Dave Jeffery is the author of 18 novels, two collections, and numerous short stories. His Necropolis Rising series and yeti adventure Frostbite have both featured on the Amazon #1 bestseller list. Other work includes the critically acclaimed Beatrice Beecham supernatural mystery series for young adults, and the A Quiet Apocalypse series. His Campfire Chillers collection made the 2012 Edge Hill Prize long-list, and his screenwriting credits include award winning short films Ascension and Derelict. He is a long-time contributor to Phantasmagoria Magazine, a first reader for Space and Time Magazine, and a regular book reviewer for The British Fantasy Society. Prior to retirement in 2019, Jeffery worked for 35 years in the National Health Service (NHS), specialising in the field of mental health nursing and risk management. He holds a BSc (Hons) in Mental Health Studies and a Master of Science Degree in Health Studies. During this time, he has worked with Whurr International, Wiley & Sons, and the Royal College of Nursing’s Mental Health Practice Magazine, writing academic papers and research articles. His literary criticism is currently under contract with Bloomsbury Academic and Peter Lang Publishing, and he is co-editor of the forthcoming Flame Tree Press anthology This Way Lies Madness. He is a mentor on the Horror Writers Association’s Mentorship Scheme, and the 2023 recipient of the HWA Mentor of the Year Award. Jeffery is currently co-chair of the HWA Wellness Committee. Read more at: https://www.davejefferyauthor.com/
An Author Note on ‘ONCE’
'Once' is a story from my new collection Mood Swings (Black Shuck Books). Its origins stem from my work with the Horror Writers Association (HWA) Mental Health Initiative (alongside the exceptional Lee Murray). It was written after chairing an inspirational HWA virtual panel for StokerCon 2023, where contributors were asked to explore ways to improve the portrayal of mental illness in literary horror. One such method was that of horror as a metaphor for the lived experience of mental illness. 'Once' is my attempt to apply this construct to the craft.
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You are there again, standing by the window, gazing out upon the garden, seeing something I cannot, like a secret, carefully and expertly kept. As clockwork, this routine; a late-night affair where confusion seems to be the only available suitor. Or the only one with whom you feel at home.
The cottage is cool, the bedsheets a warm memory; the hearth of the fireplace is as dark as these current times, ever waiting for some spark to tend the kindling and bring back the faded light of hope to my weathered heart. Watching you – the sentinel frozen in a private vigil – puts distance in this cramped space; we are empty as the void, and as vast as the cosmos.
Things were so different, once. Do you remember those days in Worcester, the river walks where the air was heady with the scent of summer; the surge and rush of the river Severn as it traversed the weir? Holding hands, stolen kisses under gloomy bridges, smiles bright, eyes only for each other in those lazy yet lengthy moments. We made promises then, the kind that cement relationships, the kind that transcend love and carnal desire. The kind that well and truly last. Romance was our comfort, but all too quickly the blanket became a shroud, the world opaque, trapping us within a grim reality, where someone could stand before you, yet you would remain so lost.
A scuff and shuffle of mule slippers over the pile, the rug a wedding present from your mother. Now it is aged and she, quite dead. I watched you mourn her, my arm wrapped about yours, the sky a dull iron, our hearts just as heavy. Was this where it all began, I wonder, this infernal distance? Is this what keeps you here on this earth, near yet so far away from my love, from what it used to mean, and the way it used to solve so many of your ills? Like you with your mother on that grey and sullen day, I also grieve, but for you, for the person you were before these moments of private counsel where I am nothing more than a mere observer.
I am bitter, sour to the point of curdled cream. Sometimes it eats through what little solace I find, until the forlorn stink of dread and hopelessness threatens to suffocate. In the clutch of ragged breath, I have watched our tiny world turn, while I grip the breakfast bar or dressing table so I may remain steadfast and upright. So I may present this resolute persona. Spinning rooms stir up memories.
Things were so different, once. Do you remember our date at the ice rink in Tamworth? You said I looked like Bambi on ice, and I said you talked in clichés. You laughed, that infectious guffaw, and said “touché!” Later that day, we had dinner at Portobello, and you told me you loved me more than tortellini before putting on your meaningful face and saying with all earnestness that I was your world, and you’d never leave. Neither of us knew how hollow such a promise was to become; a sentiment and a curse fused as love.
© Dave Jeffery 2024