Six Scary Stories

Stuart lives and works in Edinburgh. He was selected as an emerging writer by The Edinburgh UNESCO City of Literature Trust and appeared at the Edinburgh International Book Festival in August 2015. This, he considers to be simultaneously the most amazing and terrifying experience of his life.

He has had short stories published and is working on his second novel. The first was considered and promptly rejected by some of the most prestigious literary agencies in the world!

The idea for ‘La Mort de L’Amant’ came from a debate he had with his university lecturer while studying creative writing. She maintained that clichés should be avoided at all costs. Stuart argued that, in fact, they had their place. In ‘La Mort de L’Amant’ he aimed ‘not just to embrace them but to use these lovely quirks of language, or southernisms’ to form the spine of the story.

‘Easily the two most influential books for me growing up were Stephen King’s The Stand, and Richard Matheson’s I am Legend.

I was drawn to the bleak and absorbing worlds created in both and the complex nature of the characters’ struggles. Both books I have gone back to time and time again; truly inspirational. It was no surprise later to read in On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft what a significant influence Matheson was on Stephen King.’

LA MORT DE L’AMANT

As rare as Louisiana snow, she used to say.

Texans like their little sayings and she just kept rolling them out. One after another on a conveyor belt of clichés; one for every occasion. Southerners think they add colour to a conversation but he reckoned they were more like stabilisers on bicycles, just there to prop up lazy communicators.

Well hell, he should have bought a lottery ticket today, he thought, tracing a swirl into the frost on the thick wooden handrail with his finger. He wasn’t sure what a snow cloud looked like exactly but the sky had an attitude about it, like it was really pissed. Meaner than a wet panther, she would probably have said.

He hugged his jacket to himself and pulled up his collar to stop the sharp morning breeze getting at his neck as he peered over the edge. The roar of the river falling on to the rocks was deafening. Louder than . . . something-or-other she would have said. A cold gravity-defying spray made its way back up to the bridge from the bottom and collected on his closed eyelids and cheeks. He breathed in the wet invigorating air and considered how refreshing it was, how the heat of the south seemed to slow everything to a lazy hazy blur.

But not this morning.

The sound of tyres on dirt snapped him from his damp reverie. He opened his eyes and turned to see a patrol car approach up the dirt track and park behind his truck. He pushed his hands into his jacket pockets and smiled at the young officer, who was housing his nightstick in his belt as he stepped from the vehicle.

‘Mornin’,’ the young man said.

‘Morning to you, Officer.’ My God, he thought, they really are looking younger all the time. This kid can’t be much older than twenty. The policeman was short and thin but the starch in that dark blue uniform added stature. He wondered if his mother had ironed that crisp shirt; it was impeccable. The gold star on his chest was as bright as the toecaps on his shoes and if he was old enough to be shaving he’d gone right to the bone. Shiny boy, he thought.

‘How ’bout this weather, huh?’ the young man said, approaching and leaning forward a little, not disguising the fact he was trying to get a good look at the older man’s face.

‘Yeah, it’s something.’

‘Cold enough to freeze the tit off a frog. You know I reckon it might just snow, can you believe it?’

‘I was just thinking the same, Officer.’

The young man stopped short of the wooden bridge, his thumbs tucked into his utility belt, and watched the older man looking out over the edge. An awkward silence settled between them. The older man was the first to break.

‘Is there something I can help you with, Officer?’

‘Actually, sir, I was kinda wonderin’ that myself.’

‘I’m not sure I follow.’

‘I mean I was wondering if there was something I could help you with?’ the young man said, his voice rich with genuine concern.

‘I’m fine, thank you. Just enjoying the view,’ said the older man, nodding at the precipice in front of him. His hands were tucked snugly into his jacket pockets, the fingers of his right hand nervously tracing the lines and curves of the cold metal within.

‘She’s something, ain’t she? Hell of a view. The name’s Charlie by the way. Well, it’s Officer Daniels but Charlie’s fine unless my boss can hear. She doesn’t like us gettin’ too familiar.’ Charlie laughed. ‘Are you sure you’re okay, mister?’ he said, stepping up on to the bridge to get a good look at the older man.

‘I’m fine, really. Couldn’t be—’

‘It’s just that you look like you’ve been crying.’ Charlie’s hands shot out defensively. ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Hell, if my girlfriend puts on a sad movie I’m like to bawl like a baby stubbed his toe.’

‘Oh this?’ said the older man, wiping his cheeks. ‘Just spray from the falls, but I appreciate your concern.’

‘It’s just that this bridge we’re standin’ on, it’s sort of a popular spot for people who wanna . . . you know . . .’ Charlie sent a curved hand over the handrail with a whistle.

‘Suicide spot?’

‘Yes, sir, three or four every year. That we know of. I mean you end up in there, the rocks are gonna tear you into pieces, then whatever the gators don’t eat ends up washing out into Vermilion Bay and by then there’s barely enough to tell if you started off a man or a woman. Locals call this bridge, oh what is it now? Um, La mort-day-lay-mant. It’s like lover’s leap . . . or something. I don’t know for sure. I don’t speak much French.’

Lover’s death, the older man corrected in his head.

Shiny boy, but not too bright.

‘Anyway,’ Charlie continued, ‘I saw your truck and thought I’d best check everything was okay.’

‘That’s very dedicated, Officer, but I’m just fine. I’ll be on my way shortly.’

Charlie nodded absently, his thumbs still in his belt, his gaze out over the precipice. ‘Okay,’ he said at last and started back to his patrol car.

The older man relaxed the grip in his pocket.

‘Texas plates,’ said Charlie, not quite making it back to his vehicle.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Your truck, it has Texas plates. You don’t sound like a southerner, if you don’t mind my sayin’.’

‘No, sir; Wisconsin born and bred. Married a Texan. I suppose I’m southern by association.’ The older man laughed this time, but Charlie didn’t seem to catch the joke; his attention was focused elsewhere.

‘Can I ask you, sir, what that is on your back seat?’

‘Huh?’ the older man stuttered. His hand again found the pocket.

‘Wrapped in the tarp, what is that? A deer?’ Charlie squinted through the dirtied window of the truck, trying to discern the wrapped bundle.

‘A deer? Oh yeah, right.’

‘Sir, are you aware hunting season’s done?’

‘Um . . .’

‘In Louisiana season ends January 31st. Sir, I’ll have to write you up if—’

‘I hit it with my truck,’ the older man cut in. ‘I don’t even own a rifle. Damn thing just ran out in front of me. Nearly rolled the truck trying to miss it, but the son of a bitch just seemed to run under the wheels. I didn’t want to just leave it there in the middle of the road.’

Charlie’s breath fogged the side window and he cupped a hand to his eyes to block the low winter sun. ‘Yup, they’ll do that, dumb as a bag of hammers.’

Dumb as a bag of hammers. The older man’s molars ground like rusted gears. That might just have been her favourite. Everything and everyone was dumb as a bag of fucking hammers. Or rocks; sometimes the hammers were substituted but every day was the same, someone was dumb as something.

Young Charlie was talking, but the older man was thinking about the time he tried to point out the irony of the continued use of this tired expression, her inability to articulate her feelings without the crutch of a cliché when she was talking about how unintelligent someone was. There you go actin’ all superior again, she’d said in response.

‘I know it’s an inconvenience, but I really wouldn’t be doin’ my job if I didn’t ask . . . Sir?’

‘What’s that now?’

‘Your truck, can I take a look inside?’

The older man’s hands reacted independently. One began scratching at the stubble on his chin, the other fluttered inside the jacket pocket.

The moment moved as if through molasses, no answer was forthcoming.

‘It’ll only take a second then I’ll get on my way. Do you mind?’ said Charlie at last.

‘Well, that depends there, Charlie.’

‘Depends? On what?’

‘Well, are you really askin’ me, or are you tellin’ me?’

‘There a reason I can’t get in your truck, sir?’ Charlie’s thumbs had returned to his belt, his weight impatiently on one hip.

‘None in particular. I’m just a man who likes to exercise his rights that’s all. I don’t care to surrender civil liberties unless I absolutely have to, son.’

Son? Did he really just say son? In what way was that helpful? the older man thought. His hand shook inside his pocket. He drew a hidden thumb across a hidden handle. His heart began beating in his neck and he was sure the shiny boy could see it.

‘Control to patrol two . . .’ The radio on Charlie’s shoulder crackled. Charlie reached to his shoulder to answer but his eyes were fixed on him.

‘Go ahead for Charlie.’

‘Charlie, how far are you from Bob Acres? We got a situation.’

‘Ten minutes maybe, what’s going on?’

‘The Lemieux brothers.’

‘Goddammit,’ he said to the sky before speaking back into the radio. ‘What is it this time?’

‘We got calls coming in; seems they been up all night drinking and now they’re on the front lawn trying to kill each other. I got other units en route but can you start heading?’

‘Sure, Sheila, I’m on it.’ Charlie swatted the air with a left hook and fished his car keys from his belt. ‘I swear those boys are gonna be the death of me. You sure you’re okay?’

The older man nodded and watched as the patrol car spun and sped off; the emergency lights creating blue halos in the morning mist. He drew his hands from his pockets and placed them gently on the frozen handrail of the bridge. They were shaking, he noticed, shaking like a hound-dog trying to shit out a peach pit.