Sinister

Stories

Literary Text
 Contents
Three Times Is a Sentence 2
The Darkness 11
A Fume of Sighs 19

1 Sinister Stories
 Three Times Is a Sentence
by Lois McIntyre

"Spare any change?"

Dan barely noticed the bloke at his feet as he made his way into the newsagents on Maccies Road. He
was late for a party, was fumbling for his phone to find the right address when he felt a hand tug at his
trouser leg. Involuntarily, he recoiled.
"What on earth do you think you’re doing?"
The man was probably about his own age — late teens, at a guess. His face was covered in stubble, and
he had long, lanky hair poking out from beneath a grubby beanie hat. He was dressed in old jeans and
a dark hoody and Dan was pretty sure that the sickly-sweet reek which had just reached his nostrils
was emanating from him. He backed off hurriedly.
"Can you spare any change, mate?"
The homeless man’s voice was cracked and gruff. It sounded much older than he looked.
Dan slipped his phone into his pocket, partly to keep it out of sight and partly to make sure that his
wallet was still firmly intact. He felt the reassuring bulge of leather stuffed with notes and cards.
"Sorry mate. I’ve not got anything on me."
He stepped into the shop quickly and picked up the drink he needed to take to the party. While
he was handing his crisp twenty over to the girl behind the counter, he noticed some snacks on
special offer.
"Better get some of those, too."
She handed him his change and he swung out of the shop, whistling. As he pulled the door closed,
a packet of Zingy Bites went tumbling out of his grasp and landed on the pavement. A grubby hand
picked them up and handed them over.

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"Here you go, mate."
"Thanks." Dan took the packet awkwardly, balancing it with his cans and his wallet which he hadn’t yet
rammed back into his pocket. He’d forgotten the homeless guy.
"No problem. Enjoy your night."
"Right." Dan coughed. "Er… you too."
"Oh, I will, thanks. And remember: once is a request, twice is a warning, three times is a sentence."
"What?"
But there was a couple about to enter the shop and the woman was digging in her purse for change
so the homeless guy was suddenly obscured from view. Nutter, thought Dan, as he ran to catch the 19
bus. Complete nutter.
Two weeks later, Dan was walking into town to meet Lisa. He’d met her at the party; she was a friend
of Darren’s girlfriend, and he’d had to really screw up his courage to ask her out. But she’d seemed
interested, and here they were, going on a second date to the posh Italian in Beek Street. It cost an
arm and leg, but Lisa was worth it. She was classy.
He had put on his sharp new designer suit and bought some new aftershave for the occasion. He felt
a bit awkward — suits weren’t really his thing — but he wanted to impress her and he could afford to
splash out, so why not? He was just crossing the road to the cash point, when he nearly tripped over a
dirty trainer lying on the pavement.
On closer inspection, Dan realised that the trainer belonged to the homeless guy from the other week.
"Watch it mate, you nearly went flying."
"Sorry." Dan straightened up and felt a twinge of annoyance. He shouldn’t be the one apologising — it
wasn’t his leg sprawled across the pavement.
"That’s alright, mate." The guy seemed quite cheerful, although Dan couldn’t imagine why. The evening
was really cold and the pavement did not look particularly clean. "You off anywhere nice?"
"Just the cashpoint." Dan gestured awkwardly at the machine on the other side of the road.
"Little bit overdressed for that, aren’t you?"
Dan looked down at his suit and felt suddenly embarrassed.
"Oh. Well, I…"
"It’s alright mate. I’m just joshing with you." The homeless guy grinned. "Can you spare any change?"
"Sorry, I’ve not got anything on me." Dan’s reply was automatic — he just wanted to get away. He
started to cross the road.
"That’s alright. But remember: once is a request, twice is a warning, three times is a sentence."
Dan thought that was what he said, but a passing car drowned out the words so they were hard
to make out. When he reached the other side of the road, he turned to see if the guy had been
addressing him, but there was no-one there. The pavement was empty. Strange, he thought. I wonder
where he’s gone?
The date with Lisa went well, and over the next few weeks they saw more and more of each other.
Three months later, they were a definite couple. They went out together every weekend, and people
started to refer to them as a unit. Dan-and-Lisa. It felt good, thought Dan, as he walked into town that
evening. It felt like he was part of something permanent, something definite.

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He was meeting Lisa and taking her for dinner. She was working late, and darkness had already
fallen. There was an odd, cloying mist in the air which coated everything in a damp sheen. Street
lamps glowed dully and sounds were muffled ­— it was like someone had laid a cold, wet blanket over
the world.
Dan was early, so he was meandering more than he usually would. He was dressed in a T-shirt and
jeans, and was bitterly regretting his decision not to bring a jacket. Since seeing Lisa, he’d started to
go to the local gym. It was expensive, but he wanted to improve his physique for Lisa, to show her he
was making an effort. He thought he’d already improved his abs quite a bit, and the T-shirt showed
them off nicely. Or he’d thought it had, when he looked at himself in the mirror at home. Now, though,
he just felt like a bit of an idiot. The T-shirt clung to his torso and he felt goosebumps running up and
down his arms. Why hadn’t he at least brought a jumper?
"You’ll catch your death."
The voice broke into his thoughts and he looked around him for a second, confused about where it
had come from. Then he looked down, and saw the homeless guy at his feet, sitting in a shop doorway.
His clothes were just the same as they always had been, but this time he had a sleeping bag huddled
around his feet, to keep him warm. Dan felt a flash of envy.
"You alright, mate?"
The homeless guy was looking at him with a strange grin which made Dan feel uneasy. He couldn’t say
why — there was just the feeling that something wasn’t quite right, somehow.
"What did you say?" He tried to keep his voice confident, strong, but the mist muffled it and made him
sound subdued — like he wasn’t really there.
"I asked if you were alright, mate."
"No — before that. You said something before that."
"Oh." The homeless guy gave a humourless chuckle. "I said you’ll catch your death in that T-shirt. You’ve
forgotten your coat, mate."
Dan looked down at his hands. His fingernails were now blue with cold. He stuffed them into his jeans
pockets and tried for a nonchalant shrug. "Doesn’t bother me."
"You’re more of a man than I am, then." The homeless guy gave another of his laughs. "I’m so cold I can
barely feel my feet. Can you spare any change, mate?"
"Sorry." Dan shook his head and started to move away. Why did the guy always have to pester him like
that? Couldn’t he take no for an answer? Why should he have part with his hard-earned cash to some
dosser? He felt his irritation rise.
"That’s OK, mate. But remember what I said: once is a request, twice is a warning, three times is
a sentence."
This time, Dan was sure he’d heard him correctly. The mist was making everything muffled, but he was
convinced of those words. "What did you say?"
This time, the homeless man didn’t laugh. In fact, he didn’t smile at all. "I think you heard me. I think
you’ve heard me every time, haven’t you?"
"You what?"
The man started to stand, his sleeping bag falling from his legs so it balled at his feet. Dan was suddenly
uncomfortably aware that he was very tall. The sickly-sweet smell was overpowering, too. And there

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was something else — something in his eyes that Dan couldn’t quite put his finger on. Anger? Pity? Or
another, stranger emotion?
"Isn’t that your Lisa over there?" The guy was pointing, his hand raised straight out in front of him,
gesturing to the other side of the road. Dan turned, and there, sure enough, was Lisa walking down the
pavement opposite. He felt a jolt of panic.
"Lisa!"
She didn’t hear him — she just kept walking. She’d miss him if he didn’t catch her attention.
"Lisa!"
Dan stepped into the road. He didn’t think to ask himself how the homeless man knew Lisa’s name. He
didn’t stop to consider the man’s strange words. And he didn’t see the car, speeding past as he stepped
out. He felt himself thrown up into the air in a graceful arc, before landing with a life-shattering thud
on the ground.
Through hazy eyes, this time not clouded by the mist but by something else, Dan watched the homeless
man swim into view one last time.
"I told you, mate. Three times is a sentence."
Dan’s eyes closed.

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 The Darkness
by Jonie Marx

Jacob could hear the darkness in his cupboard humming.

It started on the Monday, after he had come back from Scouts and had fish and chips as a special
treat cos Mum had forgotten to get anything in. He’d gone to bed and lain in his room, which was lit a
luminous green by his rocket lava lamp. He’d felt the chips churn round in his stomach like clothes in a
washing machine. It was then that he’d noticed the noise coming from the corner.
The cupboard was really small, built into the side of the room and overhanging the stairs. He used it
for keeping clothes and storing a few old toys and magazines that he couldn’t bear to part with. Like his
X-Wing fighter, which he’d been given by Dad and which, one day, would be worth a fortune, provided
he kept the box in pristine condition. Not that he thought he’d ever be able to sell it. But it was nice to
daydream about what he would do with the money if he ever got up the courage.
There was no light in the cupboard and the door didn’t close properly, so there was always a sliver of
darkness which he could see against the gleaming white of the door surround. But tonight there was a
patch of black which seemed, somehow, darker than the rest. Not so much dark, as empty. Like there
was nothing there at all. A void.
It made a deep, humming noise. It was so low, that Jacob almost couldn’t hear it — like it was on the
very edge of his hearing range. But it was definitely there. There was no doubt about it.
Jacob didn’t know what the darkness was, but staring at it made him uncomfortable. He tried to fix his
mind back on to mushy peas and ketchup and cans of fizzy drink which he shouldn’t have on a week
night, really, but his eyes kept drifting back to that little piece of emptiness right on the edge of his
vision. He turned over and tried to focus on his rocket lamp, but the feeling persisted. It was like the
darkness was looking at him, somehow.
He did not like the feeling at all.

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When he woke the next day, the first thing he looked for, once he had rubbed the sleep from his eyes,
was the darkness in the cupboard. It was like it had stayed with him in his dreams, refusing to budge.
But when he looked, there was nothing there. The humming had gone, too. He could see the sleeve
of his blue hoody and the stack of magazines that mum had been on at him to throw out and the
tennis racket which he had got in Year 6 when he was sure he was going to be the next Tim Henman,
until he’d discovered he couldn’t actually hit a ball at all and he had two left feet. But that was all. No
darkness and no humming.
The next night, he went to bed early. Because of the late night last night, Mum said, although he
suspected it was because she had Tony, the bloke she’d met at yoga, coming around for a "little drink".
He pulled the duvet up to his chin and tried to focus on the comic he was reading by the light of
the lamp and ignore the humming which was coming from the cupboard. Because he knew there was
nothing there. Of course there wasn’t. It was just a cupboard.
But eventually, the temptation became too much and he did look and sure enough, there was nothing
there. Only it was a large patch of Nothing, larger than last night, and he thought that maybe it was
spilling onto the floor in front of the cupboard as well. It had definitely grown.
He considered going downstairs and telling his Mum but when he thought about it, he didn’t know
what he could say. Come upstairs and look at the big patch of nothing in my cupboard? And Mum would
be irritated at being interrupted while Tony was there and Tony would smile that big, fake smile he
had which was supposed to say hey, guy, I’m your best friend, but actually meant hey, guy, I am taking
your mum away from you, and Jacob would get that odd, knotted feeling in the pit of his stomach like he
wanted to punch someone or run a marathon or screw himself into a ball. So it was best to just leave it
and turn over and try to pretend that the darkness wasn’t there, even if he could feel it watching him.
He found it hard to get to sleep that night, and when he did finally drift off, the darkness lurked in his
brain like a shadow.
He woke up the next morning, tired and grumpy. But the darkness had gone.
Joe came over for tea the next night and they played games for a bit and watched videos online ‘til his
mum confiscated the tablet and said they needed to do something other than watch a screen all night.
"You can do that on your own," she tutted, pressing the button so the screen turned black, "why don’t
you play something together, like you used to?"
This was the problem with his mum, thought Jacob, she didn’t understand that now they were at High
School they didn’t do stupid things like playing. He looked at Joe, embarrassed, but Joe just shrugged
and went over to the cupboard.
"Can I get the X-Wing out?"
It was years since they had taken it out of the box together and ordinarily, Jacob would have loved the
chance to look it over, checking it was still in mint condition. They could even look it up on Joe’s phone,
to see how much it would fetch. But for some reason, tonight he didn’t feel like it.
"Why don’t we go downstairs?"
But Joe had his hand on the cupboard door; was pulling it open.
"Stop it!"
Jacob hadn’t meant to shout. But Joe looked shocked and shrugged his shoulders before sloping off
downstairs. He left soon after. But he hadn’t opened the door. At least there was that.
That night, the darkness had spread to the foot of the bed. Jacob watched it, pitch black against the

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green glow of the rocket lamp. The humming was louder, too. Now it was like there was a cluster of
bees lurking somewhere in the room. Only Jacob was pretty sure there wasn’t.
"What’s up with you?" asked his mum as she passed him the milk that morning. His eyes were blurry
and he felt fuzzy in his head, like he couldn’t shake the sleep out. He shrugged and poured some cereal
into his bowl.
"Grumpy-chops," said his mum, ruffling his hair. He felt a flash of irritation. Why did she always have to
treat him like a baby? There was no point trying to explain to her what was lurking in his room. She’d
just say he was imagining it. And anyway, she was too caught up with work and Tony to care about
stuff like that. He’d have to deal with it on his own.
That night, the darkness crept closer. He sat, watching the shadow-that-was-not-a-shadow creep over
the floorboards. It was so slow, you couldn’t see it moving. But when you looked out of the corner of
your eye, then you nearly, so nearly saw it. It was like that game he used to play at parties when he was
little — Grandmother’s Footsteps. People had to creep up on you behind your back but if you turned
and saw them moving they were out of the game. There was always someone who was quick and quiet
enough to tap you on your back, though. And then you were out.
The darkness had moved to his feet.
Jacob looked and saw his toes were suffused with grey, like they were the feet of a statue. They felt
cold, dead. He wiggled his foot and it moved slowly, like an old man’s. It was a strange sensation —
there was no pain, but it felt heavy and awkward. He imagined the darkness moving through his veins,
turning his red blood a dull grey, making it sluggish and thick.
He sat there all night, by his lamp, watching the darkness creep slowly, slowly up his leg and listening
to the dull hum as it invaded him. By the time the sun rose in the morning, his leg up to his knee was
grey and cold. He wondered how long it would take to reach his heart.
He knew he should tell his mum — show her his stone-coloured shins. But he couldn’t be bothered. It
didn’t seem to matter any more. Nothing seemed to matter that much, to be honest. He thought about
school and his mates and the X-Wing fighter and his dad and none of it seemed important — none of
it was worth worrying about. And when he thought of the darkness now, it wasn’t as something scary,
but just as something that was. It couldn’t be changed. So there was no point fighting it really.
That night, he went to bed as usual. He lay for some minutes in the green glow of his rocket lamp,
listening to the humming which now encircled him like hornets. And then, without even really thinking
about what he was doing, he reached out and turned off his lamp.
Darkness.

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 A Fume of Sighs
by Lucy Singh

My dearest Olivia,
I write these lines to you in the certain knowledge that tomorrow, I will be dead. There is nothing that
can prevent my fate — I am sure of it. The only course of action left to me now is to explain what has
led me to this dreadful conclusion, and to beg your forgiveness. That, above all else, is what I desire
the most.
These past few years with you have been the happiest of my life, but I would be lying if I said that
they were not overshadowed by the terrible events of the Great War. As you know, Patrick and I both
signed up together; we felt it was our duty to serve King and Country as best we could. The day we said
goodbye to our quiet Oxfordshire village and waved to you from the train window, I know Patrick was
heartbroken. What I could never admit to you, was that I also felt cast down. For even then, I loved you
completely. But how could I tell you? You were my brother’s girl, and nothing could change that.
Or so I thought.
There are no words to describe the horrors that were waiting for us once we had completed our
training and we were shipped overseas. The trenches on the Front were hellholes which have haunted
me ever since. The sheer noise of them! The screams and the shelling and the scuttling of the rats.
These sounds circle my ears even when I lie beside you in the cool calm of our bed on a summer’s
morning in Oxfordshire. The hell has followed me home, and there is no escaping it.
But it is more than the sheer misery of the trenches which haunts me. As you know, it was on 27th June,
1916 that Patrick met his end. What you don’t know are the circumstances surrounding his death.
It was afternoon when it happened. Patrick and I were sitting on our bunks, assembling our weapons
for another push across No-Man’s Land later that day. The others were outside, patrolling or sharing a
fag or doing one of the million other small things which broke up our monotonous days in those pits.
Patrick’s bunk was always the neatest of us all. He had a knack for that — he’d always been the tidy

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one, even when we were growing up as boys. Mother used to scold me, why can’t you be more like
Patrick? Why can’t you be a neat and tidy boy, like him? My sheets were always rumpled, my pillow was
always skewed. But Patrick, his was always straight. Perfect Patrick.
Above his bed, he had a photograph of you, tacked to the wall. It’s the one I have now, stuck to the
bathroom mirror. In it, you are smiling at the camera, your hair in a long, soft braid curling over your
shoulders. Once, that smile was just for him. Now, it is for me.
The shout was like a pistol shot. "Gas!" For a split second, Patrick and I stared at each other, our mouths
open in stupid surprise, before we both started fumbling for our gas masks. They were lying on the
floor in front of us, ready to be taken when we emerged from the trench. I was a fraction quicker than
Patrick — I grabbed his mask, and frantically strapped it on. Already I could sense the thick yellow
smoke seeping through the air. Helpfully, I handed Patrick the remaining mask.
My mask.
He got it on, and we stood there, looking at each other through the haze of scratched glass. I think he
knew, almost immediately. I watched his eyes widen in panic as the yellow fog started to seep through
the tiny hole I had made in the glass with a screw. It had taken many hours of careful whittling to
fashion that hole, many hours in the dark of the night while Patrick lay in his perfect bed, dreaming of
the sweetheart he would never return to.
I am sure you don’t want to read about the manner of his death. It was not pretty. I admit that. Death
by gas is one of the worst ways to go. Finally, he stopped kicking and clutching at his mask, and lay,
silent and heavy, looking up with unseeing eyes at the picture of you.
I reached over him and plucked your photo from the wall, placing it in my pocket. You didn’t belong in
such a scene.
I wrote to you of Patrick’s death, and I know you still have that letter, tucked into the Bible you keep
on your bedside table. I meant every word that I wrote. I was sorry he was gone. He did love you truly
and completely.
It’s just that I loved you more.
I was the happiest man on earth, the day you consented to be my bride. It was a difficult decision for
you, I know, but the war was over and life must go on. And I think we have been happy, have we not?
It was last month that I started to realise our happiness was coming to an end. I was in the bathroom
one morning, having just run a hot basin of water to shave in. I glanced up at my reflection, and was
about to wipe away the steam from the mirror, when I saw it.
When I saw him.
He was standing behind me, still wearing his gas mask. The glass was smattered with froth and blood,
just as it had been as he lay motionless on his bed in the trench. Frantic, I reeled round to confront
the ghoul, but there was nothing there. I thought it could perhaps have been an illusion, a trick of my
brain, but when I turned back to the mirror, I realised this was wishful thinking. There, scrawled on the
steamed glass, was the date, 27th June.
Cursing, I wiped the writing off with a shaking hand. I knew the significance of that date more than any
other. More, even than the date of our wedding anniversary. It was a month away.
I didn’t tell you about what I had seen. How could I? The following day, I ran my basin of water with
trembling hands. Sure enough, as the steam rose up the mirror, the ghostly apparition appeared,
standing behind my right shoulder. This time, I did not turn, but instead watched the writing form on

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the glass as if written by an invisible hand. 27th June.
He has appeared to me every morning since. Perfect Patrick. And I know, my love, that he will come for
the final time tomorrow, 27th June. This time, he will not leave without me.
I am reminded of a line from Romeo and Juliet, which I studied as a boy at school. ‘Love is a smoke
raised with the fume of sighs.’ I think my brain has been clouded with the smoke of love. But now,
finally, I can wipe the glass clean and see clearly. The smokescreen is lifted, and it is time to face the
horrors behind it.
Do not sigh for me, my love. Forgive me. That is all I ask.
Yours forever,
Joseph.

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Notes: 

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