Simon Curtis
Stories (43/0)
They all go back to where they belong
My colleague and dear friend Collins Bentley was the best of us. Our story together started in those terrible trenches of the Great War, we were both Cambridge undergraduates, me in my second year of a Chemistry degree, he was a third year physicist though in the trenches we were just Privates Bentley and Liddle. I chose not to reminisce about that place and that time. Collins did too and when we returned to our studies in 1918 the cold and wet horrors of Passchendaele were avoided at all costs. Indeed it wasn’t until many years later that the subject came up and in very different circumstances. He progressed towards his inevitable PhD and I too followed suit but in all honesty in a far less likely manner. Nonetheless he, the high flying physicist with his great theories on electricity and as he frequently reminded me, me with my test tubes and stirrers made our way from those grief laden swamps to a peaceful academic existence. To be honest it suited Collins far more and he began making his moves through the faculty while I swiftly moved into the private sector. The influx of American money opened many doors for an aspiring young chemist and by the time I had finished my Doctorate I also had a fiancée to consider and when a fledgling petrochemical company contacted my old tutor looking to build a team in England I had my start. Thankfully it was not too far from Cambridge and I was both able to keep my home, stay close to my darling fiancée and regularly meet up with Collins for a quiet pint.
By Simon Curtis2 months ago in Horror
Sitting at Bentinck Road
It was perfect. We had been scouring the area for weeks, but nothing came up, let alone something in our price range. When 42 Bentinck Road appeared on the market, we rushed to make an appointment and had almost made an offer on the drive over. We resisted almost as far as the extremely dated kitchen. The whole house was dated. It hadn’t been renovated in decades, and while it had been lived in until very recently, it had a musty brick-a-brac shop aroma that would put most would-be homeowners off. But we were so desperate for our own little corner of East Hoston; a renovation project was a small price to pay. Our offer was quickly accepted, and within a month, we were preparing to move into our new home.
By Simon Curtis3 months ago in Horror
The Smugglers Inn
I had chosen the village for its remoteness. I needed peace, quiet and rest after the traumas of the failure of my business, my marriage and my mental stability. The tiny hamlet had nine houses and a pub. It was busy most nights but the locals knew better and had stayed away as soon as the temperature dropped and the sky took a yellow grey hue.
By Simon Curtis3 months ago in Fiction
Brewing time
I’m not a little teapot and in fact, I’m not short or stout. I am an elegant hand painted China teapot. I am pink and green with a gold leaf trim and once I was the thing of envy amongst the local housewives. I was a wedding gift in July 1953, brought in a very ordinary brown box from the large department store in the city. For a while I sat proudly on the sideboard, I think the plan was to keep me there for special occasions but it wasn’t long before I was in action two, sometimes even three times a day, I was taken off every morning and every evening, and used to make two cups of the most perfect tea you could imagine. In those early days, it was always loose leaf tea, there was a small battered tin tucked in the kitchen cupboard alongside a special tea leaf spoon. It wasn’t like the ordinary teaspoons, it was more like a round scoop without a handle. One spoonful per person and with my perfect pear shape it was easy for the leaves to mix and blend and deliver flavour. Golden cups of tea every time.
By Simon Curtis3 months ago in Fiction
- Top Story - December 2023
The Lunch ThiefTop Story - December 2023
I know it’s petty, but quite frankly I think the frequency my lunch is disappearing out of the office fridge is beyond accident or coincidence and if it is targeted I would like to know who the culprit is. I have tried being polite about it, clear labelling, notes on the fridge, even an email to the people on my floor here but to no avail. Therefore I have decided to take matters into my own hands and investigate it. There is part of me thinks it’s my own fault eating so late in the day, often round 2pm but I don’t think it’s an excuse.
By Simon Curtis4 months ago in Criminal
The Shadows of Sycamore Road
The rain kept falling. The wind blew it away from the window, but the incessant drip from the broken gutters made sure she knew it was not the time to head outside. There was no sign of the moon; if it was there, the thick clouds were keeping it from offering any kind of illumination to the sorry evening. She had never been to this house before. It had been something of a last-minute decision. A friend of a friend had recommended her, and when the usual babysitter had been unavailable, she had been a truly fortunate discovery. She found the house without any problem; everybody knew where Sycamore Road was—the houses were the biggest in town. Large detached symbols of Victorian wealth with their enormous gardens and three-story grandeur. She had always wanted to have a look around one of them and was excited by the request to look after the newly arrived Doctor’s two children.
By Simon Curtis4 months ago in Horror
That's The Way To Do It!
Colin’s father had bought the damned thing forty-five years ago when he had taken a motorcycle tour of East Anglia in the days before he had met Colin’s mother. There had been a faded photograph of his dad with outrageously long hair standing proudly next to his bike, with the flat landscape of the Norfolk Broads stretching out behind him, tucked into the frame of one of the old family portraits on the side table as long as Colin could remember. But now, it was in a cardboard box destined for the back of his car along with all the other photos.
By Simon Curtis5 months ago in Horror
The Tin Soldier
Carl Taylor was a mediocre middle manager in a local government planning department. He had gained his promotions through longevity rather than talent, and while he held the title, he didn't really manage much. But this role suited him; it paid him a reasonable salary and didn't require anything beyond his nine-to-five. What kept Carl occupied were his many side projects, each with the promise of making enough money to bring forward his retirement. None of them had managed to bring him closer than a night out or two. He had made diaries, sold T-shirts and mugs, and even tried Forex, but it had been short-lived and low-returning. The only thing he managed to make any kind of success with was his eBay store.
By Simon Curtis5 months ago in Horror
The man who gleers
Buying a weighted blanket did not help me sleep as was promised. But then then hot milky drinks, late night baths, lavender and meditation were equally ineffective. I’d try again tonight, once I’d finished my book I would put it down, shuffle down into the warmth of my bed and flick off the light. But would he be there? The man who I see when I turn off the light. The man whose dark silhouette stands behind the door, looms in a corner, peers from round the bathroom door or stands guard on the landing.
By Simon Curtis6 months ago in Fiction
- Runner-Up in the Under a Spell Challenge
- Top Story - September 2023
Don’t go down there.
I walked down King Street every day. It is always busy, it’s light airy and alive. The towering sandstone buildings stand like benevolent guards between you and the rest of the city. Running parallel to it is Albion Road. It is grey empty and always dark. Between them is an alley. It is black as night even in daylight. I don’t want to go through, there’s always a man halfway down holding a match illuminating his twisted, broken grin. Today I had to, today I walked down, he raised the match to his lips and blew. It went black.
By Simon Curtis12 months ago in Fiction