For the sake of my sanity, I need to tell this story as it happened: hour-by-hour, but to put you in the picture, here’s a little of the background which led to the dreadful chain of events. On Thursday and Friday I do voluntary work for the local Library, calling on the elderly and infirm with a list of recommended books and offering an exchange service. Everything was fine until I found the book requested by a housebound man called John Hawthorn.

It began at 9.30 am: I was in the thriller section of our local library looking down my list to search for John’s book when Gloria, a real gem of a girl, pointed me in the right direction.

I placed the book in my basket then turned to search my list for the next book when I felt queasy. I mean immediate nausea, like I wasn’t going to reach the loo in time. I daren’t move, terrified I was going spoil Gloria’s beautiful, polished, library floor.

Heat given off from the overhead lights started to burn into my scalp yet my skin ran with icy cold sweat.

‘Are you okay?’ a distant voice asked, not Gloria, but a stranger, who had gone by the time the mess had been cleaned and I’d come round in the doctor’s surgery. The nurse said there was a bug going round, well there always is, isn’t there? Anyway, I was given the once over and assured I wasn’t going to die. Gloria had filled my basket and left it with the nurse, ready for me to deliver. I needed a shower and a change of clothes so I placed the basket in the boot and drove straight home.

1 pm: outside my garage: I quite like some heavy rock music, you know Thin Lizzie, Meatloaf that kind of thing, but when my ears started to vibrate with the base notes of something I’d never heard before, I went outside to investigate. At first I thought the noise came from the contractors working on the new building site down the road from my house; but it didn’t. It came from the boot of my little Volkswagen, my pride and joy.

Soon, neighbours headed towards the builders, ready to blame them for the noise. I ran to them, said it was my fault, something was wrong and I didn’t know how to stop it. Babs, who lives opposite, rolled her sleeves to her elbows, and said she’d take a look. By this time, a crowd had gathered in the road, some holding their hands to their ears, hoping in vain to block out the noise.

When she opened the boot, mistaking it for the engine, as those not familiar with Volkswagens tend to do, the racket stopped, leaving everyone relieved. I thanked her, but she shook her head, told me she’d done nothing but diagnosed that a loose wire was probably the cause and offered to take a look. When she moved my library basket two photographs slid from between the pages of the top book, caught the breeze and fluttered across the driveway.

A neighbour’s child, quick as lightning, grabbed hold of them.

‘It’s Kirsty,’ he cried, ‘look Nan, its Kirsty.’ Some of the neighbours heading back home stopped when the boy cried out, and turned to listen. Everyone knew about Kirsty, the little girl who went missing the night the fair came to town: and was never found. The boy handed the photo to his Nan, then turned the other over in his podgy little hands to place it the right side up.

‘Grab him,’ I yelled, as he fell backwards, his little body twitching and shaking. I ran towards him but his Nan beat me to it and bent down to scoop him into her arms. Discarded by the chubby fist, the crumpled photo fell towards the ground and landed at my feet. As I picked it up the nausea returned to my system. The house in the picture belonged to John Hawthorn but the man in the porch was unknown to me.

The little boy recovered almost immediately, his Nan handed Kirsty’s photo to me and asked why I carried a snapshot of a missing child. I pointed to the basket of books and told her. She reached out her hand and took the other photo from my trembling fingers.

‘That’s Bobby Erskine,’ she said handing it back. ‘He went missing on the same day as little Kirsty.’

4.30 pm. Once I’d taken the photos to the local police station and they were no longer in my possession I felt much better. The hot afternoon was closing with thunderclouds and flashes of lightning had already sparked the horizon, and Mr Hawthorn’s book, I decided, was to be delivered last on the list and on my return home.

The white exterior of the house caught in my headlights looked stark against the backdrop of near black thunderclouds, as did the bark of an old tree with gnarled lumps that circled the trunk. Instinct said I must turn around and drive home, but my less sensible self told me I was being foolish, allowing the nausea to fog my reasoning.

Large noisy raindrops fell onto the roof of my car, one, two, ten, then fifty, within seconds it was bouncing. With engine running and lights full on I opened the car door, ready to run for the shelter of the porch but it stopped short with no room to get out. Something prevented the door from opening fully. I gave it a thrust, thinking perhaps a small bush that I’d failed to notice in the pathway was behind the driver’s door. But it was no shrub. It was a child with little fingers that crept around the door’s handle, horrid and blooded under the nails. I froze, wondering what horror this child could be and the photo of little Kirsty filled my mind.

Her face, pale with deep sunken sockets peered round the door, her cheeks hollow and gaunt. A double flash of lightning lit the area and with it I caught a proper glimpse of the child and realised my imagination was playing tricks with me and she was really rather sweet. She smiled, showing the gap where her front two teeth had fallen out. I relaxed and smiled back.

‘Is John at home?’ I shouted above the rage of the storm.

She lisped, ‘ye’th.’

I warmed to her. ‘You’re going to be soaked,’ I cried, ‘I’ve only called to give him his library book.’

‘I know.’

My jeans were getting wet. I sat with one leg out of the car and the other by the clutch and the book held in my left hand. Her body still prevented my fully opening the door. ‘Be a good girl,’ I said, ‘and run to tell John I’ve got his book.’

Another flash of lightning lit her face, followed by a thunderclap which rang on the drums of my ears and caused me a moment’s dizziness; adding to the nausea swelling inside when I saw the dried blood in the corners of her mouth, and in the creases of her long thin neck. Hell, I thought, what’ve they been feeding her? Slowly, I pulled my soaked leg into the car but her neck elongated further placing her face only inches from mine: the rest of her body remained concealed behind the door.

I couldn’t breathe; so vile was the stench filling my car. I pulled the door in trapping the neck as I did; she hissed her displeasure into my face – icy cold and rank. Dropping the book onto my lap, my fingers found reverse the gear and my feet moved into action: each finding the correct pedal. The car shot back, pulling her with it, hissing curses at me, biting my arm as I held onto the door handle, trapping her snake-like neck. I held firm; told myself to keep driving, which I did, reversing all the way down to the road and to where the police car was pulling up. The fiend fell limp and as I opened the door it slid onto the drive and to my horror, disappeared under my car.

I drove forward, eyes on the rear view mirror, expecting to see a little girl in the middle of John Hawthorn’s drive but there was nothing save a rain-filled puddle and two policemen walking towards me. As I collapsed in a fit of hysterics, the two officers combed the grounds but nothing could be found of a little girl, or a long necked monster. Inside the house, an initial search showed there was no sign of John Hawthorn or that anyone else lived there.

That was three months ago. I am being cared for in the Vale View Psychiatric clinic, where the medics advise me not to allow the police to rush me into making a statement. So I’ve chosen this way to write down what happened.

It was a week after the episode in Hawthorn’s driveway. I’d been prescribed complete rest and forbidden to venture far from my bed. Babs brought me flowers and some magazines and asked if she could use my car, hers having gone kaput the day before. I threw her the keys, warning her not to scratch it and watched her drive away.

Feeling safe in my bed, I slid down the sheets and opened the centre pages of one of the magazines. To my surprise a photo of John Hawthorn’s house was featured, complete with the old gnarled tree. The caption read, Scarborough House of Horror and told of a police investigation where secret passages led to horror filled cellars. I shot out of bed and telephoned the police and that’s when a proper search was made to Hawthorn’s house: including the secret cellars.

Little Kirsty’s body wasn’t there, but bones dating back several decades were found stashed in one of the corners, mixed up in a jumble as though picked over, discarded or tossed aside. According to the taxi driver who drove John Hawthorn to the railway station, he was able to walk unaided and he’d picked him up outside the Library about the time I vomited. Could he have been the stranger who asked if I was all right? The house of horror in Scarborough turned out to be a hoax, so the police told me, and the publishers of the magazine knew nothing of the article and denied printing it.

This is the part of the investigation that has caused me to need the nursing care of the psychiatric clinic. The news came to me via one of the officers who searched the cellar. He referred to my statement about Hawthorn’s drive, and my description of the little girl.

‘Remember when you said she’d lost her front teeth?’

‘Yes, I thought it made her look pretty cute: at first.’

‘Well,’ he said; a contorted smile on his face, ‘the bones in the cellar had been gnawed: the flesh scraped off by teeth either side of a gap.’

I looked at my right arm, still bandaged against infection, where the teeth of the long necked thing had dug into my flesh: I began to scream: reeling away from him with horror: my mind wondering where those filthy teeth had been prior to piercing my skin and what vileness they might pass on. Suppose, my mind screamed, just suppose, I turned into one of themcraving human flesh, stalking innocent people: just to feed.

The doctors tell me the nightmares are receding, the treatment given here in this new ward is the best in psychiatric care and anyway, I’m in no hurry to go home. I’ve lost touch with Babs. She went off in my car and never came back, pity really, because the book’s still on the passenger seat and I never did find out what it was about.

–

(C) 2024 Pat Barnett.

“Horror Photos” is a chilling tale that masterfully builds tension through its hour-by-hour narrative structure. The story follows a library volunteer whose routine book delivery turns into a nightmare when she discovers mysterious photographs linked to missing children. The author expertly weaves supernatural elements with psychological horror, keeping readers guessing whether the protagonist is experiencing something genuinely supernatural or descending into madness. The story’s strength lies in its gradual revelation of horror – from the initial unexplained nausea in the library to the terrifying encounter with the long-necked creature. The discovery of gnawed bones in the cellar and the disappearance of both John Hawthorn and Babs create a satisfyingly dark conclusion that leaves readers wondering about the true nature of evil.

“Creatures” is Pat Barnett’s latest collection of spine-tingling tales, drawing from her rich experience as a Manchester-born writer now settled in North Yorkshire. Her journey from punch-card computer operator to nursery nurse, and finally to accomplished author, brings a unique perspective to her storytelling. After honing her craft with the Noosa Scribes in Australia and the Castle Writers in Pickering, Pat has developed a distinctive voice that blends local folklore with contemporary horror. If you enjoy stories that make you question reality while sending shivers down your spine, you’ll love this collection. Each tale, including “Horror Photos,” showcases Pat’s talent for turning ordinary situations into extraordinary encounters with the unknown.

Discover More Tales in “Creatures” on Amazon