The Helper - Part 1 Read online

The Helper: Part 1

  Copyright Shane Rynhart 2012

  Thank you for your support.

  Cover image by Flickr user ‘hozinja’ https://www.flickr.com/photos/hozinja/5752276977/in/photostream/

  Image used fairly under a Creative Commons Attribution license https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

  Thank you for downloading this short story, a preview of Shane Rynhart’s debut short story anthology Not Quite Normal. To find out more about the author or the Not Quite Normal project, please visit https://plasticcastlemagic.wordpress.com

  * * * * *

  The Helper: Part 1 - Mercy

  There are three types of human in this world.

  The first type believes that the supernatural exists. That there is a God. That Angels have walked this planet. Perhaps they believe in ghosts, or aliens, or the monster under the bed. These men and women have open minds. But they are fools.

  The second type believes that this is all there is. That there can be no afterlife, and the only monsters in this world are the bankers and politicians that control us like laboratory mice. These men and women have narrow minds. And they are fools.

  And then there is the third type. These people have a combination of beliefs. That there is a God, but there is no afterlife. That there are monsters, but that they don’t all look like ‘Sir’ Fred. That there is more to the world than meets the eye, but mortals are not privy. These men and women are sensible in their views. And that is what makes them so frightening.

  Where do I fit into this system? I do not. I have been around far too long to be even considered human any more. But my captors, well, they’re most certainly of the third category. They understand that beings like myself exist, and they seek to eradicate us for reasons only they know. I must have missed that memo. Regardless, I fear that my life is soon to be snuffed. If this is to be a memorandum, I want my side heard. I shall get no fair trial, but this is my defence nonetheless.

  * * * * *

  I suppose I should begin by explaining my predicament. Not one week ago, I found myself in a cutesy little village in southern England. It is almost completely surrounded by a river, which meanders to the south and traps it on a sort-of peninsula. To the north is farmland, owned by the same bloodline for a millennium or more. The village looks much different now than it did back then. Bricks and mortar, not simple stone and mud. Tarmac and cobbles, not dirt and grass.

  I crossed one of the three bridges, and made my way to the east bank. It was close to midnight, and the stars seemed to float and rock on the water like tiny glittering lily pads. There was a large oak tree on the bank, just there always has been. Oh my, it had grown since the last time I laid eyes on it. I was almost proud of it, like an uncle who hadn’t seen his nephew for some time. I patted it gently. I knelt down at its base and laid a single flower. For the life of me, I cannot remember what kind.

  Then I got to my business. I headed towards the centre of the village. I passed two pubs: The Golden Anchor and The Red Lion. The Anchor looked just as grotty as it did way back when. The Lion was a much more recent development. There were many more houses and shops than I remembered, too, and they were far larger. All of them had burglar alarms.

  The place was deathly silent. I hesitate to use the phrase ‘ghost town’.

  As I walked down the high street - a collection of branded stores rather than the private butcher, baker, candlestick maker that used to occupy the premises - a security light came on and blinded me. Rather than bright white, however, it had a tint of red, like a rosé wine. It made me come over a little woozy, so I stepped beyond its bounds as quickly as I could. It was a most unpleasant diversion, and completely eradicated the view of the stars I had been admiring. I had a few spots in my vision, but they wore off as I walked.

  The dizziness had gone by the time I reached the farm. The plot of land it sat on was huge. It used to just be three buildings - a house, a stable and something that might be called a barn - but now it looked more like an industrial estate. There were several (proper) barns, a milking shed, chicken pens and more - most I simply could not identify.

  (I apologise, by the way, for constantly saying that things are different there now than they once were. But it’s true. Perhaps I am just getting old and grumpy. I’ll turn into one of the Yorkshiremen from that Monty Python sketch if I’m not careful.)

  I did not know where my quarry would be, but I was sure he’d be in one of the original buildings. I had to be careful while investigating the land. Although the only sound I could hear was gently snoring cattle and the odd chicken clucking, I could not know whether there would be dogs on the premises, or even a nasty farmer with a shotgun.

  The house was my first port of call. The front door was almost embarrassingly easy to unlock. I made my way through the rooms practically on tip-toe, touching nothing but the floor. I found a young girl asleep in her bright pink room. It was decorated almost exclusively with ponies and princesses. It was nice to see. I’ve always liked to see children looked after properly. I smiled a little and let her rest.

  I found the farmer and his wife in the next room, also counting sheep. The man was snoring so loudly that he would have made an excellent air raid siren, had these been younger times. The shape of his face was simply remarkable, however. He would have no way of knowing who he reminded me of, but the impression was really quite uncanny.

  The monster I was looking for was not in the house. My next port of call was the barn. It was actually a barn now - it towered high over me life a teak-stained cliff. Although the original building - little more than a leaky shack where simple tasks like wood cutting could be carried out - had been consigned to the rubbish bin of history, it was entirely possible that my target was still on the site.

  He wasn’t. There was just a lot of hay. There wasn’t even a pitchfork, let alone a monster.

  There was only one other building that was on the farm before - the stable. Curiously enough, it was much harder to get into than the house. Surely the security of one’s family is worth more than the security of stock? Human beings still confuse me sometimes.

  The unmistakeable smell of fresh manure almost sent me reeling as I swung the doors open. The cool country air cleared out most of the stench after a moment. The hay on the ground was fresh, and the three horses were sleeping soundly. I always liked to think that they dreamed of winning the Grand National, but when I see the race on TV I sense that the racers would rather be anywhere else.

  I felt a sudden urge to squat on the floor. I picked up a handful of the hay and smelt it. Yes. I could still sense her. And her blood. I resolved to leave that place immediately.

  I locked back up and started towards the village for a moment. I was stumped. Where else could he be? I sat on the ground. My hands felt something hard on top of the grass. They were brown and looked like the wings of a particularly large fly. If I lived in a cheesy children’s cartoon, a light bulb would have appeared above my head at that moment.

  It was a fair distance to the back of the farm, but I was certain I was now on the right track. The land had been expanded at some point over the past few centuries. The edge was not where I expected it to be. Rather, the plot I was looking for was a hundred yards or so more central. There was a tree there, a sycamore, completely alone. Its seeds must have been carried to the stable stuck to a boot. All around it were areas for grazing and naught else. I headed towards it.

  Sat at its base was an old man. He had a scruffy, grey beard and a balding scalp. He wore clothes that had not been in fashion for many decades, centuries even - simple leather and cloth, and boots that were not suitable for work. The man was dead.

  “Hello,” I said to the dead man. He looked up a
t me. I was again startled by how much his descendant looked like him. Terror filled his eyes. Quite rightly, I should say.

  He tried to stand as if to get away. “Now now,” I said. “You don’t want me to lay a finger upon you, do you?” He froze and tightly shook his head, terrified of what I might do.

  “Excellent,” I said, smiling. “I am glad that you remember me. How have you been? It must be, ooh, nine hundred and fourteen years, eight months and eleven days since we last met. Not that I’m counting.” The man said something. I didn’t catch it. Language had moved on so much since his time, and my ear had evolved. I continued as if he had said nothing. “I made you a promise that day. Do you remember what it was?” He nodded. I smiled. And then I began to laugh. Riotously. I would have fallen on the floor if I had been so inclined. I only stopped when I felt a stitch coming on.

  I composed myself, but my face was still beaming. I could see that the ghost was not impressed, not in the least. He turned away from me and looked out towards the farmhouse that was once his. And then I saw something on his face. Something that looked like…yes. The corners of his mouth rose up in his cheeks ever so slightly. It was a smile.

  I made the opposite expression. This man should not be smiling. He did not deserve to be happy for even one second. I put my hand to his forehead. He phased through and screamed out in agony. I held my digits there for a few moments and then removed the fist. Tears of pain were streaming. But a few seconds later he was smiling again.

  This displeased me. “What are you smiling about?!” I said, practically shouting. I turned to look towards the farm.

  There were three 4x4 cars, each with their headlights on a low beam. But rather than bright white, the headlights were a pale red. Just like the security light in the village centre. How did I not notice them? I asked myself. I now realise that I was probably laughing too hard and too long to even hear a large diesel engine. I got carried away. As I noticed them, I began to feel woozy again, like a paper cut that doesn’t hurt until minutes after the incident.

  Beside each car stood two men. They were pointing guns at me. They were dressed raggedly, but uniformly. Each had on simple brown leather jackets - hand stitched, by my reckoning - and black denim trousers. I knew who these men were. Well, sort of.

  “I suppose you’ve come to take me away?” I shouted to them. They were maybe fifty yards from me.

  “You would be correct,” one of them said in a Scottish accent. “We can do this easy, or we can do it hard. Up to you.”

  “It won’t make any difference at the end of the day,” I said. “It’s not like you can kill me.”

  The group started laughing. I took this, combined with that weird sense of dizziness, to mean that they probably could kill me. I didn’t have any concrete proof, of course, but what would you do if six laughing men pointed guns at you under a strange pink light? Exactly.

  I held my hands up and walked towards them. I stumbled a bit. My balance wasn’t quite all there. Two of them came forwards to meet me. But rather than restrain me or keep me upright, I felt something heavy hit the back of my skull very hard. That was not pleasant at all.

  * * * * *

  And the next thing I knew, I was here. It’s some sort of cell. Definitely underground. I can smell the dirt and rot and worms. And it’s really quite warm, not a pleasant warm either, that horrible kind of warm you get on rainy days.

  I’m not really sure how long I’ve been in here. Definitely a day, maybe two or three. I don’t really want to think about it. That road leads only to mental torture.

  I suppose it’s all my own fault, anyway. If I hadn’t returned to the village, and hadn’t set off that first security light, I would be home and dry and probably on my way to another job by now. But no.

  Or if I’d never gone to the village in the first place, over nine hundred years ago. As I look back now, I see that it was a fork in the road. Down one path laid a future where none of this would be happening. But I would have never met Theode. And if I hadn’t have met her, well…things would be significantly different, let me put it that way. Oh, Theode.

  It’s been so long.

  End of Part 1

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  If you enjoyed this story, please visit https://plasticcastlemagic.wordpress.com for more information on the author. Parts 2 and 3 of The Helper will be available in Not Quite Normal, Shane Rynhart’s debut short story anthology. Not Quite Normal will be released digitally on 29/2/12. Thank you for reading.