Hole in the Wall (Sunday Mercury 'Chiller' Competition)

This is the story which got printed in the Sunday Mercury in 2007. Funnily enough, I expected it to get picked; my writing ego had yet to be truly punctured by such a thing as 'thanks, but it's not for us'. I have the original copy of it somewhere to scan in, where it was printed alongside another story about a demonic cow.

I have to admit I pinched an old English legend for the plot, from a Reader's Digest book called Folklore and Myths of Great Britain. I got my hands on my own copy last year and it was as entertaining as I remember it being. This tale is from Nottinghamshire, where an old blind fiddler takes a bet to walk into the Devil's Hole, a tunnel outside of town. Read on if you dare...

Hole in the Wall

By Chris Stanley

   ‘Brew up!’ Harry held up a tray with four steaming mugs of tea. The others downed tools and wandered over.

   Dave took a sip of his drink, which always impressed the others. Dave was fearless, and didn’t seem to feel pain. He only ever seemed to soften for his dog, who came with them on every job. Even though it was smelly, not one of them complained – at least, not to Dave’s face.

   The crew were renovating an old stately home, which had been put up for auction by the new owners. It was decrepit but valuable. They were in the cellar of the house, sorting the foundations and the damp. It reeked of wet plaster and brick dust. Wes made a point of covering the top of his tea every time Harry brewed up.

   There was a lull in the conversation. The dog’s ears pricked up and Dave fussed its head. ‘What is it, Pluto?’

   ‘Probably needs the loo,’ grumbled Rob, and the others chuckled. Dave scowled.

   ‘I can hear something, though,’ claimed Harry, straining. ‘Listen for a minute.’

   They stopped chatting and listened. There appeared to be a faint sound, a scratching, coming from the far wall. Wes grabbed a trowel and tapped at the brickwork. The sound became hollow, and it wasn’t long before they were in front of it, tools in hand.

   ‘Shall we knock it in, Dave?’ said Rob. ‘If it’s rats, the owners will want them gone.’

   Dave thought for a moment and then swung his mallet at the wall. It took them an hour to break through the brick and a layer of stone, to be confronted by a large gap. The scratching had gone.

   ‘It’s a tunnel,’ gasped Wes. Pluto was sniffing at the entrance.

   ‘That’s called a gloryhole,’ added Harry. ‘The rich used to hide stuff in ‘em when they were gonna be away a long time. Themselves, sometimes.’

   ‘I wonder if there’s anything in there,’ Rob asked.

   ‘I ain’t goin’,’ said Wes, and Harry agreed.

   ‘You bunch of cowards,’ Dave chided. ‘I’ll do it. If I find anything, I’m keepin’ it, though.’

   Dave patted Pluto and geed him up. Pluto didn’t seem that keen. Dave shined a torch into the hole but it had little effect. ‘See you lads in a bit. Get the kettle on.’

   Dave pushed Pluto into the hole and followed. He shouted behind him as he walked. ‘It’s longer than I thought. Can’t see much though.’ His voice echoed off the narrow walls.

   His comments were ended by a blood-curdling scream. The three Dave left behind stared in horror at the hole. Suddenly Pluto shot through them all, howling and whimpering, and lay down in the far corner of the room.

   Rob stood at the hole, shouting. ‘Great joke, Dave. Now come out, soft lad!’

   It was Harry and Wes who stopped him. Calling him over to where the dog was cowering, they stood in terror wondering what had singed every hair on Pluto’s body.