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The Whistling Gate is an atmospheric folk horror story inspired by Irish mythology and ancient legends. When an ordinary journey leads to an encounter with a place steeped in old beliefs, the familiar landscape begins to reveal unsettling secrets. Blending folklore, suspense, and supernatural horror, this haunting tale explores the enduring power of stories that refuse to be forgotten. The Whistling Gate There is a gate in County Wicklow that whistles when the wind blows through. Any dog that walks past it will get inexplicably excited. And if you find it, do not ever open it.
It is somewhere in the countryside, next to a narrow, winding road. I cannot tell you where exactly, because it never seems to be in the same place twice. It looks like just another metal gate that keeps cows in their meadow or gurriers out of a field. But when the wind blows through, it whistles, a haunting, howling tune. And if you walk your dog past it, the poor animal will yip and bark, and sniff and scratch, and pull on the lead, and neither of you will understand why, exactly. You should never open a gate that is not yours, of course. That is just common decency and common sense. But for this gate, that goes doubly so. Do not open it. If you do, do not walk through. If you find it open, close it quickly. You do not know what will come through, blown in on the wind that whistles so loudly. You do not know, and trust me, you do not want to know. When I was young, I knew a lad called Brian. He came by the whistling gate one night, he says, on his way back home from the pub. He was drunk, of course, stumbling and swaying. He swears he only held on to the gate to steady himself. Maybe that's true; maybe the beer made him think it was a good idea to open it. Whatever the case, the gate swung open in his hands. He says he looked behind it, because of course he did – who closes their eyes or turns their head when opening a gate? He won't tell me or anyone what he saw. But I know he saw something – something that left him with a twitch in his eyes and a tremor in his hands. He was a healthy, happy young lad, too, newly married and without a care in the world, but after that night, he was never the same. His wife told her friends he woke up screaming every night. His friend Tommy went looking for the gate the next night, after Brian told him about it. Whether it was to prove him right or prove him wrong, I don't know. He went to the field where it was supposed to be, but there was no whistling, even though the wind blew all night and shook the leaves off the trees. There was a gate, all right, but it was made of wood and looked like it hadn't been moved in a lifetime, certainly not the night before. It was half overgrown with brambles and ferns, Tommy said. He half thought Brian had been telling tall tales, that he’d made it all up to scare his mates. Only, the twitch and the tremor, those were real. I don't think Brian could've faked that, and neither did Tommy. He worried about that for a few days. Thought that something must have happened to Brian, and that he made up that story to explain what it did to him because the truth would be too embarrassing. Although he couldn't imagine what that might be. Then he found the gate. He was taking his dogs for a walk – he had two beautiful labrador retrievers, the sweetest, most well-behaved dogs you’ve ever met. They listened and obeyed at a single word. Usually. But that day, while he was walking them along one of the narrow, winding country roads around the village, they suddenly got inexplicably excited. Barked and barked and wouldn't shut up, he said, and pulled on their leads like they were huskies with a sled. He could barely hold onto them. And then, despite all the ri-ra they made, he heard the whistling. He rounded a bend in the road, and there it was. It looked like just another metal gate at the entrance of a field. But as the wind blew through, it whistled a tune so eerie, Tommy said, that he got goosebumps in the middle of a sunny day. He went up to it, and he swore he was bent on opening it and seeing whatever Brian saw, but his dogs were going wild at this point. Each was dragging him in a different direction, toward the gate, away from the gate, round and round in circles. He had no choice but to give up and take them back home, he said, and that was already hard enough. He went back that same day, to that same place. Only the gate wasn't there anymore. He retraced his steps twice but couldn't find it. That was when he started believing Brian had been telling the truth about everything, he said. Because maybe Brian could have been mistaken about where exactly he saw the gate and what exactly he saw behind it, being drunk and it being late at night. But there was no way Tommy could be wrong, he said. It was broad daylight, and he was as sober as a judge. The gate had been there, he knew the place, and now it wasn't there anymore. He shuddered a little when he told everyone about it that night at the pub. Like the whistling was still echoing in his ears all these hours later. His mates teased him, but they were uneasy, too. Tommy was known as a no-nonsense kind of bloke, one who didn't believe in old wives’ tales and superstitions. But now he seemed convinced that there is a cursed gate that changes places. That evening ended on a somewhat sombre note. Nobody would admit it, but Tommy's story had rattled them. There were jokes, but the laughter was subdued, and once their pints were empty, everyone found a reason to go home. I don't know for sure, but I’d wager a lot of folks listened for whistling on their way home. The next day, though, everyone was cheerful again. None of them had seen the mysterious gate, after all, or even heard it, and it seemed like a story again, a tale to tell next to a crackling fire, to scare little boys away from straying too far. They joked again, and laughed more loudly this time. “You seen the whistling gate again, Tommy?”, they asked. “Did you maybe dream of it? After your ma whistled you a lullaby?” They all laughed, even Tommy, although he clenched his teeth a little. Only Brian didn’t join. He stared into his pint as if there was an answer to life’s questions in the foam. Someone elbowed him. “Come on, Brian. Are you still spooked from that one night? That’s been weeks ago now.” Brian looked up and grinned – or at least, his right side grinned. The left corner of his mouth stayed down, and his left eye twitched. “S’all well and good to joke about it when you’re in a cozy pub”, he said. “Just be careful when you walk home. Don’t go opening any gates. Not even by accident. That’s all I’m saying.” He took another drink. The glass shook slightly in his hand. The others exchanged a look. One twisted a finger above his temple, “Poor Brian’s had something shaken loose up there”, and everyone broke into laughter. Everyone except Tommy, that is. He reached across the table and clapped a hand on Brian’s shoulder. Brian reached up and grasped his friend’s hand. “Don’t go opening any gates, Tommy”, he repeated. “Don’t you worry, Brian”, Tommy reassured him, but he didn’t look him in the eyes. Because, I think, at that point he had already made up his mind to find the gate again, and to open it and see what lies behind it. He didn't say anything, but I know the laughter hurt him. Especially because he was not prone to getting spooked or falling for superstitions. He went looking the next day. Barely waited until he got out of work, and then, instead of going home, he went wandering the countryside, listening for that whistling. He didn’t tell anyone about it, but some neighbours saw him walking among the fields like he was looking for something. And they saw him more and more often. Every day, it seemed, and so people started to talk. The following weekend he met his mates at the pub again. They had heard of his strange behaviour, of course, and they teased him, but he shrugged it off. He must have been sure he would show them once he found the gate again, or maybe it already took up so much space in his mind that the jokes just bounced off. Once again, Brian didn't join, just nursed his pint and looked worried, but Tommy didn't mind that either. On Sunday he went to mass, and it seemed to bring him some peace. But on Monday he was at it again. All evening and half the night he could be seen wandering, searching and listening. His friends started worrying, and I think two or three of them tried to talk him out of it. But he wouldn't hear it. When they next met in the pub, there were fewer jokes and more worried glances. They promised they believed him, they swore up and down that he was still the same old no-nonsense Tommy in their eyes. He shrugged it off like he had the jeers. And come Monday evening again, he was back to searching. This time, he took his dogs with him. They had noticed it before he did the last time, he reasoned. And they did not disappoint. It still took him all week. But on Friday, when his mates met at the pub again, he wasn't there. They joked half-heartedly that maybe the gate sickness had laid him up, or maybe his wife had had enough of all the searching and locked him up for his own good. But deep down they worried. Especially Brian. His hands shook more than usual when he lifted his glass. He kept staring at the door, as if willing Tommy to come in and be his old self again. When the door finally slammed open, though, Brian was just taking a sip of his beer, so he wasn't the first to see Tommy come in. He needed both hands to steady his glass at this point, and even so he almost spilled his drink when the door banged against the wall. Tommy still had his dogs with him. They looked as spooked as he did, wild-eyed, half cowering and half bristling, hackles raised, their paws and his boots covered in mud. All three were out of breath, as if they’d run from wherever they were all the way to the pub. Everyone stared at them, but Tommy only had eyes for Brian. He staggered to the table, his dogs slinking after him and hiding under the bench. “I found it”, he declared, his eyes searching for and finding Brian's. “I found the damn gate. Again.” “You opened it”, Brian said. Tommy just nodded, his eyes big as saucers. The dogs whimpered. “Did you close it?”, Brian asked. Tommy stared at him, wide-eyed. Brian’s hands shook so violently he had to grasp the table to steady himself. “Did you close it, Tommy?” Tommy’s gaze flickered away. He opened his mouth, sputtered a bit, closed it again. Then he dropped the dogs’ leads and ran back out of the pub. “What the devil was that about?” one of the other lads asked. Brian shook his head. He didn’t say a word, just emptied his pint with one long draught and waved the glass at the barman, signalling for a refill. Conversation all but died. A few of the lads whispered to each other, but they soon reverted to exchanging glances, and an uneasy silence fell over the table. Their glasses were empty and they were getting ready to leave when Tommy returned. He was even more dishevelled, his eyes darting from side to side frantically, his body tense as a coiled spring. “It’s gone”, he gasped. “I can’t find it anymore.” Brian hugged him. “Maybe nothing will come through”, he mumbled, but everyone could hear he did not believe that himself. Tommy nodded solemnly and returned the hug. “Maybe you’re right.” Still, he kept looking around like someone being hunted. Then, abruptly, he released Brian and pushed away from the hug. “You’re right”, he declared in a shaky voice. “Nothing will come through. I just got spooked. It’s been a long day. I need some sleep, is all.” He turned around and staggered off. “Wait, what about your dogs?”, one of his mates called, but Tommy was already outside. The blokes exchanged a look. Brian sighed. “I’ll take them for now. No need to let the poor beasts be harmed. And the missus loves dogs.” He picked up their leads, and after some coaxing managed to get them out from under the bench. “Don’t you worry now”, he told them in a soothing voice. “I’ll stay as far away from that damned gate as you could wish.” They took their leave, and everyone went their separate ways. None of them slept well that night, but I think maybe Brian wasn’t the only one who had nightmares. When Tommy didn’t show up in the pub on Saturday evening, there were no jokes, only worried glances. Last night had left them all unsettled, and although none of them would have admitted it, they had all hoped that he’d be back the next night, well-rested and in a better mood, cured of his obsession with the gate and ready to laugh at it with them. His empty seat stared at them. His absence, and the fear they had felt from him the night before, suffocated any attempt at small talk. They all silently sipped their drinks, glancing at the door every now and then, hoping for good old Tommy to come back. When their glasses were empty, they got up. They didn’t need to say anything to agree where they would go. Tommy’s house was dark and silent. His dogs were still at Brian’s home, so there wasn’t even the usual barking to greet the group. “He just went to bed early”, someone suggested, but nobody believed it. They passed the fence and turned onto his driveway. The door gaped at them like a toothless scream. It wasn’t just broken, it looked like it had been punched with a giant fist, the door frame bent and the wall around it cracked. Each further step was slower, more hesitant. But on they went, up to the wreckage of the door and into the hallway. Its walls, too, were cracked, spiderweb fissures spreading from gouges on both sides. Every door was ripped from its hinges. The stairs to the upper floor were broken, the banister splintered. They picked their way around the jagged edges of the floorboards and made their way upstairs, to the main bedroom. Its door was a heap of splinters. One of them reached around for the light switch, but it, too, had been ripped out. All he could feel in the dark was crumbling plaster and chipped brick. It smelled like dust, and blood, and something else, something indescribable. Someone found the staircase light and turned it on. The window on the opposite side was broken, its frame and panes smashed into the yard below. Ripped curtains fluttered above a broken sill. The bed was empty. The bedspread was turned back neatly, the duvet rumpled and the pillows slightly askance, as if Tommy and his wife had just gotten into bed and arranged everything just so. But where their bodies should be there was nothing but a half-dried pool of blood, already soaked deep into the mattress, and the hoof prints of something that should not walk the earth. There is a gate in County Wicklow that whistles when the wind blows through. Any dog that walks past it will get inexplicably excited. And if you find it, do not ever open it. 💀💀💀 Silke Phillips is a freelance writer, editor, and translator from Germany who has found a new home in Ireland. In her fiction, she likes to explore the uncanny. In her real life, she enjoys art and crafting, cooking and eating, reading and writing, and her big fluffy dog and husband. Socials: (https://www.linkedin.com/in/silke-phillips-1a3945208/) Website (https://www.text-und-lektorat-phillips.de/en).
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Daddy is a psychological supernatural horror story about a young widow struggling to rebuild her life after a devastating loss. While she tries to move forward, her young daughter insists that Daddy is still around, forcing her to question whether grief is playing tricks on the mind—or whether some bonds truly transcend death. A haunting tale of love, loss, and the lingering presence of those we cannot let go. Daddy After the wake, Nora carried Lily upstairs. David had always hoisted her over his
shoulder in a fireman’s lift. The bedtime story was his domain too: The Tiger that Came to Tea, Where the Wild Things Are, The Gruffalo. When he was alive, she heard him reading in a deep Gruffalo voice as she passed Lily’s door. Nora had done her best to explain that David was dead, using the class hamster as a reference. The animal had crossed the rainbow bridge during the holidays when Lily (really Nora) was caring for it. Lily was inconsolable until David staged an elaborate burial in the back garden to distract her. His death was more abstract. He had fallen from a cliff on a birdwatching trip, and the coroner delivered a verdict of death by misadventure. Nora kept Lily away from the funeral judging it too distressing for a four-year-old. Tonight, there was no bedtime story. Lily didn’t stir as Nora tucked her under the duvet, and she too fell asleep immediately, only to wake with a start an hour later. Her mouth was dry, and there was an ominous pain above her right eye, heralding a migraine. Reluctantly, she swung her legs out of bed in search of painkillers. She was half-way down the stairs when she heard a noise coming from Lily’s room. It sounded like giggling. ‘Lily, are you OK, darling?’ She found Lily awake and clutching her pink toy rabbit. ‘Were you talking to Rabbit?’Lily shook her head. ‘Daddy was making me laugh.’ The grief counsellor had warned Nora something like this might happen and not to be alarmed if it did. She perched on the edge of Lily’s bed. ‘Daddy isn’t here, sweetheart. Do you remember? I told you he was in heaven, like Steve.’ Steve was the hamster. ‘But he was reading to me,’ Lily said firmly. ‘He always reads to me.’ ‘That’s impossible, darling. Daddy can’t read anymore. Would you like me to read to you instead? What about Where the Wild Things Are? ‘Daddy says you were mean to him.’ Nora’s breath caught in her throat. Why had he told her that? Why upset her when she was too young to understand? *** The next morning, she drove to David’s office, and his business partner, Will, let her in. ‘How are you doing?’ He’d asked her the same thing at the funeral. Nora shrugged. ‘OK. As well as can be expected.’ The office was smaller and shabbier than she remembered. The business had been struggling for a while, and they’d recently downsized. ‘Tea?’ Will gestured towards the kettle, and she recognised David’s mug next to it. She’d given it to him when things were going well. Her heart tightened as she read the inscription - Living the Dream. She shook her head. ‘No. I just came to collect his things.’ ‘He said you’d kicked him out, a trial separation.’ Will’s voice was frosty. He blamed her, and he was right; she was a bitch. She’d fallen out of love with David and embarked on an affair with Oliver. Will didn’t know how difficult life was with David. How his relentless negativity and supine acceptance of whatever fate threw at him had ground her down. Yes, he was a good father, but partner not so much. Of course, she was sad he was gone, but it also made things easier. With his life insurance and the proceeds from the sale of the house, she and Oliver could buy a place in the country with a big garden for Lily to play in. They might even get a dog. She had always wanted a dog. ‘Is that it?’ She pointed at the cardboard box on what had once been David’s desk. She unpacked it once home and at the kitchen table. Inside was his laptop – password Lily4 - a framed photograph of the three of them at the beach, a bundle of pens held together with an elastic band, half a dozen paper clips, and a calculator. She put the laptop and the picture to one side and tipped the rest in the bin. *** That night, she heard David’s voice. There was no mistaking it. It was deep and Gruffalo-like and punctuated by the sound of Lily’s laughter. The hair rose on the back of her neck as she pushed the door. Lily was sitting up in bed with the book next to her. Nora replaced it in the bookcase. ‘Daddy was reading that.’ Lily said crossly. Nora scooped her up. ‘Daddy can’t read. Daddy’s dead.’ In her bedroom, she read The Tiger Who Came to Tea until Lily fell asleep, but she could still feel David’s presence. Like the ground elder strangling her roses, it was impossible to get rid of him. *** The house sold quickly to a couple in their thirties. The woman exclaimed over the kitchen, which Nora had painted in tasteful shades of Dimity and Ammonite, while the man searched for evidence of damp. Surprisingly, they paid the asking price. David would have pointed out that the boiler needed replacing, and the shower leaked, but Nora kept schtum. *** On the drive to their new home, she waited until the fuel gauge had crossed the red line before stopping. Lily was asleep, and the cat had finally given up mewling and was glaring at her crossly from its carrier. At the service station, she bought a coffee for herself and a cereal bar for Lily while watching the car through the window. When she got back, Lily was awake. ‘We’ll be there in half an hour,’ Nora said. ‘Oliver told me there’s a swing in the back garden, isn’t that exciting?’ She unwrapped the cereal bar and offered it to Lily, who made a face. ‘Daddy says you shouldn’t eat between meals.’ ‘Well, Daddy isn’t here, is he?’ Nora snapped, then immediately felt guilty. It had been a stressful day. ‘He is,’ Lily insisted. ‘He’s coming with us.’The temperature in the car seemed suddenly to drop, and the driver behind them honked impatiently. Nora was frozen in horror. She could smell David’s aftershave, and his aura permeated the air like damp fog, sad and accusatory. Instead of going to the new house where Oliver was waiting, she abandoned the car in a public car park and called Oliver to fetch them, saying there was a problem with the steering. *** She sold the car to a dealer the next day, but it wasn’t until several weeks later that she returned from work to find a parcel on the doorstep. It was wrapped in brown paper, and she waited until she was inside to open it. The Gruffalo. She recognised the book immediately. A note from the dealer fluttered out. We found this under the back seat when we valeted your car. Apologies for the delay in returning it. For a second, she was too shocked to move. Then, holding the book away from her as if it might explode, she dashed to the door. A fine mist trailed from its pages and coalesced into a cloud as she fumbled with the door handle. ‘No, no, you can’t do this.’ Nora batted frantically at the cloud. It wasn’t fair. All she wanted was to move on with her life, to move on with their lives. ‘You complete and utter bastard, David.’ The cloud hung in the air for a moment as if it was finding its bearings before drifting purposefully across the parquet and up the stairs, finally vanishing into Lily’s room. 💀💀💀 Frances lives in Oxfordshire, in England, with her husband, a Greek dog, and an American cat. After studying microbiology at university, she moved into marketing and was once responsible for sending an animatronic kangaroo down a ski jump in New Zealand for a beer campaign. She was shortlisted for the H. G. Wells short story prize, and her stories have been published in several magazines and anthologies. You can find more of Frances’s work on Substack -FranB @Talesattwilight. Fated Visit is a dark supernatural horror story by Tim Law about an ordinary teenager who receives an unexpected invitation from one of the most influential families in town. As anticipation gives way to unease, he begins to question why he was chosen—and what awaits him beyond the gates of their grand estate. Blending small-town atmosphere with mounting suspense, this unsettling tale explores power, privilege, and the hidden forces that can shape a person's destiny. Fated Visit You peek out the window of the fancy car that they had sent to pick you up and gaze in awe at the mayor’s impressive residence. The garden is beautiful, a rainbow of roses and other sweetly perfumed blooms. Everywhere you look you see color, a healthy garden, a garden of the rich. You think of your own home and although it is nice you know it does not and could not ever compare to this.
You think to yourself, What on earth am I doing here? You still wonder as the driver opens the door for you and you step out from the safety of the car's leather interior. "You made it! At last!" announces the mayor’s daughter, Sarah-May. She gives you a genuinely warm smile. That little worry you had in the forefront of your mind and the pit of your stomach only a moment ago seems to vanish. You return the smile with one of your own before you willingly follow her up the porch steps. It is hot, a spring day in the Marylands. Sarah-May offers you a tall glass of lemonade which you graciously accept. She is wearing a nice pastel-yellow dress, and you cannot help but notice just how pretty she is. "Hurry, come in where it's cooler," Sarah-May urges as you sip and sigh. "Everyone is waiting for you." You wonder who everyone might be but follow Sarah-May inside. She is sixteen, like you, and you know her from school. You think you may just "like her" like her and for the moment at least it seems like she could be in to you too. Inside the parlour there looks to be twenty or more members of the Ruthford family. They vary in age from youthful to wrinkled but most seem far older than you. One of the family members slaps you on the shoulder. He is old enough to be your daddy. Although the day is hot this man wears a double-breasted suit. Dark, matched with a crimson tie. He looks like he could be headed to the office in town or somebody's funeral. You hope it's not a funeral. You hate funerals. "Glad you could make it on such a special day," the suited man says with a beaming smile. His facial features look similar to Sarah-May's, possibly an uncle. You nod in reply to his comment, unsure what to say in reply. You wonder for a moment what special day he is referring to, as far as you know it is just another weekend. You feel lightheaded, is it the heat? You hear a squeal and a squeak, look through the crowd of gathered Ruthfords you see a figure in a wheelchair being pushed toward you. There forms a gap in the crowd, and you discover it is the mayor being pushed by the man who drove you here. "Thank you for the invitation, Your Worship," you begin to say but then the feeling in your head overcomes you. You open your mouth to cry out as the floor rises to meet you. "Make some room! Make some room!" calls the mayor. "Someone make sure that you save the body! Don’t let it bruise!" "Did I do good?" you hear Sarah-May ask. She seems to be seeking praise from somebody. "Yes darling," you hear her mother say. The last thing you see before your eyes shut and the room goes silent is a woman who is an elder version of Sarah-May proudly squeezing your friend's hand. You wake up and feel… strange… old somehow, worn. You are reminded of that night you and that boy from down the street found your daddy's rum bottle. You had both been twelve years old then and thought you were invincible. The next morning had been filled with pain, suffering and a surreal sense of displacement. Exactly how it was you felt now. "What on earth was in that drink?" you murmur. To your shocking surprise your voice has changed. It crackles and seems to betray decades of a life you have not yet lived. Deepening your confusion, you are no longer in the parlour. Looking around you it seems like you are now in some sort of church. The stain glass windows depict no scenes of any bible you have read. At a guess the six images seem to be of one ghostly figure moving into and out of many others. "Ah, you are finally awake," you hear yourself say but your voice, your real voice is coming from the altar at the front of the church, a round twelve or so feet from where you currently sit. Looking in that direction you see yourself sitting upon the great stone block. You stretch, and then suddenly you slide off the altar and the white robes that you wear flow. You stride and your hands reach out and clasp about your shoulders. "I don't…" you begin to say but again your voice is cracked and worn. It is the mayor’s voice. "I think it worked," states the voice of Sarah-May behind you. She is pushing the mayor’s chair only it is you who now sits with wrinkles on the outside and a woollen rug across your lap. "I am young again!" the mayor announces. "Why?" you ask. "Cancer," states the mayor. "It is riddled all through that old body of mine." "Doc Parsons gave you a month to live, right?" asks Sarah-May, again she seeks approval. It is strange to see yourself smile. "That's right," your voice says. "But now I got me a whole lot of years ahead, thanks to you." "When I'm eighteen you'll see me married," Sarah-May announces. She leans over and you feel her soft lips press against your worn cheek. A day ago, you would have been surprised that this girl chose to kiss you. Now the gesture just makes you feel sick. "You will never get away with this," you growl, furious and frustrated and still confused. Was it voodoo, an arcane spell or some sort of twisted science? Both Ruthfords laugh. "Your parents already know," states the mayor. "They have promised to keep our little secret and I'll cover for you at school," further explains the young girl. You feel the pain of the cancer twist your body. It feels as though you hurt from the core of your soul. The chair squeaks, seemingly sharing in your protest as the twisted, conniving Sarah-May takes you from the church. "I am so glad I thought of you," she states with a sickening smile of joy plastered across her holier than thou face. "I have had my eye on you for quite some time." Sarah-May sings as she wheels you away. "I hear wedding bells, wedding bells, wedding bells for two." All you can think of is how that chance for love, happiness and a life has been taken from you, unfairly stolen. You feel your hatred of Sarah-May, the Mayor and the whole damned Ruthford family begin to grow. The greatest feeling of disenchantment is saved for your own family though, those who have sacrificed your youth so that they can find some brief moment of reprieve from poverty. You've been betrayed and left to suffer the cruel fate of another. The rich get richer and live on and on and on. 💀💀💀 Tim Law is a writer of fantasy, horror, and oftentimes both. He loves to discover how a story will unfold, especially his own which he never ever plots. He is a loving husband, father of three, and fur-father of four. Family is everything to him. He resides in a small town in Southern Australia where he gets to be in charge of the local library. Tim jumps from idea to idea, never knowing what will enthrall him next. You can find his stories, poetry, and art in various anthologies, and online. Inspired by the Japanese legend of the Ubume, On Lonely Hill is an atmospheric folk horror story by Alice Kinerk. When an early morning run takes an unexpected turn, an ordinary routine gives way to an unsettling encounter rooted in ancient folklore. Blending modern life with traditional Japanese ghost lore, this tale explores what happens when legends come alive. On Lonely Hill My husband and I don’t have kids and we don’t want any. We value our freedom, our ability to jump up anytime the mood strikes and backpack through Europe or hike the Andes. Although if we’re being honest, this has so far been hypothetical. With climate change we ask ourselves is jet travel really in the best interest of the planet? With rising rent/skyrocketing grocery bills/student loans we ask ourselves can we really afford to leave the couch?
No use wanting what you can not have. Instead of kids we have houseplants. Anyway, today before work I go out jogging. It’s early, moonlit, foggy, dark. I jog to the end of our woodsy dead-end road. Hubs is home, I don’t know, watering the houseplants. I am cresting the lonely hill at the end of our little road when I observe what looks to be a silhouette. And yet my eyes have played tricks on me before. In the dark, I’ve become alarmed by low-hanging cedar boughs. So I tell myself it’s an illusion and keep on. But then it moves. It (she?) is hunched over, roly-poly, clutching a bundle draped in cloth. Okay, I’m spooked. Weird to come across another person here in the dark woods on Lonely Hill. I’m not one for body-shaming, but it’s the bulbous shape of her torso and her wide-set legs, the way her head pokes out forward. Part bird? It’s fucking weird. Also, what’s up with the bundle? She zips forth on spindly legs at impossible speed. Now she’s five inches away. Her hands are not normal hands. Her fingers are too long and thin. Her nails are claws. Dark sharp points. Did I mention she’s six feet tall? God, she’s ugly. Her mouth’s a lipless gash, beak nose, eyes of a traumatized soldier, the whites visible all around. My heart is a bird in a cage. Hold… my… bay… beeee… Her voice is reedy, like she’s speaking through a box fan. “What?” Hold… my… baay… beeee… She stinks of blood. Rich and raw. I’m terrified, and yet I can't look away. “Hold your baby? Why? Is there an emergency? You need me to call 911?” She presses the bundle to my chest. Now, I’m a kind person. I don’t body shame, and I’m drawn to help. So I raise my arm, honestly to push her away, but regardless, she takes the opportunity to dump her bundle on me. I catch it. The whatever-it-is starts to wriggle. Birdwoman zips to the woods and disappears. “What’s happening? Where are you going? Are you coming right back?” No woodsy rustling, nothing. So here I am on Lonely Hill, sweating through my high-vis pullover, holding some weirdo’s baby. I crunch through dead grass and into the woods. I squint, but the Pacific Northwest woods are dense and dark. The tree branches spread out like black capillaries against the blue-black sky. I think about calling out again, but my voice catches in my throat. Here’s a weird thing. The baby is becoming heavier. At first it was five pounds, a sack of flour. Now it’s cement. My shoulders ache. My fingers cramp. My muscles start doing that overtaxed shivery thing. I shift my hips forward, sort of prop the weight on my stomach while I go to shift my grip. Now the cloth slides back and I get a whiff of new baby smell. Aah, new baby smell. But a minute later it becomes too much. My knees buckle. I tilt backwards, off balance. I fall. The baby lands on me like a boulder. My breath is expelled in a grunt. This time of year, Pacific Northwest ground is squelchy from rain. It’s half marsh. It swallows things. I feel myself starting to sink. Baby’s sinking too. She wriggles onto my chest, crushes my lungs. Ubume! she screams. Ubume! Ubume! Ubume! At least that’s what it sounds like, I don’t know. I try to pry her off of me, but there’s no use prying at a boulder. Flailing against the rising earth, I glimpse movement in the sky, hear the reedy caw of Mama bird. I scrape my fingers raw. Dirt flies into my mouth. My rear end is already underground. Baby thrashes toward my head. Ubume! she shrieks in my ear. My mouth makes a gummy sound, trying for air. What the fuck? I keep thinking. Is this how I die? Mama bird perches on a branch. Now baby slides up further, noshing my neck. She sort of nuzzles for a moment, then her dagger teeth tear into my flesh. The bite is deep. Blood begins spurting. The smell of that plus the mossy Pacific Northwest woods mixes into one. In my last moments, I think stupid stuff. I panic. Like, how will they ever find my body? Will I asphyxiate or bleed out first? Or, if I could only unzip my fanny pack, I’d get out my phone, call Hubs, tell him to put down the watering can and come pick me up. It’s a nightmare and I can’t wake up. Also, and this is the prominent thought zipping around in my sweaty head, fuck yeah I want kids. I don’t know, it’s instinctual. I want the experience of lying in a hospital bed, crying as a little squirming newborn pops out of my underside, and watching her grow incrementally year after year until one day I’m sitting in a massive university stadium, crying as a full-grown graduate pops across the stage. I want kids! I want kids! I picture descendants of me and Hubs sitting around the candlelit post-apocalyptic table, holding up their Kerr jars of homebrew wine. Doesn’t Mom make the best stewed rabbit? I grow lightheaded, foggy. My thoughts break apart like bread in water. But yeah, kids. I would have wanted them. Who doesn’t want a jab at immortality? Instead, I’m being shoved into an early grave. 💀💀💀 Alice Kinerk enjoys writing, reading, and sometimes jogging. She has published dozens of stories. Read more at alicekinerk.com. Oliver's Stairs |
AboutThe Kaidankai is a weekly blog and podcast of fiction read out loud that explores the entire world of ghosts and the supernatural. The stories are touching, scary, gruesome, funny, and heartwarming. New episodes every Wednesday. |
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