Berkley, I entered the room and laid my equipment on the desk.


It was at this point that I switched on the audio recorder. What follows is a transcript of that recording:

00:17- Myself:    Good afternoon, Mr Berkley. My name is Arthur Maslow. I am a psychiatrist and hypnotist, and I have been invited here by Dr Simons to try and treat you. Is that ok with you?

00:30- Berkley:  [Murmurs assent weakly while nodding]

00:57- Myself:   Thank you. Now, it is my hope that through the science of hypnosis, I shall be able    to restore you to your previous faculties and, moreover, learn what happened to you in August 1962. If you would please look into this light for me, sir, we may get underway.

[At the time, I used two small, portable strobe lights, set at one second intervals half a second apart from each other, so that there were two flashes of light a second, to hypnotise my patients. Two minutes passed as I waited for the hypnosis to have its desired effect. By the end of this time, Berkley seemed nearly asleep.]

03:04- Berkley:  [mutters] Harriet…

03:07- Myself:   Excuse me, sir, did you speak?

03:10- Berkley:  Nancy…

03:13- Myself:   Mr Berkley, do you know where you are?

03:17- Berkley:  No! No, there’s… it’s so cold! And the walls are alive and, oh god, the smell.

03:23- Myself:   Sir, you are in the Enfield Sanatorium on Quincy Avenue. You are in Boston.

03:31- Berkley:  Don’t lie to me? Where are you taking me? You bast-

03:36- Myself:   Mr Berkley, are you ok?

03:40- Berkley:  Shh, there’s something walking past… oh god, its face.

03:44- Myself:   Sir, I need you to describe this thing to me. What does it look like?

03:51- Berkley:  I cannot describe it to you. I cannot.

03:54- Myself:   Thomas, I need you to tell me.

03:59- Berkley:  No! No, I cannot! There are not words for what I am seeing right now!

[A short while passes in silence. All the while, Berkley is sitting still, but a look of pained terror is on his face.]

04:07- Berkley:  Thank god, he’s gone. I don’t think he saw me.

04:11- Myself:    Berkley, can you tell me at all what it looked like.

04:15- Berkley:   I’m sorry, no. There was no… Paper! Pencil and paper!

04:21- Myself:    Mr Berkley, I’m afraid I am not permitted to give you a pencil. If you give me a couple of minutes, I may be able to get my colleague to give you a felt tip.

04:38- Berkley:   No! There is no time! Please, I need to show you what it looks like now, or I will forget. Please!

[It should be noted that through the window in the door, I could see Dr Simons shaking his head at me regarding Mr Berkley’s requests. Regardless, I chose to take advantage of the headway we were making and took a pencil out of my pocket to give to the patient. I also procured a piece of drawing paper from my briefcase and gave it to him.]

04:46- Berkley:   Oh god! Oh god! They’re taking me somewhere! We’re moving!

04:50- Myself:     You’re moving?

04:53- Berkley:    This place, it’s… my god, it’s some sort of ship. We’re going somewhere. I have to   get out I have to get out I have to get back home please I have to get out!

05:06- Myself:     Sir, please describe what’s going on?

05:10- Berkley:    I’m hiding behind one of the walls… they’re kind of sticky.

[There is a brief pause. The only sounds are Berkley drawing and myself making notes]

05:47- Berkley:  Oh god no please!

05:51- Myself:   What’s going on?

05:53- Berkley:  One of them is coming towards me. He’s got a needle… I don’t want to die please god I don’t want to die!

06:02- Myself:   Sir? Mr Berkley?

[The patient is catatonic for the next eight minutes. Several times, Dr Simons can be heard knocking at the door, obviously requesting entry. I dismiss him, though, as I worry about inadvertently waking the patient from hypnosis and potentially further damaging his mind.]

14:11- Berkley:  AHH!

14:13- Myself:   Mr Berkley? Are you ok? If you would like me to, I can bring you back now, and that will be the end of our session.

14:26- Berkley:  No! No, please no! I need to know, I need to see… why have they brought me here?

14:32- Myself:   And where are you?

14:35- Berkley:  I’m… I’m no longer on the ship. I can see it above me. It’s huge and round and                 unclear and… it’s moving… oh god they’re leaving us behind. No please don’t leave us.

14:47- Myself:   Can you describe your surroundings? Who are you with?

14:53- Berkley:  There are eight of us, eight humans, and a dozen or so of those… those creatures. They aren’t quite like the ones on the ship though, these ones are wearing some sort of… gown? It’s heavy and black, and they have ceremonial knives with them. Oh        god, one’s coming forwards, and he’s lifting his knife and… oh god!

[Mr Berkley screams for ten seconds.]

15:23- Myself:  Berkley! What is going on?

15:26- Berkley: He used the knife and he cut into me, cut into my wrist. He had some sort of metal thing and he inserted it into… into the bone. Oh god, I can feel it crawling around I have to get it out.

15:41- Myself:   Focus, Mr Berkley. Tell me more about the people there, the humans.

15:48- Berkley:  There are eight of them. Oh god they’re all screaming. They’re all naked, like me, and I think they’re all from different languages. One of them is black, three people are Asian, two middle eastern. I see two white people besides me, one woman.          Think she’s French. She tried talking to me but I couldn’t understand her oh god.       They’ve put those things in everyone now. Oh god, one of the Asian people, she’s just a child, she’s just a child but they cut her open.

16:17- Myself:   Mr Berkley, tell me about your surroundings.

16:21- Berkley:  The ground underfoot is soft, soft and wet. I can’t see any vegetation, and it’s black, pitch black. It kind of feels like… old tree roots? They almost seem to be coming apart under my feet, like I’m in a swamp and being pulled down. It’s day time, but there’s fog around us and there are stars in the sky, such stars.

16:42- Myself:   Stars?

16:43- Berkley:  Stars, beautiful, terrible stars. They are so bright and so vivid and so… alive. I can see a moon as well above us, but it doesn’t look like Earth’s it’s too bright, and the clouds! By god, the clouds! They move so fast and their colours are shifting and… God save us.

17:01- Myself:   Mr Berkley?

17:03- Berkley:  I… I know why they brought us here, I… I can see their god, their god is here and he is real and there is no point in praying because this is it, this is the end, oh god, oh god. It’s… it is huge!

17:18- Myself:   Mr Berkley, can you please describe to me what you are seeing?

17:24- Berkley:  It’s some sort of cube, miles tall. The hill rises up above the fog around us and on to of it there’s this huge mass. It’s grey and, my god, the ground isn’t roots, it’s… this isn’t their god, the planet is! The ground is moving and oh god they’re tentacles, and and they’re wrapping around the cube. My god, those tentacles, they must be miles long! They’re filthy, their black blood is smearing across the surface and oh god they’re starting to wrap around us. Bring me back, please! Please god save me!

17:57- Myself:   Thomas, come back to me now, wake up, come back. You’re safe.

18:34- Berkley:  No! No it’s too late! It’s too late! The cube is brightening up and it’s white now and now it’s even brighter and god it burns! The light burns! The stars are outshone and my flesh is searing! Oh god! The girl, the little girl, she’s melting, her hair is igniting and her meat is falling off her bones! Her skull is so white! Oh god oh god oh god-

18:59- Myself:   Berkley! Berkley, stay calm!

19:04- Berkley:  No! No no no no it’s taking me the light is taking me oh god this is the true light the true god why me?

[By this point, Dr Simons has entered the room and is attempting to help me restrain Mr Berkley, who is undergoing violent seizures. Too late, we realise what he is about to do. Taking the pencil which I gave him, he has begun to dig into the flesh of his left wrist, as if trying to find an object. I watch helplessly as he strikes the vein and blood begins to come out of him in dark gouts.]

19:16- Berkley: There’s something wrong. The ground, it’s devoured the girl and the rest but… they don’t want me. Why not me? The light is getting brighter and brighter and brighter and oh god, Harriet, they’re taking me home to Harriet, what can I say to her? How can I possibly let her see me like this? Oh no, I’d rather die, I’d rather die but here I am I’m naked and alone and on the curb at Dartmouth street. I’d rather die, I’d rather die…

19:57- Simons:  God damn it, Maslow, this is on you. You broke the rules!

20:02- Myself:   You can’t wake him now! At the very least, we’ll lose the progress we’ve made. This man is speaking for the first time in eighteen years, Simons! We can’t just throw that away!

20:16- Simons:  And if we let you continue, he will die. ‘Do no harm’, Arthur. Get out and call an ambulance, for god’s sakes man!

[By now, Berkley has stopped fighting back and is simply sitting there catatonic. On the tape, my quick departure is audible, as is the sound of the approaching ambulance siren and the paramedics who came to rescue Berkley. After five minutes, there is no one left in the room, and the only sound present is the distant, muffled grandfather clock. The tape continues to run for ten more minutes before it finishes.]


Nearly forty years on, and I still haven’t experienced anything quite as intense as my interview that day with Thomas Berkley. He survived his self-mutilation on that day in January, and at the General Hospital, the doctors had to remove a small metallic object from his left forearm of unknown origin. If there were records of what happened to this object, they have long since been destroyed. After this surgery, he made a remarkable recovery and, within a month, was released from the Enfield Sanatorium with a clean bill of health. For the rest of his life, he never once mentioned the trauma of August 1962, blaming his scars on a fictional house-fire that, according to him, happened to him as a child.

He died in 2013 at the age of 84 of a stroke, preceded two years earlier by his wife, Harriet. He was survived by his daughter Nancy, and her own children. As his closest surviving kin, I asked her for her permission to publish this story, complete with names. She consented graciously and even offered to help me accurately determine the dates on which certain events occurred.

I still keep those drawings that he scrawled in January 1980. As of today, there is still no conclusive evidence to support or deny what Thomas claims to have happened in 1962, when he was walking through Boston Common.



May Update:

Hey guys, just a quick update to let you know what’s going on.

Firstly, I just wanna apologise for my lack of activity here over the past month or so. In my last update, I promised so much and, yeah, that’s just not happening yet.

Firstly, the novel is coming. I promise you this. I finally sat down and did some major rewrites of some massively flawed elements of the book. These took a lil bit of time, and I’m still waiting for a couple of proofreads to be complete in order to advance (huge huge thanks to my good friend Jemima for her help in this!).

Secondly, I’m still sort of working on Letters, but it is going to take time. The process of making the individual pieces is rather time consuming and, what with school and upcoming exams, I simply haven’t had time recently to work on it. Additionally, I think I need to be committed to the piece as I do not want to force it.

Really, though, and this isn’t an excuse, I just haven’t had much motivation recently. I’ve been dealing with quite a lot of stuff right now, and while I absolutely love writing of course, and know that it does make me feel good, I simply haven’t been able to concentrate on it and I really don’t want to just crap out a story that I’m not proud of. I hope you understand.

But hey, that aside, there have been a couple of things that have happened recently that I am happy with. The Last Baron  came out last month, a story I had huge huge fun writing and am extremely proud of. If you haven’t read it yet, it would mean a lot to me if you checked it out, and, hey, I think it’s legitimately some of my most entertaining work yet.

Additionally, as you may have gathered from my Facebook and Twitter, I was recently given an award in the Undercooked Analysis Lovepasta Challenge. This was a massive honour for me, both to have my story read by the lovely people there and also to be recognised with the Couple’s Choice Award (especially considering I really wasn’t that confident with Elmwood.

Well, that’s all from me now. I will try and make some more content sooner rather than later but please be understanding if I’m a little quiet on this front. Otherwise, I’m just gonna sign off and leave you with a soothing sketch of a moth that I did earlier.


The Last Baron

The carriage stopped suddenly as we saw his castle. Beyond us, beyond the impetuous horses and the terrified, leathery coachman, a small singular hill rose from the forested valley floor, a steep path zigzagging up its pine-encrusted sides until it reached the high stone walls and shadowy towers where our journey’s end lay.

Stammering, a man more used to the company of mares than men, the coachman apologised profusely for the ill temper of his charcoal-black steeds. My sister, not one to suffer fools, turned her aquiline nose up at his explanations and, shooting him a scathing look from her hazel eyes, told him to go find porters and transport in the village that would get us to lodgings by nightfall. Doffing his cap, he turned and walked briskly off through the forest, following the gravel road until the thick pines obscured him.

I was about to start a conversation with my sister, but it was too late. Her eyes had settled, unwavering, on that hill fort. Not for the first time that month, I saw that she was wondering what could be awaiting her behind those grey granite walls.

Much had changed since we opened the letter back in our small cottage on the crossroads, telling us that our father’s once good friend, the Baron of Mansuria, lay on his deathbed requesting the company of my sister. Gone was almost all the finery that our once great house had owned. Gone were the paintings and sculptures, so much canvas and marble sold as fast as possible. Gone were my guns and my clothes, leaving me a pauper travelling with a rich man’s purse. My sister even traded away the jewelry, heirlooms that she had once treasured so much for the money necessary to cover this last trip.

My sister, with her head for figures and gold, did not stop even once to consider whether the trip was worth the expenditure. In careful, measured, conservative tones she reassured me that she felt certain that the Baron wished to make a gift to us in his will. The very next day, she took our old rosewood jewelry box, engraved with the family crest, down to the pawn brokers, leaving us only with what she wore now.

The light of the sun, only now beginning to redden as it dipped towards the hazy green peaks of the valley’s walls, glinted off of the perfect bloody rubies at her neck. The delicate ancient choker, it was said, had been smithed by some great great grand-aunt in East Europe for her debutante’s ball, and it had stayed in the family ever since. Around her finger, she wore a wide silver ring, engraved with our family name and a skeleton frozen in the danse macabre. It had been a gift at our father’s funeral, a dark day before I was born that my sister barely remembered. It was a memento mori of an almost forgotten truth.

As the coachman returned, a whole convoy of peasants with them, my sister broke from her reverie. There was no use wondering what was inside that place, the castle on the hill. We were going to find out soon enough.

To the east, a wide and gibbous moon finally inched its way above the crests of the hills. Somewhere in the woods, the plaintive, lyrical howl of a wolf could be heard, the approaching threat unseen.


There were stories of the Baron, we knew. Half-real rumours and outright lies gossiped about in all the high societies of Europe, stories that in some way or other filtered down to us in the years after our father’s death.

It was said, by some, that he ruled with an iron fist. Isolated as he was by the hundreds of miles of thick, tangled woods that surrounded his castle, it was alleged that he had a team of ruthless and sadistic guards loyal only to his wealth and their own desires, raping and murdering those they felt deserved their attention and punishing with great enthusiasm those who the baron saw as opposing him.

Others said that he meted out the punishment himself. The most common stories had him behead those that angered him himself, using a wickedly curved ancestral sword in the town square, his guards holding the families of the guilty still so that they were forced to see the blood gout out in thick sprays as the blade, blunt with age, bit again and again into the screaming man’s neck. Other supposed punishments of his included unthinkably cruel tortures. I remember hearing from a noble uncle of mine once that he would boil the children of adulterers until the flesh sloughed off, then force the men who aided in the women’s crimes to drink the soupy mixture. Some criminals, the tales explained, were thrown off the battlements below, while still others were hanged by the ankles into a wolf pack’s den. The condemned screams, people would explain, were the sweetest lullaby to him.

Upon arriving in the village, we of course found these tales to be untrue. There were no hoards of lusty guards, sweeping the streets, no chopping blocks in the town square, no gallows built over the wolf pits. In fact, no one could remember an execution since they caught the man who murdered the Kaifeck family, and he’d been hanged in the castle courtyard, an event only watched by the Baron himself and the murderer’s young wife, alongside, of course, the executioner.

There was, nonetheless, a certain fear of the Baron amongst the townspeople. In several buildings of the small village my sister and I saw portraits of him, woodcuts and sketches for the most part. But there was one example that stood out among the rest.

The night we arrived in the village, my sister and I stayed at the local inn. The Tattered Banner was a low, squat building, its black timbers and white walls bowed and groaning with the strain of centuries of history. Under its thatched roof, the acrid overbearing smell of wood-smoke was our sole companion while we waited for service.

On the wall, our mysterious benefactor glared vacantly forth. The oil portrait, though only two feet tall, seemed perfectly to capture the broad, tall posture of the Baron. His dark moustache curled under a hooked, eagle-like nose, and his thin black eyebrows were set in an emotion of stubborn, victorious anger. The painting was done in an old style, reminiscent of Anthony van Dycke’s works from more than a century earlier. Behind his gleaming steel armour, a horse reared, terrified at the sight of the leaping flames that scorched the forest around him.

Below the painting hung a curious artefact, a long, scorched length of fabric emblazoned with a noble family’s crimson arms and ancestral name. While I examined this, pinching and rolling the rough cloth between my thumb and forefinger, the barkeep entered the room.

“You like the painting?”, he said, his voice thick with a provincial, ancient accent.

“It shows the Baron, I assume? My sister and I are to meet him tomorrow. What is he like?”

The barkeep shook his head, crossing himself. He began to walk out of the room, but my sister moved faster and blocked the exit.

“Tell us about him. The people fear him, don’t they? Why? We deserve to know before we see him.”

“I cannot tell you,” he stuttered. I saw the ugly anger in the portrait flare in the ink-black pupils of my sister.

“If he is dangerous, tell us now. You send us to our doom if you do not.”

“I cannot tell you because I have not seen him for more than twenty years!”, the man cried, breaking free of the cold grip of my sister’s hand on his shoulder. “That painting is of the last time he was seen in public!”

“What do you mean you haven’t seen him? The Baron must meet his subjects, from time to time.”

The man crossed himself again, casting a sign against the evil eye at the Baron’s likeness. I saw now that the man wore a turquoise bead around his neck on a worn piece of leather, and sighed. I knew that he couldn’t give us much more than overheard superstition already had.

“I will tell you the story of the painting, and the banner beneath it. Then, you must ask nothing more of me. It is unlucky to talk of the Baron’s past. I will let you stay free of charge, but you must be gone by the time I open tomorrow.”

The malicious dying light of the fire glinted off of the rubies at my sister’s neck and the twinkling pools of her eyes. I swallowed, throat dry, aware of the oppressive heat in the room.

“Tell us,” she whispered finally. The barkeep started to speak.


The inn had not always been called The Tattered Banner. Going back twenty-five years, so recent that many of the older patrons still used the old name, it had simply been called The Forest Arms. That was changed only days after the battle, though.

Tensions had been rising for quite some time. Local nobility were jealous of the rich woodland and hunting grounds that the Baron controlled. Those of a moralist disposition were made uncomfortable at the complete control he exerted over his ancestral home. Even the King, rumoured to have once been a close friend of the Baron before his seclusion in the forests, had sent messengers to request that his practises be opened up for closer inspection. Each time, of course, the messengers were sent away without any cooperation from the Baron.

Finally, something was done. A militia, armed and horsed by the King, was sent to the town with orders to keep the road to his Barony open ahead of a formal inspection lead by the ruler himself.

The Baron, somehow, seemed to have some foreknowledge of this. Even as the troops were being readied in the castle of Hinterstein, a day’s march away, he was riding around the village on his white stallion, calling to arms all the forces he could muster. Even as he summoned them, though, he knew that he was doomed. The King was sending trained men, wrapped in thick armour of hide and metal and armed with muskets and blades the likes of which had never come this far into the forest before. And so, even as he rallied his forces and set up defences along the gravelled road, he schemed. He finally came up with a plan that, he knew, would keep the outside world away for a long, long time.

He and his seven children hid in the castle at the top of the hill. While his six sons looked after their newborn infant sister, he sat in a cupola at the top of the highest of his narrow stone towers. He read books, old books that detailed the prayers that he needed, and sometimes scanned the horizon, absentminded, waiting for the inevitable sharp, rippling crack of musket fire, half muffled by the trees, that would signal that it was time to do what he dreaded so much.

No one is quite sure exactly what he did. What those who were there report, though, is that as the fighting began a high, keening wail in a language no man could speak was heard coming from the chapel of the castle.

Minutes later, he bolted forth from the castle on his horse, spit frothing its halter, coming to aid as the last of his men were losing to the onrush of their own mortality. Without caution, he plunged onwards deep into the forest and, as he approached the fighting, pulled something out of his saddle bag. Holding it by the greasy, bloodstained hair, he began to chant in that same inhuman language as the trees around him burst aflame. He didn’t even break a sweat as the forest fire consumed vast swathes of life.

Minutes later all of the King’s men were dead, boiled alive inside their metal suits, skin scorched and fused with their armour. The object he had been holding was the dark-haired head of his firstborn son, eyeless. Strange, carved words were etched into both of his cheeks with the tip of a dagger. It is said that the Baron’s curved ancestral sword was still bloody in its sheath.

The only things to return from the battlefield were the Baron and the crimson, charred pendant that now lay under the portrait modelled after that cursed day. None of his children were ever seen again.


Had it not been for my sister, I should have left at once. I knew that the story was likely nonsense, superstition passed down the ages and warped, but was the pendant of the King not there hanging on the wall? Was the portrait alone not evidence enough of the violence this man was capable of? And was it not true that, the previous morning, we had breakfasted in a clearing like what one would see sometime after a forest fire, the only marker of human habitation a pit of disturbed ground topped with a single whitewashed wooden cross?

My sister was adamant, though. She thought that nothing bad could await us in the castle, now that the Baron lay there breathing his last. My god! I wish that I could have persuaded her to stay away from that fateful destination. Perhaps I would still have her here as I write this, here in my lonely, quiet cottage that was always too small for two people but now is too big for one.

I digress. I have promised that I will write about this in as accurate a manner as I can, so that all will know and understand what happened.

As the first edge of the sun rose above the forested hilltops, a ghostly pale disc, my sister and I set out for the Baron’s castle. A thick mist hid most of the town, disappearing out into the trees, the castle above it all like Mont Saint-Michel at high tide. The village was quiet. In a few silent houses candles flickered against dust-brown windows, tallow spitting against the glass. Outside the butchers, a fresh-slaughtered pig hung by its ankles, warm blood still trickling steadily out of the two-inch deep slash that had wrenched open its neck. The white porcelain bowl beneath was close to overflowing with the spattered, sticky maroon.

We climbed the stone steps out of the gloom. From the slope, we could see along the entire length of the valley, even to the distant towers of Hinterstein, that storied castle where the last visitors to the Baron had prepared for their final journey. The path turned in on itself, and the view was finally hidden. Ahead of us was nothing but the impassive, massive oblong of the studded oak door.

My sister gave it a gentle push, and ahead of us the door swung open on silent, oiled hinges. A short, dark tunnel faced us, and then we were in the overgrown weeds and patchy turf of the ancient, untended courtyard. The walls around us seemed to lean inwards as if to make us claustrophobic. Dull grey roof slates sloughed off and into shattered piles of masonry on the path around the edge of the grass. At the centre was a long stopped bronze fountain, green rust corroding Cupid’s face from neat Italian sculpture to something natural and unrecognisable.

There were no signs that anyone had been here for a very long time. Most of the walls around us were punctured only by the cramped eyelids of arrow slits, and what arrows there were, crisscrossed with lead, were either blind with dirt or had become shattered, jagged teeth around a rotten, vacuous mouth.

My sister pressed her face up to an empty diamond of window, inviting me over. Inside, we saw a long, broad corridor. Baroque decorations of gilded oak ran up the walls towards opulent ceiling paintings of rich classical scenes. The dense, red carpet had become dark pink with the decade’s worth of dust piled into its velvet smoothness.

A painting was hung opposite us, illuminated in crosshatch through the milky gloom of the windows. The subject was, we assumed, some ancestor of the Baron’s. The woman was tall and imperial, her corset-thin waist perched precariously above the broad hips of her whalebone dress. Above a wide, lacey ruff her face smirked with raptorial intelligence, her dark eyes set apart, divided by her characteristically aquiline nose. Dark, curled hair was held in place by a silver tiara encrusted in the fine blood-clot points of rubies.

A dark cloud passed across the sky, driven by a cold wind that carried with it the implicit threat of rain. It was with a shiver that the both of us fixed eyes on the sole accessible door in the courtyard, set within the still immaculate walls of the castle’s chapel. Even before we decided to enter, we both knew that, on the other side, the Baron was waiting for us.

The room was lit in dull amber. Yellowing, oily-scented candles burnt with long tapering flames that stretched towards the high ceilings. The smoky columns passed the idols of saints and cool blue stained glass windows. Each depicted a different martyr in their final rictus of pain. On the far wall, placed above the low wooden exit, hung a life-sized crucifix, conspicuously missing its occupant.

Below the cross, just ahead of us, where the altar should have been, was the Baron. His bed was white and pure, but crumpled around the diminutive figure who was its only occupant. His dark hair was gone now, the scalp wrinkled over his thin, eggshell skull. The slender dark eyebrows were now white with age. Either side of the eagle-hook nose, his dark eyes lay half-open, their pupils looking vacantly across the room, past us, at some saint or other. The neck moved with each painful swallow and weak breath. Finally, the eyes opened fully and focused on my sister’s face.

“My daughter. Come, please. Daughter…” he whispered, slowly. My sister approached.

“My lord, I am not your daughter. I am the child of Duke-”

“No!”, he yelled with surprising force, starting forwards. His dark hazel eyes fixed a moment on mine, and I saw the fire that lay within, the anger that was so perfectly captured in the portrait in The Tattered Banner. Then, sitting up on his ancient bones, he fixed his gaze on my sister.

“The Duke… he was my friend, yes, and he took you in, my child, but… you are my daughter.”

“Your daughter?” my sister said, tears of confusion threatening to break from the corners of her eyes, “But… you killed your children!”

“No… not you, my love. You were too young… I could not hurt you. They didn’t… they didn’t want the girl.”


“Yes, the gods. The gods. The gods, they wanted my sons. They wanted… they made me kill them myself, with my sword… my old sword…”

“My brothers. You murdered my brothers? You killed them and abandoned me. You bastard! How could you?”

I went to console her, to hug this sister who was not my sister, but she threw me off. The same fire which had burned in the Baron’s eyes now burned in hers. A single precious tear now rolled down the creased cheek of the Baron and onto the white goose-feather pillow.

“I needed the power. They… they were coming to me. Please, I needed to hand down the line, to keep this place for my children.”

“Your children? You slaughtered your children like pigs, you monster!”

“Not all of them. You must take my position. Keep the family alive. You are our family now.”

“You are no family of mine!” she shrieked, lunging forwards and ripping of her ermine gloves. Straddling his pathetic form, she gripped tight onto the tendons of his throat, pushing hard into the bony flesh and gristle. I watched, too astounded to do anything, as the white skin of her hands deformed around the spine of her father, the Last Baron. We were silent as his last whistling breaths flowed out and into nothing.

Panting, crying, she collapsed beside the now expired man. The Last Baron was dead, and now the castle had a Baroness, one who had earned the violent right to the title.


The door out of the church opened up into a small graveyard set onto the side of the hill. Behind the leaning trees and drooping boughs, the pine forests far below us stretched and smothered the terrain in a smooth, oceanic flatness. The chill wind had passed, and now a warming afternoon sun bathed us in its late-spring glow.

There was cow parsley in between the stones. Dozens of lanky, skeletal stalks burst from the ground and branched up and out into the snowflake flowers that gently bobbed in the cool breeze, dancing in a rhythm repeated atop that hill since time immemorial. Tall grass swayed with the passing gusts, heavy heads bowing low with the burden of thick, ripe seeds. Around everything was the droning murmur of crickets, and two white butterflies skittered around each other, circling the Baroness and I.

Six gravestones, hewn from the same slate-grey rock as the castle, poked their blunt male heads above the flowers in the graveyard. There were others there too, but these identical six were fresh and new. If one wanted to, one could still make out their names and ages below the just-begun growths of lichen. The youngest was six. Behind each trailed my sister’s new surname, like a banner behind a charging horseman.

I let her cry for a little while. Really, there was nothing I could do but wait. As time passed, though I knew that there was going to be no return to England for her, that just like the ghosts of her father’s past she would never truly leave this castle behind.

As the sun began to fall back towards its nightly rest, I turned to leave. The Baroness reached out her hand, though, and I took it. The warm feel of used metal came into my hand as she disengaged, and there in my fingers was the skeleton ring, the little figure gallivanting cheerily in the danse macabre. She shrugged at me, and I met those brown eyes, so much like her father’s.

“The ring is yours. It was your father that we buried, not mine.”

“Sister,” I replied, stumbling over the word that seemed not to fit in my mouth anymore. Shameful, she gazed back at the headstone that had so caught her attention, the grave of her oldest sibling. She nodded in wordless reply.

“Don’t bury him here. This place is too nice, don’t let him pollute it.”

She nodded and stood. She embraced me once, kissed me, and then that was it. I left her in that high stone castle, and have never returned. She gave a hearty donation to restore my family name, and I have been working hard to pay off the debts of my father.

I wear that memento mori even now, as I write this. Not to remind me of death, but to remind me of her, of the Last Baron and the First Duchess.