Once again, and with a heavy sigh, I found myself at Crewe station. It would appear at this point in my life that all roads eventually lead to Crewe station, or perhaps all roads lead away and I was just turned around.
On this particular occasion I was returning home from doing some temp work in Cheltenham. I was a catering chef and was often away for a couple of weeks at a time, going wherever people needed to pay an eye-watering amount of money for some finger sandwiches and dry scones. I’d just missed my connection and according to the board my next train was delayed, indefinitely it would seem. I walked to the end of the platform and lit a cigarette. Crewe is a no smoking station, they all are now I suppose, but at this time of night there was nobody around to complain.
I sat on my suitcase and thought about how much I’d enjoy a hot shower and a night in my own bed when a shabby figure shuffled towards me. Of course I thought it wouldn’t be Crewe if I didn’t get accosted by some nutter, after money or a smoke no doubt.
“’Scuse me mate,” he rasped, “Don’t I know you?”
Heard this one before, I thought.
“Don’t think so. I think you must be mistaken,” I replied
“Nah nah, I know you. We worked down at the Rochester last year, in the summer. It’s Mikey.” I looked at him closely. I remembered Mikey. This guy was a lot thinner, and looked a lot older, but I recognised his face.
“Mikey? Sorry, I didn’t recognise you. You look…”
“Yeah, I look like hammered shit,” he laughed a throaty laugh.
“What happened?” I asked. He raised his eyebrows and scratched absentmindedly at his stubbled chin.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me,” I said, intrigued.
“Go on then,” he agreed after a little consideration. “Give us a ciggie and I’ll tell you.” I passed him the pack and he sat on the platform with his back against the wall. He lit the cigarette and pulled a can of beer out of his coat pocket; Kestrel or Breaker or something of the sort.
“After last summer,” he started, “work dried up for a bit. You know the story: summer season’s done and nobody’s hiring until Christmas time, so I took what I could get. Worked at the staff canteen at a Sainsbury’s for a week, even. But I found a job in this old country house up in Yorkshire, like. Middle of fucking nowhere it was, but that’s why they was hiring I thought: can’t get the staff out there, like, so I go for it. I think its going to be easy enough; quiet hotel, bit of breakfast, bit of afternoon tea, fillet steak for the gents, fish for the ladies sort of thing. The money was decent and I wasn’t exactly spoilt for choice like. Dunwich Grange it was called.”
He took a swig of his beer.
“But when I got there, it was weird. I didn’t think too much of it at first; those kind of places are always a bit odd. The back of beyond, big families if you catch my drift. My first day in the kitchen the head chef, this short stocky guy he was, dirty apron, he put me to work in the butchery room. This little windowless room off the back of the kitchen, with a huge old school butcher block in it. You know the kind that’s been used so much its got a dip in the middle? I thought they must have had a wedding on or something the amount of meat there was. They had me jointing whole sheep, hundreds of chickens, sides of beef, legs of pork. They just kept bringing stuff in and taking stuff out, the chef and this other lad. I worked twelve hours straight until he came in and told me I was done for the day.
“Next day, same thing. Whole deer to break down, partridges, pigeons, wild ducks, rabbit. All day breaking bones and pulling out guts. Blood under my fingernails, the smell of it my nose, that sickly gamey smell like copper and horse shit. But after twelve hours were up he sends me off. The third day I was in a daze. Thought it must’ve just been the work, but I couldn’t recognise anything I was working on that day, something that looked like a hare, skinned and bloody, could’ve been a cat. There was things with extra legs, things that looked like giant bats. But I was in a trance, like, just gutting and jointing and breaking and cutting. I didn’t stop for hours.”
He paused and went to take a drag on his cigarette. Realising it had gone out I passed him the lighter. He lit the half smoked fag, inhaled deeply and muttered. The cherry ember of the cigarette cast strange shadows on his face.
“I swear some of those things weren’t even dead.”
I felt a cold shiver run up my spine.
“But on the fourth day I got into the kitchen and the chef had me and this other lad – weird albino lad, never said anything, gormless look on his face the whole time. He had us bring all the meat I’d been butchering out from the walk in chiller. Load it up on trolleys and follow him.
“He took us up the lift to a room at the top of the house. It was the first time I’d seen inside the hotel since I’d been there. I’d been staying at a B&B down the road. The room was dark; even though it was well past nine in the morning the curtains were all drawn and the lights were off. But it was the smell of it, my god I’ll never forget that smell. It smelt like rotten meat and shit and death. He had us line the trolleys in front of the bed. I hadn’t noticed when we’d come in because it was too dark but there was someone in the bed. The chef lit these two big candles next to the bed, like big church candles… and that’s when I saw it. This hideous thing, hairless and wrinkled, no bigger than a child. It looked like a skinned rabbit, pale pink with a small swollen belly. Its eyes were milky and filmed over and it looked like it didn’t have any teeth, just black rotten gums. It crawled over the filthy bed sheets towards us. The chef and the albino lad suddenly started chanting and start throwing the meat onto the bed. I think to myself I should get out of here, I should run, but I couldn’t move. I was transfixed watching this thing.
“It unhinged its jaw like one of them snakes and ate these chunks of meat whole, swallowing them in one wet gulp. It ate quickly, starting with the smaller cuts, and as the chanting got faster it moved onto the larger cuts. The chef and the albino pushed me forward with them closer to the bed. When we were close enough the creature, its gummy mouth all sticky with blood, leapt at the albino lad. It opened its mouth wide and ate him, sucking the flesh from his bones.
“It went from his head down, gulping as it swallowed his shoulders then his chest. But as it got to his waist the lad’s legs buckled and the thing fell back, knocking one of the candles over. The candle fell against the curtain, which set on fire. The chef let out an animal roar next to me, like a shot bear, throwing his hands into the air. I came to. Whatever hold this thing had over me was gone, and I bolted. I ran out that door, and I kept running. I didn’t look back until I was outside and I could see thick black smoke pouring out the window upstairs. I watched for an hour as the flames engulfed the building. I watched until I heard sirens in the distance. Someone must have noticed the smoke. I got in my car and I drove and I drove. I drove my car off the road into a ditch some hundred miles away. I woke up in the hospital.”
“Fuck…” I said. I didn’t know if he was making it up or if he was crazy. “Fuck…” I repeated, as I could think of nothing better to say.
“Yeah, that about sums it up: fuck.” He laughed but there was no humour it.
It was then my train pulled into the station.
“This you?” he asked.
“Er… yeah,” I said.
“Don’t suppose you could lend us a couple of quid, could ya?” he asked, scratching at his cheek with his free hand. I rummaged around in my pockets and handed him what little change I had.
“Cheers, mate. Take care.” And with that he turned and walked down the platform. I got on the train and tried to put it all out of my mind.
Strange thing was, I looked up that place, Dunwich Grange. There was a newspaper article about the fire there. They said they were still looking for a man in connection with a suspected arson attack.
Dominic Simmonds is a short story writer and chef and likes to combine the two where possible. Originally from North Lincolnshire Dominic has a BA in German from Bangor University and currently lives in Birmingham with his wife and several houseplants.