Shaded Fey

  fetch n. a ghostly double of someone living or about to die...

  Shaded Fey

  With a suitcase packed and detailed map spread across the passenger seat of my car, I was a woman on a mission, heading for the tiny village of Shaded Fey, the most unwritten-about haunt in England, with just one Google entry to its bizarre name. However, being a writer of crime, it wasn’t the claim of “things going bump in the night” that interested me, but that the writer of the article in question had mysteriously gone twitter-AWOL shortly after posting his piece to a Horror website. How did I know all this? Okay, he had only been gone for three days but my genre was crime. And one of the great things about writing fiction is being able to warp the facts for better reading.

  I had timed my journey well: daylight was in its final hour and an eerie mist had begun to smother the rotted, wooden signs directing me towards Fey Lodge.

  Suddenly, as I turned into a narrow lane, my windscreen wipers sprung to life, and at a speed I thought impossible. I flicked the lever back-and-forth but the speed increased. Smoke plumed from the tiny motors before sparking to a sudden halt. I stopped the car.

  BANG! The car dropped to one side. Both nearside tyres had exploded. I tried opening the door but bramble hedges hugged my car either side. In desperation, I pushed harder and squeezed my way out; the thorns ripping through my blouse as I prised myself away.

  ‘Having problems?’ I turned to find a woman amused by my predicament. ‘I’ll call a friend,’ she smiled. ‘He has a tractor.’

  Untouched by cosmetics, the woman was a natural beauty, yet her young complexion mismatched her wild, ash-grey locks.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said, with worry of losing my pride and credibility. ‘I’ll drive it out on two wheels.’

  With an almighty B-A-N-G! the two good tyres exploded simultaneously.

  ‘Oops!’ The woman hid her fit of laughter behind her hands.

  ‘Either your roads are in need of a good lick of tarmac or the tyre Company sold me a job lot!’ I quipped, trying not to cry.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s call that friend.’

  “Write what you know,” advised so many literary experts. I didn’t know the first thing about Horror but it was all here under my nose for the taking ... the mist, wipers, the sudden appearance of a strange woman in an old-fashioned outfit, and the loss of all four tyres … Strange also, that when I tried to catch the woman up, the same distance kept us apart.

  ‘Hold up!’ I yelled as she disappeared into a gap in the hedge. I followed her in but she was nowhere to be seen. In addition, my hopes of following her to a haunted house had faded when my eyes set sight upon a wooden shack on a colourless allotment shaded by twisted, leafless trees.

  ‘Hello?’ I called, waiting patiently outside the door.

  A lantern flickered behind the mouldy, drawn curtains. I knocked on the door; gave her a moment, then entered.

  The porch led directly into the kitchen where the lantern, on an antique table, dimly lit the dreary walls.

  The door slammed shut behind me. Plundered into darkness and sickened by a sudden waft of sulphur, I heard the elusive woman sniggering like a disruptive schoolchild. I felt around for a light switch but stumbled to the floor just as the lantern mysteriously re-lit. More mysterious was that the woman was now sat at the table.

  ‘No electricity?’ I nervously asked.

  ‘I manage.’ She started to her feet. ‘I will get you a drink: No doubt, you are in need of one after your little experience.’

  I took a seat at the table as she poured a strange, green liquid into a wooden goblet.

  ‘Do people still drink from those?’

  She did not acknowledge.

  ‘How far is Fey Lodge?’

  ‘A few hundred yards up the road,’ she replied, passing me the drink. ‘Here you go. It’s an old recipe passed down by my mother.’

  Not wishing to upset her, I knocked it back in one. I coughed as it burnt its way down the lining of my throat leaving an unpleasant, bitter after-taste. ‘A writer came to Shaded Fey, three or four days ago– ’

  ‘Another?’ she interrupted, holding a flagon of her mother’s fast-reacting recipe over my empty goblet.

  ‘No, thank you. It’s very strong stuff. I must keep a clear head until I get to the lodge.

  ‘How do you feel?’ She grinned.

  The walls wobbled and seemed to be closing in. Feeling trapped, I stood up and took a deep breath. My head spun but I desperately had to get out.

  ‘Stop!’ she cried as I reached for the door handle.

  I fell to my knees in a sudden state of drowsiness.

  'When you slip into unconsciousness, your double will rise from your body and become a servant to the powers that call upon me. Sleep now, for you have been chosen.’

  Amazingly, after all that was said and done, I awoke, and seemed to be alive. Squawking ravens circled above me in a bright blue sky. Tattered and torn, and with the mother of all hangovers, I raced back to my car, but it was gone.

  I silently prayed to be back amongst the city skyscrapers again … where crime was, sadly, rife but tales of evil ghosts were few and far between.

  I headed towards Fey Lodge passing the shack with a mind full of flashbacks and the stupid thought of whether my true story would be classed as fiction.

  Fey Lodge bloomed with colour. Its award of three stars were an assurance that contact with the outside world did exist.

  ‘Oh, my dear!’ exclaimed the manager as I entered the reception. ‘What on earth has happened?’

  My first priority was that he called the police, the second, that he poured me a large brandy before doing so.

  An unmarked car arrived within the hour and took me straight to the station.

  ‘So, Miss Jameson,’ said a plain-clothed officer as a uniformed stood at the door. ‘I have listened to your story with interest.’

  ‘Story?’ I wasn’t that worried. What a country-bumpkin copper knew about investigation I had probably learnt reading the first chapter of a Mickey Spillane!

  ‘Cigarette, Miss Jameson?’

  I took one. I had been off the things for almost two years but there was nothing I wanted more. ‘Everything I have told you Inspector is the truth.’

  With a tap at the door, a WPC entered. She whispered in his ear then left the room.

  ‘It’s going to be a long day, Miss Jameson ... well, for you, anyway.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘So fucking innocent, aren’t we?’

  I couldn’t believe my ears. A case of mistaken identity, surely? ‘I want to speak to somebody else.’

  ‘Oh you will, Miss Jameson, oh you will.’

  ‘How come you never answer my questions? Like, what the hell is going on here?’

  ‘Because I ask the fucking questions!’ he stormed.

  I was frightened.

  ‘The only question you have to ask is to yourself!’

  ‘What’s that then?’

  ‘How can I sleep at night?’

  I was now worried, ‘What is going on?’

  There was another tap at the door and the WPC entered, again she whispered in his ear.

  ‘Have you found the grey-haired woman?' I asked. ‘Have you checked-out my claim?’

  ‘On this occasion, Miss Jameson, I will answer your question.’ He pondered up-and-down the interview room playing the big-time Hollywood detective. ‘Two of my officers have checked-out this so-called grey-haired, young woman’s shack and surprise-surprise!’

  ‘What?’

  He leapt in my face. 'Nothing!' I could taste his spit. ‘Not even a wooden goblet.’ The uniformed laughed. ‘Does anybody ever use those things anymore, Constable?’

  ?
??Definitely not, boss.’

  I had had enough. ‘Like I said. I want to talk to somebody else.’

  ‘Will MI5 do?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Terrorist!’ He slapped my face.

  The uniformed stepped in and eased him away. He panted and wheezed, taking deep breaths to calm himself down.

  I could not hold back from imminent tears. ‘Terrorist?’ I sobbed.

  He lunged for me again but luckily, the uniformed still had a grip of him.

  ‘Just out of interest, Miss Jameson,’ asked the detective shrugging off the uniformed. ‘Tell me … How did you get back to Shaded Fey without your car?’

  ‘I don't quite follow?’

  ‘Honestly, I’ll kill her before MI5 arrive.’ The uniformed shook his head. ‘Yes, you're right, I must get a grip.’ He looked at his watch. ‘They will be here in fifteen minutes. They’re coming by helicopter.’ He tightened his tie. ‘The car?’ he asked. ‘It was found in the East End of London, shortly after you bombed the American Embassy murdering thirty-seven innocent people!’

  ‘This is insane.’ I peered around the room looking for any sign of hidden cameras.

  ‘Shut-up, shut up, shut up!’ he yelled. ‘ Do you know what the date is today, Miss Jameson?’

  ‘The ninth of August. I came here yesterday.’

  ‘Miss Jameson, you really have lost the plot. No pun intended.’ He looked towards his constable. ‘The date, please?’

  ‘The thirteenth, sir.’

  ‘Unlucky for some!’ he smiled. ‘Two days shy of the day in question … the eleventh. Enough time to get to London, do the job, then get your sweet terrorist arse back here, am I right!’

  ‘I want to call a solicitor.’ I knew my rights.

  ‘Do you know a James Talburn?’

  'He is the reason I'm here. He's gone missing.'

  ‘He hasn’t gone missing. I've just been informed that it was he who blew up that bar in Westminster last week … I must take my hat off to you both,’ he said. ‘Talburn's target was a very popular establishment with members of the Ministry of Defence. And yours … Do you have a problem with our Western allies? You both did well. The only problem being that you were both seen on CCTV infiltrating the most stringent of security.’

  My insides plunged from the highest cliff.

  ‘The Americans swore blind that the only way of getting inside their Embassy was…’ He cleared his throat. ‘If you were a ghost.’

  Two suited men entered the room, handcuffed me, then led me to a field where their helicopter was waiting. We climbed in as the pilot prepared for take-off.

  Suddenly, the door shot open. The pilot shut-down his craft. A short silence. Then, quick as thought, he was pulled out of his seat by the grey-haired woman. The agents reached for their concealed guns as she leapt into the rear like a lion to its prey. The agents struggled but one managed to pull out his gun:

  BANG! A bullet passed straight through the forehead of the smiling woman.

  I ran for safety as a succession of bullets rang out behind me. An agent screaming in horror, then the other. I ran faster than my adrenaline could boost me but soon ran out of steam and fell to the floor. She was coming for me, and carrying a gun. I closed my eyes and tried to wake, but when I opened them and felt the wind very much alive, I knew this was for real. She was gliding towards me splattered in blood.

  ‘Going somewhere?’ she croaked, standing over me. ‘You have less than a minute before the police arrive.’

  ‘I don’t want to die.’

  ‘We have no more use for you.’

  ‘I don’t want to die.’

  ‘Twenty seconds!’ She placed the gun in my hand but had control over the trigger. ‘Go to prison and you’ll be treated like shit for the rest of your days.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to prison.’

  ‘Then you’ll die?’

  ‘I don’t want to die.’

  ‘Ten seconds!’

  Police officers, some armed, raced towards us. ‘There she is! Put the gun down, Miss Jameson!’

  They could only see me.

  ‘Five seconds.’ whispered the woman. ‘Four ... Three...’

  ‘One!’

  It was an easy way out, but the end of living the rest of my life as a victim of a Fetch.

  A new type of terrorism had been borne: an emissary of the devil was the weapon of the future.