The Sharpness of Fire

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A New Spook Story by Paul 'Quaint1' Bines.
Written for Mrs Trout's Halloween Ball and dedicated to Fred.
(c)1999 P.A.Bines It is strange sometimes how past experiences are brought to mind by seemingly trivial matters. A case in point is the recent story in the national press concerning the mysterious and tragic history of Bell House. As you will no doubt have read, the
building was completely destroyed by fire shortly after the owner had committed suicide in unusual circumstances. The story struck a chord in me, and I was reminded of a short walking holiday I took in the Sussex Downs some ten years ago, the
memory of which had moved to the dark recesses of my mind.
I had arranged to meed an old school friend, John, in a tiny hamlet a little way from Battle, and I was nearing the rendezvous when I slipped on a discarded Map and fell to the ground. I must have been rendered unconscious, for the next thing I remember is it being dark, (night had fallen), and a light rain was falling. I picked myself up and, after checking for further damage, I set off for a nearby building. It was far too late to get to the rendezvous now, and so I resolved to stay the night here, and then try to catch up with John in the morning.
As I approached the building, I found it to be a roughly built cottage. I knocked upon the door and, when it was eventually opened, I saw a young man, who looked somewhat surprised to see me.
I briefly explained the reason for my calling upon him and asked if I could rest for the night. He pondered this for a while; I suspect he was not keen to have a visitor that evening, but finally he relented and told me I could sleep in an old armchair by the
fire.
The room I found myself in was barely furnished; apart from the aforementioned armchair, there was only a large wooden table, the heavy sort that would usually be found in the kitchen of a large house or villa and which could, no doubt, be put to a great many other uses!), a rather rickety wooden chair and a large, wooden chest of great antiquity. I sat down in the armchair and the man fetched me a roughly made tankard, into which he poured a quantity of liquid. It appeared to be some sort of herbal cordial, with a slightly unpleasant smell, but I was thirsty and, thanking him, I drank it in two or three large gulps.
He sat down in the chair opposite me and we got into conversation, although I now recall that he seemed to do most of the talking. He told me that his name was George, and that he was the owner of the cottage. He had lived here since before his father had died, and he made a small amount of money growing and selling garden produce.
After a while, I began to get sleepy, and I found that I could not concentrate to on my host's words; he,. noticing this, said that it was approaching his time for bed and so he would take his leave of me. It was odd to hear a man of his age speak in such a
strange way, though I put this down to the rural life he led; I bade him goodnight and settled down into the armchair. He left the room, but returned with a rough blanket, which I gratefully wrapped around me, for the cool night air was creeping in through
the cracks in the wall and I was starting to feel a chill.
I dozed off and found myself having a most unusual dream, where I felt I was being persued by any number of strange warriors, all brandishing swords and shields; they chased me to a small cottage, not dis-similar to the one I was sleeping in; standing at
the door was a much older version of George, my host, and as I approached, I noticed that his tunic was covered in blood.
I awoke with a start. The room was in complete darkness, and I could hear a wind blowing around the building; indeed I could see the breeze blowing through the windows and causing the ragged curtains to billow like a sail. The odd thing was, I felt unnaturally hot. The fire had died out, and the blanket was thin, yet I felt as though my clothing was on fire.
I got up from the armchair and, striking a match, I looked around the room to see if I could sense where the heat was coming from. I could see nothing; indeed, the draught from the window blew out the match before it had burnt even half way through. I made to strike another when I suddenly became aware of another presence in the room.
I stood, motionless, as I sensed the other presence moving towards me. I heard a noise, nod dissimilar to that I made when I struck my match, and suddenly there was a light before me, and it was being held by the old man in my dream; he was holding
aloft an ancient lantern, and in his other hand he bore a large knife and he wore a tunic and it was covered in blood. I shouted out for help; surely my host, George, would hear me and come down to investigate? But no; the house was, to all intents and purposes, empty, save for myself and this apparition of a man. He stared at me for quite some time, then turned and sat down at the table, just as George had done earlier in the evening. He put his hand inside his tunic and pulled out a sharpening stone, which he proceeded to run along the blade of the knife, all the while staring in my direction. At first I had thought him to be starring at me, but then I realised that he was gazing through me, at something behind me, in the deep and dark shadows.
He stopped his sharpening and replaced the stone. He sat on for a few minutes, still gazing at whatever was behind me; I dared not look behind .
Suddenly, he rose and with a maniacal cry, he lunged towards me. I dodged out of his way and made for the door in panic. As I got to the door, I found it blocked by... by I do not know what. There were men and women, there were children and old crones. They appeared and disappeared There was a heavy knocking on the door but, when I opened it, there was nothing to be seen but the dark, dark night, and an eerie mist. I felt a sharp, stabbing pain in my shoulder; I quickly looked around to see that the old man had thrown his knife and was now striding towards me. As he advanced, I suddenly felt the same great heat that had woken me, and I could smell smoke drifting in through the open doorway. I suddenly panicked; I leapt through the door and ran as fast as I could go, until the cottage was far away and I found my self on a road leading into a small village. I continued to run, until I ran into a constable on night duty, who grabbed me and led me to the police house.
He placed me into a comfortable room and bade me to 'sleep it off' until morning; he then locked the door and left me. He assumed I was drunk, I suppose, although not a drop of alcohol had I drunk since leaving London.
The next morning, I was woken by the Constable, who demanded an explanation for my behaviour the previous night. I explained what I had been through, and the face of the Constable gradually became more serious. When I got to the part where I had been stabbed with the knife, he stopped me and asked if the shoulder was still in pain.
As he did so, I winced, as if the blade were in my shoulder still, and had just been given a twist. The Constable examined my back, but could see nothing there. He left me sitting there and when he eventually returned, he had with him an elderly
countrywoman, whom he asked to sit. He then asked me to retell my tale, from the beginning; I was to omit no detail from my account. When I had done so, the old woman told a strange tale which, she said, would go some way to explaining my
experience.
Apparently, some 50 or 60 years previously, an old farmer and his young son had lived near the battle field, where they waylaid travellers and murdered them Apparently, the son made the hapless victim quite at home, goffering a herbal
concoction to drink which contained some form of narcotic. One evening, the son of one of the nearby villagers was killed by the pair, and the village sent a mob to burn down the cottage and kill the murderous pair. As they set light to the building, they
saw a man leap through the front door with a blade embedded in his shoulder, persued by the older or the pair that lived there. The door was barricaded and the cottage burned to the ground, with the residents locked inside.
When the fire had burned itself out, not a trace of the old man or his son were found, and the cottage was grassed over and forgotten.
Once again, the Constable left and once again, he returned with company; this time the local doctor, a young man with a brisk manner who made a quick examination and announced that I had a slight concussion, though nothing serious, and that a thorn, or sharp twig, appeared to be stuck in my shirt, causing a slight stabbing pain in my shoulder.
Later that day, I was released from the police house, and I made my way to the rendezvous point, where I met John. I told him my tale, and he laughed it off as just the result of a crack to the head. He suggested that we return to the site of the cottage
and this we did, although we found nothing there, save a tiny mound that could have been the covered remains of a cottage.
Of course, John is right; it was a peculiar trick of the concussion caused by my fall that afternoon.
The odd thing is, my shoulder still twinges when I am near to a fire...

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