Tom Spindle had always considered himself a creature of the night. He felt more at home amongst a shifting sea of shadows than he ever did in the probing light of day. Hence he preferred to take his daily stroll once his neighbours had long since retreated into that twisting bazaar of dreams in the realm of the subconscious.
Tonight was no exception. A silhouette composed of long, spider-like limbs, Spindle carved his solitary path from the gloom-coated porch to the gate, pausing to crane his exceptionally long neck to inspect the star-pierced sky, holding the rim of his top hat to prevent it tipping backwards. Satisfied with the inky swathe of black velvet above him, he continued on his way, careful to close the gate, his talon-like fingers scuttling over the bolt. Every night, at exactly twelve o’clock, for twenty-two years and forty-three days, Tom Spindle had turned left at this point in his journey. This decision was non-negotiable; if Tom didn’t turn left, Bad Things would happen. And that, as they say, was that.
Nobody will ever know what made Tom turn right on that sharp November night. Did he hear someone calling his name, a coaxing whisper from the clawing darkness? Did some sixth sense urge him to divorce his beloved routine, just this once? I know one thing for sure: on nights when Tom Spindle turns right, anything is possible.
Spindle set off along the dimly lit cobbles, his silver-topped cane tapping an arcane rhythm as it trailed alongside him. A tease of a breeze tugged at his tailcoat, as if it too was perplexed by Tom’s trajectory, imploring him to retrace his steps before the Bad Things came upon him. He paid no heed, but carried on walking, a daddy-longlegs figure blotting out the stars, ambling along in benign zigzags.
It was only when he rounded the bend that he noticed a strange glow up ahead. Luminescence puddled around his well-polished shoes, generating the expression of puzzled bemusement that was Spindle’s reaction to most things in life. He followed the light like a dog trailing a particularly intriguing scent, and soon found himself outside the ornate iron gates of Dean Cemetery. But the graveyard wasn’t quite as he remembered it. The garden was flooded with light like a football stadium, and the noises floating over the imposing railings were more like that of a carnival than a churchyard in the small hours of the morning. A woman’s raucous laughter penetrated the din of chatter and – was that a guitar riff drifting on the cool night air? An odd little man sat perched atop the entrance, gripping an official-looking clipboard.
Any other individual would have turned and checked themselves into the nearest asylum. Tom Spindle, however, took all this in his stride with remarkable acceptance, never once questioning the reality of what he was witnessing, but merely blinking in childlike wonder. Crazy things happened when you turned right, after all. He had suspected this all along, although he hadn’t known what form the calamity would take. Thus, he was not in the least surprised when the doorman addressed him directly.
“Name?” His gravelly voice had the quality of one innately bored with one’s role in life, saturated with a disinterest that bordered on insulting.
“Tom. Tom Spindle.” He consulted his clipboard with dull contempt.
“Ah, yes – there you are.” He handed Tom a faded lanyard inscribed with ‘Visitor Pass.’ “Come on in, Mr. Spindle.”
“Thank you?” The gates creaked open, squealing their protest at being disturbed at such an hour, revealing what looked like a colourful reunion. Dazed by the brightness of the seemingly source-less light, Spindle worked his way down the centre aisle between bustling crowds. Clusters of partygoers on all sides erupted in cheers of welcome, some even greeting him by name, assuring him they were “absolutely delighted” he had made it. A woman in a red dress, with eye make-up that leant her face a skull-like quality, stopped him, laying a delicate hand on his shoulder. He shivered at her touch despite the layers of fabric between their skin. It had been months since another human being had touched him, and for good reason: when people touched Tom Spindle, Bad Things happened. He desperately wanted the touching to stop, but his throat had closed up, robbing him of any method of expressing this wish.
“Tom Spindle, as I live and breathe!” At this, she threw her head back and cackled, copper curls flying, and Spindle recognised it as the braying laugh he had heard from outside. He regarded her as one would a wild animal that could attack at any moment. “How ARE you? We’ve been SO excited about your visit.”
“Fine, thanks? I suffered from a nasty cold last winter, but I shook it off.” His mother used to tell him he had the constitution of a bull because of all the grubs he ate as a child, and he told the woman so. His mother had also told him repeatedly to avoid oversharing, but this advice appeared to have been lost in transmission. If only his conversation skills were as polished as his shoes.
“That so? My, my!” Tilting her face to the night sky and screeching her unruly laugh again, she waggled a gaudy crimson fan as if the autumn chill wasn’t sufficient heat regulation. “I say, Tom, how IS that mother of yours? LOVEly woman!” Well-meant as her words were, she appeared incapable of voicing them at less than full volume, and every few words a syllable stood out like a double-decker bus in the Stone Age.
The question set Spindle at ease – his mother had always been his biggest supporter and his favourite conversation topic. Until she died. Spindle had never quite grasped the concept of death, but he did know that it hurt those left behind and made them lonely – lonelier than he had ever thought possible. He had gathered this information firsthand. “She’s dead? She’s in a place a bit like this one, actually. Only I suspect hers is a little... quieter?” Again, the eccentric guffaw. Again, Tom did not follow the joke.
“I susPECT you’re right...” Wearing a rueful smile, she gazed at him like a fond grandparent whose doctor has told them the end is near, soaking up each of Tom’s disproportioned features. “I’d better let you go. I know LOTS of others want to talk to you before the night’s over.” She patted his shoulder, oblivious to his visible discomfort. “It’s been a pleasure, Tom Spindle. I have a feeling we’ll be GOOD friends.”
Disorientated, Spindle drifted further into the maze of graveside gatherings like a balloon surrendered to the elements, nodding at various well-wishers as he passed. There was no obvious costume theme; styles ranged from old-fashioned attire like his own to modern garments, including a pair of ripped jeans that Spindle considered a sartorial abomination.
He had not made it far before a frisbee-sized hand belonging to a large man with a ruddy complexion and a tweed suit shot out to halt his progress. "Congratulations, old boy!" the gentleman hollered, slapping Spindle on the back with the force of a sledgehammer. His voice seemed to travel directly from his substantial belly, precisely how one might expect Santa to sound, should he ever be spared from the North Pole.
"Um, well... thank you, I suppose? Congratulations on what, sir, if you don't... mind me asking?"
His jollity was displaced by thunderous vexation. "Don't be obtuse, boy!" Spindle was quickly learning that this man shouted everything. And that he spat while he shouted. A lot. Too polite to wipe the spray from his face, Spindle stood, passive and uncomplaining, as tidal waves of saliva broke repeatedly against his skin. At this rate he would have filled a small paddling pool by the end of their exchange. “What did you think we’re celebrating?”
“I - I’m not entirely sure? That’s sort of the problem, sir?”
“You, of course!” An elderly woman dressed in a conservative evening dress with a lavish string of pearls wound tightly about her tortoise-like neck chimed in from his right. “You’re the Guest of Honour, young man.”
“Oh?” Tom Spindle had never been a Guest of Honour before and digested this news with some trepidation. At this, the overweight gentleman roared with laughter, his protruding gut quivering with the effort as his pudding-like face took on a menacing shade of beetroot.
The blood came with no warning, spurting between his taut shirt buttons with arterial force and falling in a perfect, scarlet arc like the jet of a fountain. “Whoops! I’ve sprung a leak, my dear chap!” The laughter recommenced, heartier than ever, as the old woman did her best to stem the flow with an ivory glove.
Spindle left her fussing over him and wandered off, unnoticed, into the depths of the celebration. The mellow tune he’d noticed on arrival had swollen to a hypnotic, throbbing pulse that echoed his own heartbeat. Without consulting his mind, his legs were carrying him closer to its source, step by step. A group of guests beside him had fallen into a hypnotic sort of dance that Spindle didn’t recognise, but wanted more than anything to join. They moved as one, a well-oiled, serpentine machine; he could have sworn their feet were hardly touching the ground.
A young boy was slouched against the church wall at Spindle’s feet – he almost tripped over him in his haste to locate that mysterious melody’s origin, a quest at which it seemed he was destined to fail. He did a double take when he saw the boy’s leg. At least, he thought it was a leg, or had been at some point in the distant past. What remained of the shattered limb was facing the wrong way. The boy, whose pallor would have matched the old woman’s gloves perfectly despite the ash smeared across his hollow cheeks, was sitting in a warped version of the splits, his face a contortion of the deepest agony. Chunks of the flesh around his calf were missing, an incomplete human jigsaw puzzle, and the exposed skin had taken on a brown hue. Even from a six-feet distance, it smelt like meat that had been left to rot for decades beyond its sell-by date.
“Always wear a seatbelt, sunshine.” His tired grimace revealed missing teeth, and hell swirled in his eyes. A nauseous silence settled between them before the boy beckoned him closer. The words whispered in Spindle’s ear sent a shard of ice through his heart. “You want to get out of here. While there’s time.” Spindle was baffled. He was the Guest of Honour, wasn’t he? That would be the height of bad manners. “My time ran out a long time ago, sir – you might still have a chance.” Spindle’s feet remained frozen.
“Go!” he hissed. “Now! Get out!”
Spooked, Spindle span round on long, quaking legs. He clutched his Visitor Pass as he scuttled towards the exit, ignoring grabbing hands and shouts of congratulations, focusing on breathing in and out, in and out, in and –
The security guard was perched where he had left him – minutes or hours ago? He couldn’t say. Spindle brandished his lanyard at him and waited the gates to open. They were bolted on the other side.
“What?” The gnome-like figure addressed him with less respect than one would show a fly buzzing around one’s head.
“I’d like to go home now.”
“Home?”
“Yes, home. I’m just visiting, you see?” The man’s expression remained blank.
“Sure you are. Nice try.” He returned to his clipboard. “That’s what they all say, kid. Go rejoin the party.”
*
That was the last of Tom Spindle’s midnight walks. Most people didn’t notice the new addition to Granger Cemetery, not until the ivy had long since choked it, obscuring the carefully crafted, cryptic epitaph:
THOMAS H. SPINDLE
1967 – 2013
Life of the party.
About the Author
Esther Arthurson has recently graduated from University of Cambridge, where she studied Theology. She is now working in an independent bookshop in Edinburgh and working on her first longer writing project.
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