The Smugglers Inn
The walk back from the pub
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.
The landlord was welcoming but insisted I left before the snow took its hold, he seemed strangely insistent given the rented cottage was only 100 yards from his door.
Outside it was cold, there were no streetlights but the blanket of white was bright from the sliver of moon. As I crunched along the untouched path I could hear it, with each of my steps a second followed. I stopped and looked round. Through the crisp dark I saw nothing. I continued towards my door, as my pace increased so did theirs. My crunch, crunch, their crunch, crunch, crunch, it wasn’t an echo, there was someone there. I ran, I stumbled they followed and closed. I wrenched the metal gate open against the drifted snow sending waves up the path. My cold hands fumbled with the icy keys as crunch, crunch, up the path behind. I unlocked the door and slammed it shut behind me
I pressed my back against the inside of the front door. It was dark and empty but I was safe. A whisp of breath puffed out. It wasn’t mine.
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Comments (1)
Scary! Great work.