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    Into the Night: Short Story
    Into the Night: Short Story
    Into the Night: Short Story
    Ebook61 pages50 minutes

    Into the Night: Short Story

    By James Loscombe

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    About this ebook

    Trust No One

    Surviving has always been a challenge for Grace and her brother, Ben. When they are abandoned by their family, they can't even rely on the restrictive security of New Haven to protect them. A kindly old woman seems like their best chance in the wilderness but, when she kidnaps Ben, Grace has to face her darkest fears or risk losing her brother forever.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJames Loscombe
    Release dateApr 5, 2019
    ISBN9781540172068
    Into the Night: Short Story
    Author

    James Loscombe

    James Loscombe has been publishing under various pen names for the last five years. He lives in England with his wife Tamzin and their sons Jude and Oscar.

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      Book preview

      Into the Night - James Loscombe

      If you would like to read more by James then check out http://jloscombe.com/books/ where you will find a complete list of releases.

      If you would like to be the first to know when new titles are available (and receive copies of all James’ short stories for free, then click here http://jloscombe.com/subscribe/ to register.

      The old woman watched as the embers of the fire died and the night became black. The others, the young men and their women, huddled around the fire, trying to absorb the last of its warmth. She watched them with curiosity, she felt no need for warmth herself. A full stomach and the hope of more to come was all she needed.

      She sat on a sharp rock, huddled in a dark shawl which was more for appearance than warmth. The other figures around the dead fire became dark shapes in the dark forest. Not one of them turned to look at her when they started getting up and moving to their tents. When she was alone she felt free from the burden of them.

      The old woman sat a while in the cold, dark forest. She could hear owls and other night birds in the distance but they wouldn’t come near her camp. They seemed to know that there was something wrong with her.

      There was little need for sleep at her age, but appearances were part of her disguise. Already she could hear snoring from behind the flimsy canvas walls. If they woke in the morning and found her still sitting there, questions would be asked. History had shown that kinder people than them had turned on more innocent people than her.

      Bones cracked and joints popped as she stood. They never asked her age and she didn’t think they would believe her if she told them. Only the young and the healthy were supposed to have survived, but there were others, like her, who had lived because they were prepared to do things that no one else was. They were the rumour that scared wanderers whispered about, they were the reason why the towns built walls, they were why people had fled from the wilderness and locked themselves away.

      There was a mattress on the floor of her tent and a chair beside it. She lowered her aching bones into the chair. She closed her eyes, although sleep was a fleeting memory. If anyone came they would see an old woman asleep in her chair, but no one would. They owed her their lives but kept their distance.

      If people knew the truth, she thought, they would hardly believe the wicked things she had done in order to survive. Things she never would have believed herself capable of in the before. The fact that she was there to think about them now proved that she hadn’t known herself very well.

      When the end had come it had been just the two of them. She was the good wife, the one who raised his children and never pointed out that if he had treated his first wife better she might not have hung herself. It was only in the secret space behind her eyes, where even he couldn’t get to her, that she wondered what she had done to deserve him.

      His first wife had escaped in the only way that had been available to her. She had been prepared to take her life as well, but after the end, she had found that there was another option.

      It happened nearly six months after the last of her friends had gone. The snow had fallen consistently for weeks and left her a prisoner in her own home. He was her prison guard.

      They barely spoke to one another, but it had been that way since before the end. When he wanted to communicate he used his fists, or, one time, a hammer. The two smallest fingers on her right hand were still limp and lifeless and they would never mend.

      That evening they’d sat in front of the fire and she’d known that there wasn’t enough wood to provide another night of warmth. Their food had been running low and soon he would be out of the drink.

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