R. L. Boyle studied Classical Civilisation at the University of Leeds, after which she worked in a variety of jobs – none of which had anything to do with her degree. Her debut, The Book of the Baku, was published in 2021, and was shortlisted for a Bram Stoker Award in the YA category.
She lives in Leeds with her husband and three sons.
R.L. Boyle’s website is: rlboyle.co.uk
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NOW
Some stories are true that never happened.
Elie Wiesel
Sean runs through the garden, his only thought to put as much distance as he can between himself and his pursuer. Rain pours down the back of his neck, and his torch slices the blackness as he pumps his arms, a rapid seesawing blade of light. He fights a path through the bracken, heedless of the way it scratches and tears at his skin, gritting his teeth against the pain in his swollen knee.
He slams into the door of the shed as he hears an abrasive grating. Without looking, he knows the stone cherubs have turned to watch him. He tries to slide the key into the lock, but his hand is shaking too much.
Snatching a glance over his shoulder, he sees the figure coast towards him, not twenty paces away now. It glides as smoothly as if it were moving on runners. Though the rain-thrashed garden is otherwise clear of mist, the figure rides upon a thick bank of fog that obscures it from the waist down.
With a sob Sean turns back to the door and uses both hands to guide the key home. The lock clicks open and he is inside. He slams the door behind him, locks it, then grabs the chair and wedges it beneath the door handle, before backing away.
He strains to hear over the muffled thump of his own heartbeat, his ragged breath, the rain drumming on the corrugated roof of the shed, the wind whisking the trees. He is trapped. Trapped by the thing waiting for him on the other side of the door.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Sean’s horror swells. He jumps back and bangs his hip against the edge of the desk, knocking the pages of Grandad’s manuscript to the floor. His legs crumble like dry sand. Huddled on the ground in a puddle of scattered papers, he points the muzzle of his gun at the door.
He is soaked in sweat.
Shuddering.
He shakes his head slowly from side to side. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real.
A sudden burst of static erupts from the old radio on the desk. It fades, as though tuned by an invisible hand, to the voice of a male broadcaster.
‘Has died in her 102nd year. Buckingham Palace said the end was peaceful, and the Queen was at her side. Members of the royal family—’
Sean’s eyes trace the length of the cord, which lies on the floor like a dead snake. Plug pins pointing upwards towards the ceiling. Drawing electricity only from the air’s malignant energy.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Chills ripple over his skin. Breathing hard, he tightens his finger on the trigger, ignoring the sly whisper in his thoughts that says there is nothing he can do to protect himself.
‘“She was,” he said, “admired by all people, of all ages and backgrounds, revered within our borders and beyond. Parliament is to be recalled for MPs to pay their tributes next week. The Queen Mother’s body will be—’
The broadcaster’s voice sounds old-fashioned, laced with the elegance of a bygone era.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
‘…who, at times, had seemed so indestructible, but whose life finally ebbed away at a quarter past three this afternoon. She died at her home close to the castle, where she’d been since the funeral of her younger daughter, Princess Margaret—’
The key pops out of the lock, lands with a dull thunk on the floor. Blowflies stream through the gap in the keyhole, the low drone of their beating wings accompanying the basal chord of Sean’s own horror. They darken every surface, an undulating mass that makes the room pulse like a living thing.
The door handle begins to turn.
Sean’s heart slams into his sternum. He wants to press his eyes closed and pretend he is somewhere else, somewhere bright and loud and warm, or just somewhere – anywhere – far away from here.
But he can’t look away.
Can’t move.
A tear tracks a path down his cheek, like the tip of an ice-cold finger. He stares at the door handle as it twists, knowing what stands on the other side, knowing what has come for him.
The Baku.
(C) R L Boyle 2021