Treeskull Stories

Treeskull Stories

Edited by

H.K. Hillman

and

Roo B. Doo

The third Underdog Anthology from Leg Iron Books

Halloween 2017

Disclaimer

These stories are works of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious context. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, or to any events or locales is entirely coincidental. If any of the events described have really happened to you then I’m afraid that’s your own problem.

Copyright notice

Smashwords edition

All stories are copyright of the original authors.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the relevant author, other than brief quotes used in reviews.

This collection © Leg Iron Books, 2017.

Cover art by H. K. Hillman.

Contents

Disclaimer and Copyright notices

Foreword

Lee Bidgood

Cobalt Blue

Stephen W. Duffy

All Change

Mark Ellott

Tout Passé, Tout Cassé, Tout Lassé

Ghost Riders

The Eagle

Roo B. Doo

Trick or Treat

Justin Sunshine

Casual Labour

H. K. Hillman

Bernie’s Bargain

The Macbeth Trio

Oak and Holly

Afterword

Leg Iron Books

Foreword

H. K. Hillman

The cover image exists in the real world. Specifically, it exists in my garden. I didn’t put it there.

A year ago I moved into a farmhouse in the wilds of Scotland. Cheap rent because it needed some work and I was prepared to do at least some of it. The garden had been neglected for at least a year so the landlord sent in professional herbicidal maniacs to help me get started.

Armed with chainsaws and all manner of petrol powered death machines, they hacked the garden back to a point where it could be at least considered ‘possible to manage’. In the process of cutting back the huge holly tree they discovered the skull embedded in it. At that point they stopped cutting.

I have no idea why it’s there but I’m going to leave it there. I like it. The tree will eventually grow around it again although I am pruning to keep it visible. When I know I am going to leave I will stop pruning.

It was, indeed, the inspiration for the title of this book. The tree/three pun was irresistible and the Halloween connection perfect.

And so, here we are at the third Underdog Anthology on what is really the one-year mark for Leg Iron Books. Although conceived in March 2016, the first publication (The Underdog Anthology) did not appear until Halloween 2016.

We have a new author in this volume, Lee Bidgood, who also has a novel that will be available in the near future. Stephen W. Duffy returns as do Mark Ellott, Justin Sunshine and Roo B. Doo and of course, your humble (don’t scoff) editor.

There are plans for a Christmas anthology and more books to come in the future. This publishing idea took off a lot faster than I expected but I’m good with that.

I have babbled enough. Without further ado, I present the Treeskull Stories for your enjoyment.

(contents page)

About the Author

Lee Bidgood

Lee Bidgood currently resides in the south-east of England. He used to work in the UK civil service but was given the opportunity to lose his job and save the country some money.

Now free, however, he is expected to make a full recovery. In the meantime, he spends his time writing stuff for fun.

He does not maintain a social media presence, whatever that actually means, so complaints should be forwarded to Leg Iron Books who will ignore them on his behalf.

(contents page)

Cobalt Blue

Lee Bidgood

1

Everybody seated in the circle wore a bright orange jumpsuit. This, it was claimed, helped them to be seen more clearly, although by whom or what had not been explained. Certainly, it had not removed the need for the Facilitator to stare at everyone as he paced amid the chairs.

He stopped and pointed at Jade.

Did you bring the watch? he whispered at her. Hold it up! Wave it! No, slower. They won’t be able to tell the make.

Jade slowed her hand as instructed. Then she became confused: should she continue this circular motion or flap her hand up and down? She looked up for inspiration. The harsh strip lighting burned back at her. The lights gave the room the aura of an operating theatre, which was appropriate because Jade had a vivid memory of the one in which she had died.

A near death experience, if you will, although in her case it had progressed onto actual death, to the afterlife, and to here: The Communication Experience, as the sign stated above the door. A chance to get back in touch with the ones you’d left behind. Or failing that, the chance to wave a watch at them.

It’s only a bloody ten-quid Casio, Jade muttered. Why do they need to know the brand?

Please! The Facilitator whispered again, moving closer to Jade and squinting at her name badge. Miss – it was Miss, wasn’t it? Yes? - Miss Reddy. Please, you must concentrate. The connection is distorted intentionally, but we must still give the medium over there as much visual aid as we can. I do not make the rules.

The other eleven faces in the circle stared at Jade. She blushed. She wanted to just stand up and scream, It’s me, it’s me, I’m here, are you okay over there? How’s the weather? But the Facilitator would not tolerate that.

Jade could tell from his buzz haircut and military demeanour that he would merely strut and demand more mime. It was the way the death-to-life communication thing worked. An entire industry was built upon this model – more over the living side of things, but the point remained – and it was doing very nicely. As the Facilitator had explained at Jade’s first session, they did not need someone coming along and ruining it with contrary stuff like facts.

A distant female voice crackled through the speakers mounted on each wall. I’m seeing a watch, the voice said, quite literally from the other side. It’s silver...and it’s gleaming…it’s an expensive, silver watch. Does this mean anything to anybody here?

Jade sighed. She knew that proof of her own survival beyond death would mean quite a lot to her living sister, who was over there now in Row B, Seat Three, at the Brewhouse Theatre in Taunton. It would to anyone, right? The biggest question of them all, proven and solved.

She knew that her sister was there because she had seen the seating plan; it was why Jade had been dragged along to this session in the first place. But it was unclear why Katherine Reddy would recognise contact from her dead sister via a ten-quid digital watch. It had never really cropped up in conversation. Katherine had never said, ooh, I like your retro Casio. Jade had only bought the thing to wear during the day because it reduced the chances of her getting mugged. And anyway, hadn’t the medium just described the thing as expensive? The woman had the wrong person, clearly.

Confused, Jade mouthed to the Facilitator: shall I stop?

The Facilitator shook his head. There would be no stopping.

Jade tried again. That dark blue dress, she shouted, her sudden loudness making the man next to her jump. The one from Next. Remember? I lent it to you just before I-

The Facilitator loomed down at her, his face reddening. Do not shout, he seethed. Under any circumstances.

This instruction obviously resonated with the rest of the circle, because they all nodded.

He’s right, Jade’s neighbour whispered. No words.

But why? Jade stopped waggling the Casio. She had had enough. Can’t I just tell Katherine it’s me instead of all, well…all this? She dropped the watch into her lap.

The Facilitator glanced around at the microphones fixed to the walls, as if checking that they could not hear him. Then he leant in closer. No, he said, you cannot. Because if you did, then it would prove to them over there that us over here were actually here.

But we are here! For death’s sake, the afterlife is real! Jade checked herself. They were all staring at her again. Isn’t that why we’re here right now? To tell them? she said, but forgot to lower her voice.

The voice whined back at her through the speakers: You’re there? You said that you’re there right now? What do you want to tell us?

Shit. The Facilitator grabbed the watch from Jade’s lap and waved it desperately at the Form-Camera™ hanging above the circle. This camera transposed high-definition visuals into thought waves for transmission to the mediums on the other, living side. The mediums then received these messages by tuning into their talent, as they would put it – which, in reality, simply meant that they concentrated really hard whilst pretending to speak to the dead. They just had no idea that they actually were. It was complicated and yet, in Jade’s view, so very simple. The spiritualists, mediums and outrageous fakes that so amused her when she was alive were actually the real deal all along. It’s just that they didn’t know it. Duped by their own dupery. Brilliant.

Even so, Jade was frustrated. She would give anything to contact her sister directly and let her know she was okay. The end had been so awful and sudden. A Monday afternoon, a main road; Jade walking, not paying attention, looking down as she shuffled songs on her phone. And then her stepping out onto a junction she had crossed a million times, not seeing the car to her right; bang, blood, fall, pain, white across her eyes and, snap, gone, nothing.

Blackness. Flickering memories of different things. The faces above her, concerned, some panicking. First on the street, and then in an ambulance. And then the scene became brightly lit and clear, as the flickering stopped and she saw herself on a table in a hospital operating theatre. They were trying to save her. She felt all floaty, like they say that you do, and although her life did not flash before her – so that was bollocks - she quickly worked out how to move around the room and see herself from different angles.

She watched as the people around the table tried, oh they really tried, to save her, but then one by one they gave up and stepped away. Is everyone agreed? Time of…yes, she was dead. Jade noticed two things: one, that they had cut her clothes with big, ugly scissors; and two, that she was still wearing her cheap digital watch.

The latter point was unfortunate. It was explained to her when she