Night Terrors Vol. 5: Short Horror Stories Anthology

The Fish’r Men

By David Turton

What in the name of God d’ya wanna go there for?”

The landlord leaned away from the bar as he spoke as if to flinch from an unseen assailant.

I swigged my ale and grinned.

“I’m a writer,” I replied, wiping the froth from my lips. “More specifically, I compile the Great British Fish n’ Chips Almanac. I keep my ear to the ground, and I heard someone—a reliable source—say that’s where they did the best fish n’ chips he’d ever tasted. In a tiny inn on Asunder Island.”

“Never heard anybody say that mind,” the landlord scoffed. “There’s not much there, y’know? Why don’t I rustle up some fish n’ chips, and we’ll see if that makes it into your annual?” “Almanac,” I corrected. “And I’m sorry, but I always take tips from this source. I need to visit the island. I’ve come a long way.”

“I’ll draw a map for yer, but ye’ll regret it. No one ever goes out there anymore. Strange folk down there. I s’pose ye’ll find out for yerself if you take a wander down the cliffs. Now, think here, ask yourself this… is yer source a friend or a foe?”

I rubbed my eyes as the landlord walked behind the bar and out of sight. Of course, the source was a friend. Why would he stitch me up? Steve Burley was a chef, a trusted pal for over a year. He’d given me a hot tip in South Devon that turned out to be the best fish n’ chips I’d ever tasted. And now, this recommendation, up to an area I’d seldom been. It had taken me a full day of train travel to reach the Northumberland coast in the wild upper reaches of North East England, and I was getting tired. I’d been busy compiling the fourth edition of the almanac, the 1911 issue, for the past three months. I loved the job, the traveling, the writing, the exploring. Fish n’ chips, the British staple. And my almanac was selling almost as much as that glorious dish.

My trips mainly took me to secluded coastal locations, generally the fresher the fish, the better it tasted. But fishing villages were unfriendly, edgy places at the best of times. Gruff locals whose accents I rarely understood. Tough men as rugged as the rocky shores where they made their living.

“Here ye go,” said the landlord, returning with a ragged piece of paper. He’d crudely drawn a map in thick lines of pencil. “Walk half a mile from here, toward the sea. When ye come to the cliff top, look for a path. It’s steep, mind, but ye should be able to get down if ye lower yerself. Crawl on yer back if needs be.”

I nodded and gestured for him to continue. The landlord traced a stubby, tar-blackened finger across the map.

“When ye reach the shore, there’s a path to the island. If ye dinnit see it, wait an hour or two.”

I squinted at him. “A path? To the island? So, it’s not a proper island?”

“Aye and no. If ye dinnit see the path, wait.”

“Isn’t there a boat I can catch?”

“Oh, ye can take a boat,” the landlord replied, an eyebrow raised and the beginnings of a smirk growing from the corner of his mouth, “if ye wanna drown, that is.”

I laughed and took the scrap of paper. This was turning out to be an interesting trip.

“Ye won’t find it so funny when yer there, son,” the landlord warned, his smile vanished.

“Rough place is it? Don’t worry, I’ve visited a few parochial, unwelcoming fishing places in the past, my friend.”

“Ye could say that,” the landlord replied, rubbing his chin. “Last warning, don’t go. However nice those fish n’ chips are, I can’t think they’d be worth a trip to the armpit of nowhere.” “What’ve you got against the place?” I asked. “Honestly?”

The landlord’s face seemed to darken a little as the light dwindled outside. “Nowt, I can explain. Go down there, ye’ll see. And then ye’ll wish ye followed me advice.”