On Monday mornings, I send out a story via email: ultra-brief tales of 1,000 words or more, usually in genres including horror, science fiction, and the supernatural. Those stories collectively are called Once Upon A Time. I’ve also published several ebooks and compendium volumes of those stories so far.

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Here's story 259, of 266 so far.

Passing Through

“This gentleman you mentioned, sir; how would you describe him?”

The man sighed, looking away from the police sergeant and towards the mostly silent gathering of his fellow villagers. They were huddled in the doorway and interior of the café, which looked strange being lit up and open at this late hour of the night. He glanced at his watch, and saw that it was a little past 01:45 in the morning. Several of the others were in their night clothes, with dressing gowns drawn around them against the mild breeze.

The man’s name was Alan McLellan, and he was sixty-two years old. He was the owner of a small shop specialising in violins — sale, purchase, and repair — which happened to be next door to the café. The village had a population of just over four hundred, but many residents were in various outlying farmhouses, or had left in recent weeks to stay with relatives in nearby cities. Tonight, there were fewer than fifty people assembled there, and five of them were police officers who had driven for three-quarters of an hour to reach the place.

“Sir?” the police sergeant prompted again, and McLellan returned his attention to the younger man. The sergeant’s uniform tag indicated that his name was Bell. The hair at his temples indicated that he was probably in his early forties. His face indicated that he was perturbed.

“As I said, sergeant, he was about your age. Average height. Dark hair, dark jacket. Jeans, I think. Like anyone; anyone at all. Like a tourist passing through.”

“And did you catch his name?”

McLellan shook his head. He’d asked several of his neighbours the same question, and as far as he could tell the man had never introduced himself. No-one had asked him to. They’d all told him the same thing, in their own various ways: leave this place, for your own safety, and don’t ever come back.

The sergeant straightened, feeling a chill from the night wind — or something else. McLellan already knew what he would ask about next, and decided to pre-empt him.

“He seemed to already know what was going on, even if we didn’t,” he said simply. “And he knew what to do. Whether you believe it or not, and no matter what you might write in your notebook.” McLellan nodded over the sergeant’s shoulder in the direction of the quaint village square.

The fountain was ornate; a landmark. Tourists visited often in the summer months due to the proximity to hiking trails, and the fountain always ended up in their social media photographs. The green of copper verdigris was in striking contrast to the pink lions which marked its four corners, each holding a shield. The basins below each face were dry at this time of year. The police tape on thin metal posts cordoning off one whole side of the structure was new, though — as was the pile of ash on the ground. The forensic scientist working quietly there had come in from Fife less than an hour earlier.

The sergeant chose his words carefully. “There were… several incident reports from this area during the past month.”

“But there won’t be any more, I suspect,” McLellan said, his face paler now. His eyes were fixed on the pile of ash, but he was seeing what it had been earlier in the night — what it had been almost every night since the abortive works to renovate the pipework which fed the fountain, linked from the much older well below that dated back to the 12th Century.

It was impossible to believe, and yet there it had been, turning the village into a place of fear and curfew. Two of McLellan’s own neighbours had died (one younger than he was himself), and he had feared the same fate awaited them all.

But then the man had come. McLellan had seen his car — make, model, colour, and registration plate — but he wouldn’t be telling any of that to Sergeant Bell from the saner places of the county.

The sergeant frowned. “Can you tell me in your own words what happened here tonight, Mr. McLellan? Because frankly I’m at a loss. Your beautiful village here has about six deaths per year, and all of natural causes — but there have been that number in the last two weeks alone. I have recordings from Fife emergency services where perfectly reasonable people from this village have been… extremely upset, talking about things that I’ve only ever seen in the type of films my fifteen-year-old likes to watch. And now I have footage from an aerial support unit of a substantial fire in this square, which I can find no evidence of now except for that pile of ash over there — and reports of a strange man that everyone seems very grateful to, but nobody can meaningfully identify.”

He had a book, McLellan thought. A book, and a pocket watch, and a mobile phone, and a crushed packet of cigarettes. And his car keys.

“He hadn’t shaved in a while,” McLellan said instead. “I don’t think he was taking proper care of himself. There was something in his eyes. But he did what needed to be done.”

The sergeant was clearly exasperated, but McLellan could see that he was also curious, and unsettled.

“And what was that, exactly?” the sergeant asked.

“Are you a god-fearing man, Sergeant Bell?” McLellan countered, and he saw the other man’s eyebrows twitch.

“I find there’s plenty to be afraid of here on Earth, sir,” the sergeant replied. He’d been trying for a dry delivery, but it just came off as practised and evasive. McLellan nodded thoughtfully, and then shivered.

“I’m tired, sergeant, and it’s been a very difficult time. I’m not a young man. If you wouldn’t mind, could we continue this in the morning?”

To his credit, Bell nodded immediately, closing his notebook and pocketing it in one smooth motion. McLellan returned the nod, and turned to walk away. He had taken only a few steps when he came to a stop and turned back. The sergeant was looking at him expectantly.

“There was one thing, though,” McLellan said. “His… well, jewellery, I suppose.”

“Jewellery, sir?” the sergeant asked. His eyes twinkled in the dim light, all of his attention focused on the other man.

“He wore a wedding ring, but on his third finger, not his fourth. As if he’d lost weight. An old one; scuffed and dull. And on his right wrist — I remember this clearly — a bracelet. One of those medical alert types, with the red symbol. Do you know the kind?”

The sergeant nodded. “Yes, sir. For people with dangerous allergies, or epilepsy, or on certain medications.”

“Indeed. Silver chain link, with a silver etched plate. It caught the… light.”

He had been going to say flames. He thought that the sergeant might have realised that too, but the other man only considered the information for a moment before speaking.

“That’s very helpful, sir, thank you. You don’t happen to recall what the inscription was? On the bracelet, I mean. It might help with our investigation.”

I’ll recall it until the end of my days, McLellan thought. He considered lying, but there had been more than enough of that. He nodded twice, slowly.

“Do Not Resuscitate.”

JINX

KESTREL face a new and terrifying enemy: an all-seeing mastermind who already knows exactly who they are, and many of their deepest secrets. Nothing stays hidden forever, and the line between privacy and liberty is razor-thin…

Book 3 in the KESTREL action-thriller series.

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