Captain Damnation and other strange tales - Anthology of short stories

Harry Riley

Description

As an unashamed admirer of Charles Dickens, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Edgar Allan Poe, and Roald Dahl's quirky tales I have added a touch of my own black humour to this collection of short stories. My earliest childhood memories of blood curdling yarns on the radio, spoken by a man with a dark sepulchral voice, have left me with a lifetime's passion for what were once known (long before my time I might add) as 'Penny Dreadfuls' or American Dime Novels: lurid tales of mysterious mayhem designed to deliciously shock and horrify our impressionable young minds. Science can explain away so many mysteries but it is often the creepy-unexpected that trips you up and opens the door to superstitious dread. However where my tales have a ghostly theme running through them they will often have a perfectly rational explanation. Occasionally they may even raise a smile or two. Modern lives are driven at such a fast pace with all the demands on our time and leisure that we often try and fit twenty-five hours into every working day, thus leaving very little space to absorb and do justice to the full length novel. This is why I believe the 'Ten-Minute-Tale' has a place to lift us out of the mundane. I hope you enjoy these offerings as you 'cherry-pick' your path along life's crooked highway.Book reviews online @ www.publishedbestsellers.com

Sujets

• Short story

Informations

• Publié par: Pneuma Springs Publishing
• Date de parution: 28 mai 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781782281528
• Langue: English

Extrait

'Captain Damnation'
& other strange tales


Anthology of short stories


Harry Riley
Copyright

First Published in 2010 by: Pneuma Springs Publishing
Captain Damnation and other strange tales Copyright © 2010 Harry Riley
Kindle eISBN 9781907728808 ePub eISBN: 9781782281528 PDF eBook eISBN: 9781782280644 Paperback ISBN: 978-1-905809-91-2
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, save those clearly in the public domain, is purely coincidental.
Pneuma Springs Publishing E: [e-mail] W: www.pneumasprings.co.uk
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Published in the United Kingdom. All rights reserved under International Copyright Law. Contents and/or cover may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written consent of the publisher.
Dedication

This collection of short stories is for Karen, Hannah and Eddy
Contents

1. Out of the Blue
2. The Haunted Bridge
3. Born Lucky
4. Captain Damnation
5. The Missing Village
6. The Curious Case of Austin Lloyd
7. The Séance
8. The Ghosts of Grimsdyke Hall
9. The Five Pound Note
10. William Appleby
11. The Cottage in Melody Lane: ‘ Visit the Blind Tree!’
12. The Haunted Violin
13. The Riddle of the Red Telephone Box
14. Hubert Ramsey and The Silver Lady
15. Toby Mullins and the Derelict Windmill
16. Captain X
17. Unholy Bones
18. Slippery Bones
19. The Moth in the Bottle
20. Major John
21. The Shadow
22. Barney’s Final Shift
23. The Angler’s Catch
24. Marshall McGuire the Fearless Flyer
25. The Gypsy’s Curse
26. The Phantom Staircase
27. The Curse of the Clock
28. The Dream Home
1 ‘Out of the Blue’
‘There were delicious juicy red tomatoes…giant melons…and squash…grapes and even peaches.’

“H ow do pal” Billy Oaks stuck his head over the side gate in passing, gazed into the flourishing garden and grinned at his neighbour. “Cracking veggies Warren…don’t know how you manage it…always the biggest and always the best!”
The man he was addressing looked up and smiled back, shrugging modestly as he continued tying in his extra bean canes. “It’s no secret, I look after the little beggars and they look after me, that’s all Billy, my motto for gardening is; you can only get out what you put in.”
Warren Ackroyd was a gardener, a very keen and enthusiastic gardener. He could be seen most days, summer and winter, rain or shine, pottering about in the garden at the side of his little cottage in the Yorkshire village of Bradstock, deep in the dales.
Here was a man at peace with himself and content with his lot. He always had a cheery wave, a chat and a smile for the old ladies as they passed on their way to collect their pensions from the post office.
He had lived here as long as anyone could remember. At first there were two of them, Warren and his wife, but she had been a flighty creature and had left, many years ago, along with the butcher’s son, while her husband was at work in the churchyard (he had been the gravedigger until the fashion for cremation made him virtually redundant.)
Now he would dig occasionally as a favour for the vicar and purely for free, to support the struggling church.
Most of the flowers that filled the old Norman church every week came from his garden. He would fill up any remaining time doing favours for the elderly (gardening and odd jobs.) If ever a man was destined for sainthood it was Warren.
He hadn’t harboured any ill will for his wayward wife or her young lover and had remarked, whenever taxed on the subject, that she was a lively young thing and “he hoped the two of them were happy together and had a far better life than he could have offered in this sleepy little village.”
He just wished she had kept in touch with a letter or a phone call now and again, so he could wish them well, like any true Christian should.
One of Warren’s big successes was the fruit and vegetables, many grown in his large greenhouse with no recourse to chemical intervention. He had built it himself and the whole of the ground inside had been lovingly nourished with organic manure over the years. He sold this tasty produce to the locals as they regularly beat a path to his door.
There were delicious juicy red tomatoes… giant melons…and squash… grapes and even peaches. Any surplus he sold to the local greengrocer. He had won so many trophies at local flower shows for his garden produce that his small cottage was fair heaving with them, and the rustic charm of his country accent could often be heard wafting across the airwaves on local radio, as they sought his advice on all topics horticultural.
One day however, peace was shattered in the village as the lone pilot of a paraplane (a sort of motorised parachute) had a problem with his machine. He was flying quite low and a flock of geese got tangled up in the elliptical wing and brought him crashing down…right through the middle of Warren Ackroyd’s greenhouse.
The pilot was declared dead at the scene by the medics and unfortunately so was Warren, who had been carefully misting his tomatoes at the time. The dark, richly manured loam, that had been so brutally disturbed, now gave up a little secret of its own. The rescue services were amazed to discover two human bodies…laying each side of the narrow pathway. The forensic specialist was later able to confirm the skeletal remains were those of Warren’s wife and her lover…the butcher’s son.
Warren had conscientiously tended their graves, and in death they had helped to provide him with a little extra income in his old age…and his village friends with a bountiful harvest.
‘Visit the Blind Tree!’
2 ‘The Haunted Bridge’
‘…she passed him a written message via her mother, pleading for his attention and a meeting in secret at the old Penny Bridge…’

“Q uiet Please! Settle down.” Digby Holroyd stood on the stage, stuck out his ample chest and gazed around the staff canteen, the thumb of his left hand stuck in his waistcoat pocket and his right hand up in the air appealing for silence. “That’s it, shut your rattle!”
The speaker looked about him before continuing. He was a self-made, middle-aged man, confident of his own authority. “You don’t know me yet but you will be aware that three weeks ago I bought this run down old dump of a mill, lock stock and barrel. I can see why the previous owners wanted to off-load it…if they’d left it much longer, happen there’d have been nowt left to flog!” Digby smiled at his joke and waited for the workers to stop shuffling their feet. “Now I am going to surprise you, I am not going to knock it down, and there’ll be no sackings either, at least not yet awhile!” He called for Reginald Newby the new Financial Director, to join him on stage and put his arm round the small man’s shoulders. “Me and Reginald are a team. We have turned round more failing companies than you lot have had hot dinners! We have a plan for this place and by God it’s going to work or I’ll want to know why.” Here he paused for breath and took a big gulp from a tumbler of water on the table at his side before continuing to address the assembled staff of forty women and fifteen men and boys. “First of all let’s have some ground rules. Any troublemakers will be out before their feet touch the floor.” He let this news sink in and continued, “I will be watching you all and looking for my new supervisors. I will pick three men. They will have the ‘nous’ to get things done; ‘My Way!’ the way I want them done. Then within three years, if one of those men cuts the mustard he’ll be standing up here with me, as my production manager. I prefer to promote from within and if that man shows a willingness to put my business before his own interests he can go all the way and I mean all the way!” Beaming and raising his voice he came to the highlight of his speech, “Prosperity for you and your families. Better conditions, new plant, and big bonuses for all, need I say more?” He raised his arms for applause and it came, hesitant at first and then several people stood up and clapped wholeheartedly. The new master had won them over. A sceptical workforce wary of change had heard him out and liked him for it.
Three months later the supervisors had been chosen and new equipment ordered. Digby Holroyd was as good as his word.
He did not let the grass grow under his feet, already he knew the man who would get the top job. He was Vernon Garnet (Vern) as the workers called him. He was tall and slim, a square jawed, dark haired, twenty year old and extremely well liked by most colleagues. He had an easy way of getting things done without recourse to shouting, swearing or bullying tactics. With the wisdom of a ‘Solomon’ he had already arbitrated and settled several heated disputes between stubborn workmates and people were drawn to him, especially the women. He didn’t appear to lead them on. Vernon was a man’s man and the boss liked the cut of his jib. After two years of increased turnover and bigger profits the accountants and the banks, were happy with progress and Digby was ready to promote Vernon Garnet to Production Manager. He called a meeting in the staff canteen for Friday lunchtime and stood, arms akimbo, feet planted firmly apart, centre stage in front of the whole assembly (now increased by ten more staff).
“When I first spoke to you, I said I hoped to find my new top man from amongst you all. There are a good few who impressed me and will be coming up for promotion during the next year or two as we expand, I picked out three key men and they are all doing a good job. There was one chap though who ticked all the boxes for me.” Digby stopped at this point as though overcome with passion and wiped his face with his handkerchief,
“I am not an emotion