A short horror story about village life
The upside of living in a small village is being so close to the beauty of nature. Every morning, I can set foot outside my door and find myself rambling through beautiful fields. I find the perfect morning walk. I’m out through the fields that back onto the Anderson farm, over the railway bridge, through the orchard, pause a moment down by the stream, head up onto the hill, stare down on the crows and magpies swarming. Return journey by the post office in the next village over, pick up one of their samosas for lunch later, walk along the canal. There and back again in less than an hour.
I get to witness the changing of the seasons. The trees turning to their crisp autumn coats, the crunch of leaf underfoot, the frozen mud on the fields, the drizzle of spring, the dry heat of summer. Everyone knows everyone. We look after our own. When someone’s sick, everyone knows. Linda from the shop will drop a care package round, or Brian will offer to walk your dog.
The downside of living in a small village is living with the other twats who want to live in a small village. Every cunt is on that same walk, ruining perfection. You can’t walk half a mile without half a dozen hellos to people you can’t stand. Everyone knows everyone. We look after our own, which means we shun anyone who isn’t our own. When someone’s sick, everyone knows. Top of the agenda at the parish council meeting. Hilary hasn’t cleared the leaves after the storm, that’s going to be a hazard. Every ‘care package’ reminds you to cut your grass to the regulation length.
Don’t get me started on the poppyshaggers. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate Remembrance Day. Well, I do, but it’s more the people, y’know? The kind of people who set foot in a church three times a year and think that makes them pious. The kind of people who’ll say we should do a street party for the Coronation, who are the same kind of people who’ll bitch and moan if someone else thought of the street party instead (I just can’t get to my car, it’s not very considerate really is it?).
I moved to Little Oaken a couple of years ago now. I was, unfortunately, one of the deplorable gits who upped sticks when it became clear the pandemic was going to drag on for years. I got a great deal on this three-bed detached house (with a garage!), and with the rail links in the town, it’s not too bad if I actually do need to get to London. At first I thought the village was charming. Quaint. Then Shelly and I had that argument after our barbecue a year or so back and it might as well have been published in the local paper, the amount of people that seemed to know about it. All of a sudden my morning walk became “So how are things at home, then?”, “How’s the missus?”, “God tells us we should be merciful, John.”
I didn’t mean to hit her. I wouldn’t do something like that. She knew that.
Anyway, it was one argument but it kind of soured me on the whole village living thing. Shelly and I made up as we always do, but you wouldn’t know it the way everyone kept carrying on. Father Terry dropped these shitty flyers for some church alternative to marriage counselling through our door. He denies it, but I caught him on the doorbell camera, the little fucker. I swear churches must be the last people in possession of Office 2003, the amount of WordArt they use.
So Remembrance Day. The first year it was sort of fine, we were still in COVID rules and everything so there was a little thing at the village green but it was pretty stripped back. A bunch of people socially-distanced-and-then-some, a mic and speaker so Father Terry didn’t have to shout (think of all those spit particles flying), a few here and there still masked. We could go out by that point, the rules were a lot more stripped back, but people were still being cautious. I didn’t want to go but Shelly said we should show our faces, it makes a good impression, particularly after the barbecue incident. So we went and it was fine.
Terry made a speech, there was some anonymous soldier or another, but they made sure to keep it quick so that we didn’t give each other COVID and kill each other. There were a lot of old people in the village, and they all love coming along to these sorts of things. Shell and I went to The Hungry Dog after and had a few pints, and it was probably the busiest we’d seen it. Kenzie behind the bar was evidently high on her own supply—she seemed a bit bladdered if I’m honest—but it’s different rules in a place like this, y’know? I wasn’t one to ruin someone’s fun, and if you were lucky you might get a free pint.
It was the busiest I’d seen it since the pandemic started and I had this warm feeling, like maybe we could actually get past the bullshit of the past few years. Maybe there was a chance for us to recover, to get back to normal. I know everyone says there’s no such thing as going back but for just a moment I really felt it.
I didn’t hear it that time—I don’t know if it happened—but I definitely heard it last year. I was up early with the dog, taking him for a walk before everyone else was up and spoiled my peace. He was in a strange mood that morning, frantically walking to and fro, so I let him off the lead for most of the walk to see if he could shake off this weird anxious shit he was doing. Milo chilled out after a bit, but he definitely wasn’t his usual self.
We were on the return route, down by the canal, and I just started to hear this faint high-pitch squealing. It was such a terrible tune, felt like it really got into your ears, y’know? It sounded so far away and so near at the same time. Just out of reach, just beyond everything. I figured it must have been some weird echo from the works down by the railway. They were expanding one of the lines or something like that. There’d been this massive campaign, protect Little Oaken or some shit like that, but I didn’t really see the issue myself.
Milo was fucking freaked out. As soon as he heard the sound he just did a shit where he was standing and then jumped into the canal. I tried calling him back but it was no good, so I had to jump in myself and rescue him. I got home stinking, and Shell turned the hose on us.
“Out! Garden! Both of you!”
I tried to protest but knew there was no use. She sprayed us both down. As I was towelling myself off before I went inside and showered, our neighbour Colin peered his head over the fence.
“Hi guys, how we doing?”
“Not too bad thanks Colin, how you doing yourself?” Shelly replied, hose in hand.
“I’m okay, can’t complain! I uh… I don’t know how to put this delicately.” He pushed his glasses up his face. “I… don’t think you’re allowed to be doing that, Shelly. There’s a hosepipe ban on this year. We need to protect our precious finite resources.”
Shelly’s face curled into a frown. I stood there, dripping. “I think that was just in summer, Colin. I don’t think that’s still going now.”
“Well, I didn’t receive any notice that the ban was over so I should refrain from that if I were you Shelly. Don’t want to get into trouble. Got to all do our part, haven’t we?”
He was such a smarmy prick. “Well thanks for the advice Colin, we’ll keep it in mind thanks. Where was all this before I got drenched, eh?”
“Well I didn’t want to interrupt you see, an Englishman’s house is his castle, after all!”
“Could you fuck off out of my castle then, Colin?” Shelly fired a jet of water in his direction and it hit him square in his shiny bald forehead. His face crumpled in horror, turned even redder somehow.
“Well, I never. In all the years of living in this wonderful village I have never been treated with such…” We headed inside so we didn’t have to hear the end of his tirade.
After I got showered off, Shelly made us a cup of tea and we sat on the sofa. “So what’s on the cards for you today?” she asked.
“I… know this sounds insane, but I was actually thinking of going down to the Remembrance thing.”
“You. Remembrance. You hate that shit. You only went last year because I said we should!”
I sipped my tea, burning my tongue. “I know, it’s the strangest thing… I just… feel like I should, y’know? Maybe it’ll keep the likes of Colin off our backs for a bit. Plus I don’t know, it’s nice, isn’t it? To remember those who died so that we could have the lives we have.”
Shelly held the back of her hand to my forehead. “Jesus, what was in that canal water? Who are you and what have you done with John Keystone?”
“Don’t laugh at me, Shell. I’m trying to do a nice thing here.”
She idly flicked between Sky channels. “Alright my love. If you’re having your nationalist moment I’ll support you. And then when you go off to die in the war I’ll stare wistfully out the window and wonder when you’ll come back, and I’ll wait at least two months before shagging the postman.” She kissed my head.
“Just as God intended,” I joked.
It was the same as the year before really, with a little bit more pomp and ceremony now that people were less scared of dying. (Ironic, I thought to myself.) A few words from the Father, some soldiers to lay a wreath or two, get the local scouts to lay a few so they get indoctrinated early. Shelly held my hand. Through my layers of snark, I felt some earnestness creeping in, though. Wasn’t it so moving that everyone had gathered here to remember those lads from the village who’d died for us? Who died so that we could lead the wonderful lives we lead now? To protect us from those foreign—
“We will now read the Exhortation, after which time our horn player will sound The Last Post, and a two minute silence will commence.”
A chorus of eager voices piped up. Some mumbles, some proudly bellowing. “They shall not grow old, as we that are left to grow old: age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them.” I found myself muttering out the last few words along with them. Shell looked at me incredulously.
We went back to The Hungry Dog for pints afterwards and I found myself striking up conversation with half a dozen people I never would have. I spoke to the Father, and asked how he was doing since his health scare; to Kenzie (well, I bought her a drink); to Linda, to ask how business was; and even to Colin, to apologise for earlier.
“Sorry Colin. You know how women can be.”
“It’s no trouble John, but you really should keep her on a tighter leash. It’s not good for them to have so much… fire.”
I half-nodded in agreement.
This year, I heard it again. I had my headphones in, so I didn’t quite catch it at first, but I heard something in the distance so I took them out. It didn’t sound quite the same, though. Cleaner, somehow. More pure. Milo went crazy again but I’d kept him on a short lead ever since the canal incident. Couldn’t take my chances, letting him run off all over the place. It was important for a dog to have discipline.
I was back at the house well before 11am and decided I’d put on a nice suit. I didn’t really know why, I just sort of felt like it. Shelly laughed at me like she always does but she wasn’t laughing for long. She redid her make-up and then she came along with us to the ceremony. It was pissing it down, so it was a sea of dour black umbrellas. Shelly held ours. One umbrella broke the dark curtain: the new couple, Ellie and Crystal, had a rainbow umbrella. I tutted under my breath. Always having to show themselves off, laud it about. Disgraceful.
The Father says a few words, the soldiers lay their wreaths and say a few words to their fallen ancestors, and the Scouts lay their wreaths next. Barry, the aging scoutmaster, stands with his hands curled into tiny fists behind his back. He corrects the stance of the child in front of him. You’re holding it wrong. You need a firmer grip around the pole, stupid boy. The red-faced horn player spits out The Last Post, his timing off by a couple of seconds, making a mockery of our village. I made a note to speak with Colin about the horn player’s shoddy performance.
This year, the Last Post was bookended. We started with the National Anthem—God save the King, now—and ended with the Lord’s Prayer. Forgive us our trespasses. Lead us not into temptation.
Back to The Hungry Dog for some pints. I speak with Colin about the horn player. He’s already had some complaints, so he’s the obvious next sacrifice. The Father and I fuck hard and fast in the basement; I make an offering at His altar. Shelly goes home to make a start on dinner. I tell Kenzie I’ll drop a care package by next week. Her lawn’s looking a little long.
