Andrew was a kind, considerate schoolmaster, but he’d never encountered an original thought and had no imagination.
One evening on holiday walking in the wilds of Lincolnshire, he was tired and looking forward to reaching the pub. In the mist he noticed the outline of a young fellow in a trench coat. He looked lost so Andrew, a kind chap, asked, ‘Can I help you?’
Andrew didn’t understand a word the man replied. Confused, he bade him farewell and gaped as the man disappeared into the gloom.
Later at the pub he was drinking with locals and he told them of his encounter. A young woman shrieked, put her hand to her mouth, and ran to the lavatory.
Andrew described the man’s small stature, short black hair and long coat. But he couldn’t remember the man’s face, only then did he realise it was featureless: no nose, no lips, no eyes.
‘Buy the next round and I’ll tell you a story,’ a youth promised as he passed Andrew his tankard. Andrew, a trusting soul, took orders.
‘That man you saw, did he speak funny?’ the youth asked.
Andrew conceded that he did.
‘That was Patrick the Pole. Died in a raid on Lithland airstrip in 1944. He walks the lanes most nights. He got no eyes; burnt out, can’t see.’
‘Don’t talk rot,’ Andrew retorted, ‘I’m not some tourist, don’t tell me tales.’
The room chilled. A shadow passed the window and a faceless ghoul shambled into the outdoors Gents.
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Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 