The red door behind him rattled.
It didn’t bother John Ratchett. In fact, he welcomed it. It reminded him of better days. He sat at the kitchen table reading his paper. The radio was tuned to BBC 4, and the long-loved voices and laughter of the studio audience soothed him.
"Tonight, we promise you a nail-biting contest, which will be followed by a nose-picking contest."
Old friends.
He finished the sports section and had moved on to the crossword when he remembered to look up at the clock.
The last crossing is late again. Mr. Phillips will have words to say.
He’d gone as far as laying down his pencil and pushing his chair back from the table when he remembered. He sat back with a heavy sigh.
At ten thirty he finally gave up on the crossword, folded the paper neatly and made two cups of hot chocolate. He left one on the kitchen table as he headed for the stairs and bed.
There you go darling. Careful with it, it’s hot.
From the bottom of the stairs he could still hear the rattle of the old door, but by the time he got to the bedroom, all was silent.
Too quiet.
He sat on the edge of the bed and sipped at the hot chocolate. It tasted bitter tonight. He placed it on the bedside table and lay back against the too-soft pillow. He knew Bettie would be annoyed with him for not removing his clothes first, but he was tired all the way through to his bones.
I’m getting too old for this.
He lay there for a long time, staring at the shadows that waltzed across the ceiling, listening for the ferry whistle.
* * *
In the morning, the red door rattled again as he went to the fridge for milk. A flake of paint fell off to join a small pile of others at the foot of the door. He’d thought, several times over the years, that he should give it a fresh coat.
But Bettie wouldn’t like it.
Bettie liked things to stay the same from one day to the next, an even keel and a steady ship.
Everything in its place and everything to the timetable.
John tried hard not to disappoint her, even long after she’d passed on.
There, now you’ve done it you old fool. You’ve remembered again.
He closed the fridge door quietly and went through to the front of the house. The living room—the parlor, as Bettie called it—was to his left, but he hadn’t been in there for years. That was Bettie’s domain, and woe betide anyone who trespassed.
His daily paper lay on the floor inside the main door, but he didn’t feel up to bending down for it just yet. Not before his constitutional.
He left the paper on the floor, fetched his coat and went outside. Not for the first time he considered getting a dog, a companion that he could share his walks with.
But Bettie wouldn’t like that. Dogs have hairs, and hairs mean mess. Bettie wouldn’t like mess.
It was a warm, sunny day. He took his time, enjoying the morning as only a man who realizes he may not have many left can. His mind wandered in long-past days, but his legs knew the way, taking him along paths ingrained by many years of repetition. The morning check had become almost a religious ritual. More than that, it had become a necessity, ever since the Jones boy and his gang had discovered the pier office block.
He walked through the town slowly. No one spoke to him, but that wasn’t unusual. Most of the people he’d ever known were long since gone, and the young don’t talk much to the old outside their immediate family. It reminds them too much of their own mortality.
Some of us don’t need reminding.
The old ferry point on the pier was near as dead as his friends were. The passage of time wasn’t treating it kindly. Ivy ran rampant along what was left of the walls. The windows were boarded shut, and the old doors were covered in the vilest graffiti. He’d long since given up trying to maintain the exterior—that was the domain of the local youth.
I’m glad Bettie isn’t here to see what things have come to.
The interiors, where his memories were stored, that was another matter.
He went along to the night watchman’s office first. Weeds flowered where cargo trolleys had once ran, and the old rails were rusted and crumbling atop timbers that had become rotten and ravaged by the weather. John kept the office in working order, just in case. There was always a slim chance of a reversal. He just hoped he’d live long enough to see it.
The door to the office lay partly open.
John’s heart sank.
Not again.
Something scuffed inside then went quiet.
“The little buggers,” John muttered, then clamped a hand over his mouth. Bettie never stood for any swearing.
Something scuffed again, and a child giggled.
“No more warnings,” he said loudly. “You’re in trouble now.”
He climbed the short steps into the office. He wondered what it would be this time. Over the past year he’d found empty bottles of beer, magazines that he’d never be able to talk to Bettie about and, on one occasion, a perfect spiral of human shit right in the middle of the floor. He’d reported it to the authorities of course, but nothing was ever done, and he’d often hear the Jones gang laughing at him behind the walls as he did the rounds. Sometimes they threw things at him—eggs, tomatoes and even stones.
He bore it. Bettie would never allow him to take his anger out on children.
You would have made a great mother Bettie.
They’d never had any children of their own. It hadn’t been for want of trying. The old bed in the room above the ticket office had seen plenty of action in those years. But when the bridge was built, and the ferry was closed down, all they had to take with them when they left were their memories and the old red door from the ticket office, as a memento.
Bettie’s father hadn’t let them put it in the front of his house, but when John installed it at the back of the kitchen, Bettie thanked him and pecked him on the cheek.
“It’s perfect,” she said. “We’ll see it every day to remind us of the way we were.”
When the old man died, John had broached the subject of the door again, but Bettie proved true to form.
“Father was right. The front of the house is what everyone sees, but the important things go on round the back. It’s in its rightful place,” she said, and would hear no more.
* * *
He came out of his reverie standing in his kitchen in front of the red door with no idea how he’d got back from the dockside. By the angle of light from the back window, he knew it was already mid-afternoon.
I’m getting too old for this.
More and more he’d become lost in the past, reliving happier times.
I miss you Bettie.
He made a pot of tea, letting it steep for a while, just the way she liked it. When it was ready he sat at the table reading his paper, the radio once again tuned to the BBC. The long-loved voices and laughter of the studio audience washed over him.
The paper was full of the usual bad news. The world was going to hell.
You wouldn’t like it Bettie.
The crossword was more difficult than usual and he welcomed the diversion it supplied. He lost track of time for a while. He only looked up once, not really expecting the last ferry but unable to break the old habit.
The red door rattled behind him.
Maybe I’ll just fix the hinges. Bettie wouldn’t mind me doing that.
Then it did something new. It squeaked.
A cold chill hit the back of John’s neck and ruffled the paper in front of him on the table. He turned, half-expecting to see a figure standing in the doorway. Sometimes visitors came straight to the rear door, knowing that he spent most of his time in the kitchen.
But there was no one there. He pushed himself up out of the chair, fighting against new stiffness in his back. The door lay open by a good six inches. A faint light—orange and flickering slightly—showed from beyond.
That’s not right.
The handle was cold in his hot palm as he pulled the door further open and stepped out onto a foggy pier.
That’s not right at all.
He looked left and right. The pier was empty, a slight fog hanging down at sea level.
A tannoy rang out, tinny and echoing, but he recognized Mr. Phillips’s voice, even after all these years.
“The ferry approaching is the nine-thirty from Kyle.”
The long remembered peep-peep of a steam whistle sounded in the distance. A few yards along the pier, the handle of the waiting room door squealed and started to turn.
He almost threw himself back into the kitchen, slamming the door shut behind him. He stood there for a long time, just listening to his heart thump in his ears, struggling with each breath, terrified that, at any moment, he’d hear a ferry pull in to a platform just outside—outside in the back garden. But once his heart slowed, he noticed that all was quiet and still.
As he stepped away from the door, it rattled again, just once.
He went to the cupboard and took down the whisky. Years ago, he’d convinced Bettie to buy some “for medicinal reasons.” The last time it had been opened was the night of her funeral, and he had to wipe a thick layer of oily dust from around the cap before untwisting it. He poured a large measure into his teacup and swallowed it without tasting. The fire, as it hit his belly, reminded him that he was still alive.
He stood there, looking at the door.
On the radio they were playing “Mornington Crescent” and cackling loudly. Suddenly the voices sounded just a bit too forced, too mechanical, like a tannoy on an impossible pier on an equally impossible shore this far up the hill out of town. He played with the tuning until he found a wash of innocuous music. It was only then that he could start to settle and begin to try to make sense of what had happened.
You’re getting too old for this, John.
He’d been having the blackouts for months now, ever longer periods of fugue. He didn’t mind so much. They passed the time between sleeps. But this was different. This had been a visual and auditory hallucination, more real than any dream.
Maybe Bettie was right. Maybe the old house is haunted after all.
But John didn’t believe in haunts. If things like that existed, Bettie would have come back to him years ago. The night she’d gone, even as she lay on her deathbed, she’d promised to be with him, forever.
I’ll send you a sign. Just so you’ll know it’s me.
And like an old fool, John had waited. Years and years he waited. But she didn’t come. Even when he talked to her, all through the day, she never talked back. That’s when he knew there was nothing beyond. His Bettie would never have been able to stop herself from talking back.
After years of no response, John had given up waiting and had settled into a life of sleep, checking the ferry offices and reading the newspaper. It was a daily routine that had suited him perfectly.
Until now.
As he made up two cups of hot chocolate, he was remembering the first night they’d spent in this house.
* * *
The ferry had stopped forever that very same morning, and Bettie was teary all day, weeping at the slightest provocation. Just the sight of the red door being taken down in the ticket office, replaced by a cheap plywood board, sent her into a crying fit that lasted two hours. Even after they got into bed, she pressed against him, sobbing quietly for a long time.
At some point she fell quiet, and he had thought she’d finally gone to sleep. He was proved wrong when the cupboard door across the room opened with a loud creak, and she sat straight up in bed as if given an electric shock.
“Hayden Brooks!” she shouted. “Go away. You’re not welcome here.”
He tried to hold her, but she was taut with tension, trembling all over, refusing to take her gaze from the shadows that crept around the open cupboard door. It took him another twenty minutes to calm her, and that involved turning on the lights, shutting the cupboard door and holding it closed with the back of a chair, checking under the bed and making sure the windows were locked.
Even then she was reluctant to say any more. When she finally relaxed she was embarrassed by her outburst, berating herself for behaving like a slip of a girl. But after some coaxing, she told him a story of a cuckolded ship’s captain, a descent into alcohol and a trio of missing children who were never found.
“Hayden Brooks was his name. And he was the most evil man ever to live in the town. He went to the gallows for his crimes but he never repented. His house used to stand on this plot. They had it burned to the ground and the ashes scattered. My family put this house up some years later.”
“When did this happen?”
“In the old days,” was all she’d said, suddenly sounding like the little girl John knew she kept hidden deep inside. “But Brooks is still here. He can’t leave.”
All that night she’d clung to him.
“Mother said he couldn’t harm us, that he was just a haunt, with no power over God-fearing folks. And during the day, I know she was right. But some nights, it’s hard to remember that.”
The next morning he put up the red door in the kitchen.
* * *
John realized he was standing over two cups of cold hot chocolate. The clock struck twelve.
Sorry Bettie. I’m getting too old.
He poured the drinks down the sink and made a new batch. He left Bettie’s mug on the table, as he’d done every night since she passed, and dragged himself up the stairs. Before he settled, he checked under the bed and put the back of a chair against the cupboard door.
* * *
He almost felt normal again the next morning. The red door didn’t rattle at all while he had his cereal and toast, and the jolly lads on the radio kept up a constant stream of witticisms that even had him smiling as he went out into the sunshine.
The first inkling he had that something was wrong came as he turned out of his drive and headed down towards the main street. Two policeman stood outside the post office, talking gently to a young woman who was near hysteria. John kept his head down and walked past quickly.
Bettie never liked getting involved in other’s business. Where other local women would gather for gossip and spend hours over their shopping trips, Bettie was in and out in minutes. John always followed her example. The people of the town had long since learned not to try to engage him in chatter, and John liked that just fine.
There were more people out and about on the street than usual, gathered in small clumps, chattering animatedly, but none of them paid John any heed as he made his way to the pier.
The building was never going to win any style awards, not even in its heyday. It was little more than a two-story box with a roof. Some of the top floor had caved in now, the portion that would have been Mr. Phillips’s room. John hoped he’d be long dead before the room where he and Bettie had lived fell into such ruin. Several of the upstairs windows still had glass in them, but most of them had been broken by a combination of the elements and stone-throwing youths. Up in the eaves, two empty hanging baskets swayed gently in the wind. In the pier’s pomp Bettie would have them full of a starburst of color that brought gasps of delight from the travelling passengers.
As he got closer, the vision of the night before started to prey on his mind, but all apprehension was forgotten when he saw that the main door lay wide open.
Someone got inside.
He broke into a shuffling run. By the time he got to the door and into the offices proper, he was panting like a dog. He cried out when he saw what had been done.
Day-Glo pink letters, over a foot high, ran along the wall opposite the ticket office, his ticket office.
OLD MAN RATCHETT EATS SHITE.
A neat spiral of all-too-human feces provided a full stop on the floor at the end of the script.
John shook with rage, hot tears running down his cheeks.
You’re better off out of it, Bettie.
He knew this was going to take all day to clear up, and that he’d have to get started sooner rather than later, but the ritual needed to be observed first.
He did the rest of his rounds. He went to the night watchman’s office first. The door was closed. Nothing seemed to have been touched. He couldn’t remember checking here yesterday, but, then again, that was nothing new. He rattled the doorknob and it didn’t budge.
Maybe I’m not as old as all that.
He walked along the pier back to the office buildings. A vivid memory came to him, of standing on this very spot, waving his father off to a war from which he wouldn’t return. He’d realized years before that his attraction to the old pier was more than just sentiment. In a very real sense it held what little history there was that defined him as a person, from that day waving to his father, to meeting Bettie one day on his way home from the mainland, to all those days and nights handing out tickets. He was the one who ensured everyone got to where they wanted to go; the static hub in the town’s wheel.
He shook his head.
Wool gathering again, John. This won’t do. There’s work to be done.
He continued past the ticket office. He didn’t look in at the graffiti—he’d be seeing it up close soon enough.
The door to the waiting room was closed, and for that he was thankful.
Bettie wouldn’t want any of their kind in her room.
He eyed the door handle warily. It didn’t move. Even so, he gave it a wide berth as he passed it on the way to the storage shed, and again on the way back.
Two hours later, he had made progress on removing the graffiti. He could still see a faint outline on the wall, and he’d always know it had been there, but at least no one else would ever have to suffer the sight.
He scraped the feces from the floor and into a bucket. The water supply had long since been cut off to the pier, so he dropped the mess down the nearest drain and washed it away with bleach.
Satisfied he’d done what he could with that, he turned his attention to the door. Luckily, fixing it was simple. All it needed was a few new screws around the lock and it was solid again, probably even better than before.
When he closed it behind him to head home, he felt an air of satisfaction.
Job well done.
It lasted just as long as it took for the first ripe tomato to fly through the air and squelch on the door behind him. He had to duck to avoid another.
Little buggers!
The rage came back, twice as strong. He ran, screaming, straight for the low wall from which he guessed the bombardment had come.
* * *
Later, as he stood once more in his kitchen, staring at the red door, he was ashamed at how he’d lost control so quickly. And he hadn’t even caught the youths. One second he was running for the wall, the next he was lying on his back on the gravel track, staring at the sky and wondering how he’d got there.
All he’d achieved was getting muck and grime all over his clothes.
Bettie would be disgusted with me.
He showered and changed. By the time he got back to the kitchen another day was almost gone. They were playing silly word games on the radio.
Axiomatic. A machine for chopping wood.
There was a lot of laughter, but John didn’t join in. The exertions of the day were catching up to him.
Haven’t had as much excitement for many a year.
He made tea and some dry ham sandwiches, then settled down at the table with the day’s paper. He couldn’t concentrate. Even the football results made little sense, and it would be useless to attempt the crossword with his brain so addled by fatigue. He laid his head in his hands and was asleep in seconds.
He was woken by a cold chill at the back of his neck. A faint light—orange and flickering slightly—showed from outside.
That’s not right.
Somewhere, deep down, he knew that he should just get up and close the door. Maybe even take a dive into the whisky bottle. Even though he wasn’t a drinker and it would surely make him as sick as a dog in the morning, at that moment it seemed preferable to any alternative.
But the urge to see was stronger still.
He moved slowly to the door.
Once more the handle was cold in his hot palm as he pulled the door further open, and once again he stepped out onto an empty pier.
He knew what was coming next.
The tannoy rang out, tinny and echoing. Mr. Phillips’s voice came loud and clear.
“The ferry approaching is the nine-thirty from Kyle.”
The thwup of the paddles sounded in the distance, and a mournful whistle announcing the Lady’s arrival. A few yards along the pier, the handle of the waiting room door squealed and turned. John’s breath steamed in front of his face.
He felt strangely calm, as if all potential for fear and excitement had been leeched out of him during the day.
The waiting room door swung open, a yellow light spilling a long rectangular outline on the pier.
The ferry will be here soon.
John stepped forward so that he was standing in the light from the waiting room.
Inside, something shuffled.
His heartbeat started to go up a bit. It was a struggle to take another step.
The thwup of the paddles in the water got closer.
“Please stand well clear of the edge.” Phillips’s voice said loudly.
John could see half of the waiting room from where he stood. The yellow light came from an old light fitting. He recognized it straight away. In fact, he knew it intimately. Over the years he’d changed the bulb many times and cleaned out the shade even more often. No one had cleaned this one for a while. The half-dome of glass looked grimy with dust, and black flecks showed where a small army of flies had crawled in and been cooked in the heat.
Something shuffled again. There was a scrape.
Someone just stood up from the bench.
Three figures moved forward, faces deep in shadow, bodies little more than silhouettes. The larger person in the center led the other two by the hand.
Suddenly, John couldn’t breathe.
The paddle noise grew so loud he could hardly hear. The pier trembled at his feet. He stepped aside as the three figures came out of the waiting room. The pier filled with steam and fog as the paddle ferry pulled in to the dock.
He couldn’t take it anymore. More by instinct than judgement his hand found the handle of the red door and he threw himself into the kitchen, slamming the door hard behind him. He lifted the whisky bottle and poured half of it down his throat without a pause, then stood, head spinning and guts on fire, until reality started to fill in around him.
It was only later as he dropped, exhausted, into bed that he realized.
For the first time, he hadn’t left Bettie her hot chocolate.
* * *
John approached the pier with a degree of caution the next morning, as if somehow the events beyond the red door would have imprinted themselves on the physical building. But the only echoes of the past that came to him in the clear light of day were the ones created by his own memory.
The ticket office stank of bleach and carbolic soap, so he left the front door open wide while he did the rest of his rounds. He had to take a few minutes to clear up the rotting tomatoes from around the entrance, and he eyed the wall warily as he cleaned. But there was no giggling from behind it and no bombardment.
Maybe I did accomplish something yesterday after all.
After cleaning up he sat at the stool behind the ticket window, reliving old times. He’d done this for many years now, at least three times a week, playing pretend games like a child’s tea party, welcoming invisible customers and passing out imaginary tickets for a ferry that had long since stopped running.
Previously he had always gone home feeling slightly sad, but somehow closer to the old days, closer to Bettie. Today, all he felt was cold, damp and tired.
His day didn’t improve when he arrived home to find two young policemen on his doorstep.
They wouldn’t tell him what it was all about, but they asked a lot of questions about the Jones gang, and John was only too happy to tell his tales of woe all over again. They came in and shared a pot of tea, and he noticed that they had a good look around, one even going so far as to go upstairs. He said he was going to the bathroom, but John knew his house. He knew the steps above them meant the man was in his bedroom.
But he had nothing to hide, and the law is the law. He let them poke around and ask their questions. By the time they left, they were a lot more relaxed than they’d been on his doorstep.
Policemen in the house. Bettie would be mortified.
That thought made him guilty for forgetting the hot chocolate the previous night. In penance, he washed all his dirty clothes. Once done, he poured the whisky down the sink and put the bottle in the bin.
Never again. That’s a promise Bettie.
He made a pot of tea, just the way Bettie liked it, put the radio on, and sat at the table with the paper.
That’s much better.
The BBC lads were making jokes about politicians. He’d heard most of the material many times over the years, but the sheer nostalgia of it all settled him, and he started to feel more like his old self.
He got lost in the crossword so didn’t notice the time. It was only the cold draft on his neck that told him the door behind him had opened once more.
The orange light flickered from beyond, but this time he had no trouble ignoring it. He stood and went to the door but didn’t go out.
“The ferry approaching is the nine-thirty from Kyle.”
He heard it pull into the pier and smelled salt air and smoke.
He closed the door gently.
The room fell quiet, save for the studio laughter from the radio. He went back to the crossword. At ten-thirty he made two mugs of hot chocolate and left one on the table for Bettie.
That night he slept soundly for the first time in weeks.
There were no dreams.
* * *
It was raining when he got up, one of those steady drizzles that looked to be settling in for the day. But a little rain wasn’t going to stop him. He put on his overcoat and headed for the pier.
The young policemen were back at the green. This time they were surrounded by a group of women. The women’s voices were high and shrill, but the rain deadened the specifics and John wasn’t interested enough to attempt to make out what was being said. Two of them pointed in John’s direction, and one made to cross the road towards him but was held back by the policemen.
John put his head down and kept going.
It’s none of my concern.
He was pleased to note that nothing had changed at the pier. There was no new vandalism, and all the doors and windows were secure. He felt so good that he walked along the dock and stood beside the waiting room door.
As he put his key in the lock and turned the handle, he half expected the tannoy to start up above him, but all he heard was a rustling in the room beyond, the telltale whump-whump of a pigeon taking to the air.
He pushed the door open, slowly. There was only darkness inside, and a musty dry smell that stung at his nostrils and in his throat. He fumbled for the light switch and turned it on. Nothing happened. Overhead, a pigeon cooed softly then went quiet.
His eyes started to adjust to the darkness. The room was just as he remembered it, although it had been several years since he’d last opened the door. Long benches ran round the walls of a square room. Years ago there would have been a heater in one corner and sometimes a newspaper or two left behind by the passengers. Now there was just the benches.
He walked to the center of the room and looked up. The light fitting above him was intact, just as it had been in his vision. The black specks where the dead flies lay even looked to be in the same pattern.
He backed out of the room, no longer feeling quite so relaxed.
“Eat this,” a voice said behind him.
He turned just in time to see the Jones boy swing a baseball bat towards his head.
* * *
When he came back to himself, he was in the kitchen, staring at the red door. He had blood on his hands and a gash above his right eye. He’d been dripping on the floor and there was a spreading crimson puddle at his feet.
Sorry Bettie.
He felt light-headed and groggy. He remembered nothing but the sight of the boy’s grin and the swoosh of the bat as it came towards him.
I need to tell those policemen.
But before that he had to clean up, first the floor, then himself.
It took a while, and when he finished he was surprised to see that the sun was going down. He made tea, put on the radio and sat at the table. He tried to read, but his eyes refused to focus on the text, showing him only black specks and daubs on a sheet of white.
He switched his attention to the radio, but the usual laughter was absent. The announcer was deadly serious.
“Tonight, police have launched a search for three young boys—”
He rose and switched the radio off.
Don’t want Bettie getting upset.
The red door started to swing open as he turned back to his chair. The orange light flickered outside.
He was about to move towards it when there was a pounding at his front door.
“Police, Mr. Ratchett. Open up please. We need to talk to you.”
Oh no. Bettie wouldn’t like that. She wouldn’t like that at all.
He stepped out onto the pier.
The tannoy rang out, tinny and echoing. Mr. Phillips’s voice came loud and clear.
“The ferry approaching is the nine-thirty from Kyle.”
He heard the thwup of the approaching paddles and the mournful whistle announcing the ferry’s arrival. A few yards along the pier, the handle of the waiting room door squealed and turned. John’s breath steamed in front of his face. The waiting room door swung open, a yellow light spilling a long rectangular outline on the platform.
The ferry will be here soon.
John stepped forward so that he was standing in the light from the waiting room.
Inside, something shuffled.
The thwup of the paddle-steamer got closer.
“Please stand well clear of the edge,” Phillips’s voice said loudly.
Something shuffled again. There was a scrape.
Four figures moved forward, faces deep in shadow, bodies little more than silhouettes. The larger person in the center came forward first, the three smaller figures following meekly behind.
Suddenly, John couldn’t breathe.
The paddle noise grew so loud he could hardly hear. The pier trembled at his feet. He stepped aside as the figures came out of the waiting room. The pier filled with steam and fog as the ferry pulled in to the dock, so much so that the figures became even more vague and indistinct.
He heard a shout in the distance from the front door of his house.
“Mr. Ratchett, if you don’t open this door we’ll have to break it down.”
Bettie wouldn’t like that at all.
He turned towards the red door. He was stopped by a voice whispering his name.
John.
That was all she said. That was all she had to say.
Bettie?
He turned.
She was there, smiling, holding out a hand towards him. Behind her, three children hugged at her coattails. The largest peered around her and smiled. He’d seen that grin before somewhere but couldn’t quite remember where.
She makes a great mother.
Back in the house the front door crashed open and wood splintered.
“Mr. Ratchett. Where are the boys?”
Even from the pier, John heard the thudding of feet on the stairs. He knew he should be concerned, but his mind was focused on the figure in front of him.
“Bettie? Is it really you?”
Her voice came as a whisper from far away, as thin as the smoke that surrounded her.
Come on John. We’re taking a little boat trip. The whole family.
The noise from back in the house was getting louder. There were crashes as furniture was thrown aside and shouts of frustration.
But Bettie didn’t seem to mind.
And if Bettie doesn’t mind, then neither do I.
A figure stood at the far end of the pier. He was wreathed in smoke, but John recognized the tall hat and long coat. He waved, and the harbormaster raised a hand and waved back. Suddenly he didn’t look quite like the man that John remembered. But who else could it be?
All aboard!
Mr. Phillips wasn’t one to wait for stragglers. Bettie shooed the children aboard up the short gangway and waited until John took her arm. Together they stepped up onto the gently swaying deck of the ferry. John immediately felt at home. Bettie put her arm around him and stood, cuddled close beside him, with the three children standing straight-backed and quiet to one side.
A family outing. That sounds nice.
The ferry pulled out of the dock and John caught a last glimpse into the kitchen.
The young policemen ran into the room.
The red door swung gently closed.
William Meikle is a Scottish writer, now living in Canada. Around 1991, and after being given a push by his new wife, he began submitting stories to a number of UK small press magazines. Meikle now has twenty novels published in the genre press and over 300 short story credits in thirteen countries. His work has appeared in a number of professional anthologies and magazines. His novel, The Hole, rose to the Top 20 of the Amazon Horror chart.
Meikle chooses to write mainly at the pulpy end of the market, populating his stories with monsters, myths, men who like a drink and smoke, and more monsters.
He lives in Newfoundland with whales, bald eagles and icebergs for company. When he’s not writing he plays guitar, drinks beer and dreams of fortune and glory. He writes to escape. He hasn’t managed it yet, but he’s working on it.