The Ferrari screams past Robert’s Mondeo, a banana-coloured blur. The Maserati zooms after it, a growling, dove-grey streak.
Robert drops his shoulders. Opens his eyes. ‘Jesus!’ He stamps his brake.
The tyres squeal.
The low loader comes on, as fast as before.
Is it reversing?
No — He — his Mondeo — is aquaplaning towards it.
He releases the brake.
The scaffolding poles on the back of the lorry arrow towards his windscreen.
Robert pumps the brake.
The longest pole — a lance — zeroes in on his head.
Robert inclines towards the passenger seat. Pumps faster.
His car slows.
Still going to shatter the windscreen — 
His car stops.
Robert straightens cautiously.
The end of the pole — stationary now — is an inch before the glass. Less.
Robert exhales. Fills his lungs. ‘Wankers!’
The performance cars have been racing each other all the way from Thame.
Or racing the rest of us?
Whatever, they’ve been tearing off whenever the traffic thins, slowing when it thickens. Given the counterintuitive logic of highway flow, despite their bursts of intense speed, Robert keeps encountering them, though he and the other drivers have been observing the speed restrictions, give or take the customary ten per cent overage.
I don’t care if they risk their own lives — two entitled bastards less and the world’ll be a better place — but what pisses me off is that they don’t give a toss for anyone else’s.
He glances to his left. Right.
And there are an awful lot of anyone else’s lives on the road today.
Then, everyone who has a car uses it when the weather’s bad. And it’s been raining harder today than he can remember it doing all the years he’s journeyed to and from his daughter’s.
You’d think the conditions alone would temper the pricks’ behaviour. If not the observable fact that children outnumber adults in the holiday traffic. Young children. But no.
Perfect metaphor for the selfishness of the privileged.
He glances at the passenger seat, the notepad on it.
Must remember to jot that down when you get home. If you get home.
The lance draws back.
Determined not to risk impalement again, Robert indicates left, and pounds his horn. He nudges out in fits and starts. Sidles into the normal driving lane. Just in time for it to submit to gridlock.
The outer lanes surge forward.
Oh, well — I’m not in any hurry. Rather join Elsie a little late in this box than a lot later in a wooden one.
Performance engines blare.
Where are the cops!
They come out in legions to collar blotto teenagers outside Wetherspoons on Saturday nights, or round up octogenarians protesting against foxes being torn apart, but when we really need them — 
With any luck, the manboy racers are being monitored remotely. Their penalty notices printed out as they streak.
Do fines matter to these types?
No. Like the millionaires — billionaires now — who park before Harrods’ main entrance, a fine is a toll they pay to do whatever they want whenever they want to do it.
But they should get points on their licenses, shouldn’t they? No, they’ll have their people fight that. Pretend they were responding to an emergency — 
Meep! Meep!
Oh.
Robert swiftly changes gear. Foots the accelerator.
Odd. Now the outer lanes are at a standstill, and we’re advancing at regular speed. Near to it.
He baulks.
What the hell’s wrong with the tyres? Knew I should’ve given them a pump before I left Sandra’s. Or are we on the rumble strip already?
He rubs his eyes quickly, impatiently, as if this might improve the view his overworked windscreen wipers are failing to clear.
Yes, we’re approaching the turn-off.
Rolling over rumble strip always makes him fear his tyres are shredded to — 
Spoke too soon!
He floors the clutch. Drops to second. First.
What is it now? Can’t see any Men-At-Work signs. Perhaps the Home Counties Hamiltons bought it? Ho-hum! As long as they didn’t take anyone else with them.
Meep! Meep!
But seriously, the way we’re moving — stop starting — someone’s come a cropper. It won’t be them, of course. That sort never suffers for their actions.
Meep! Meep!
Please God, don’t let it be another dog. No — Who’d leave a window open in this weather?
Meep! Meep!
Can’t see any blue lights flashing. Just a trail of red ones. Then, go-slows aren’t down to the calming measures the cops impose after an accident; they’re caused by ghouls pausing to gawp at the carnage.
Robert always does the opposite. Tries to look the other way. Away. As much as he can, at least, while driving safely.
He presses the brake again, cautiously.
Yes, something must be up because there’s the low-loader. Not crawling forward. Just sitting before the roundabout.
Meep! Meep!
Has he copped it? No, low as his trailer is, he’d be safe in his cab, surely?
A siren banshees.
Police car or ambulance? And where’s it coming from? Bar the sky, it could be tearing this way from any direction. Definitely an accident, then.
Meep! Meep!
God, don’t let it be anything gruesome. Or if it has to be, please don’t let me catch sight of it.
But what if he can’t help but see it?
Focus on something safe. What? Anything. A sign.
Ahead Only?
Yes, keep your eyes on that. Nothing else.
He slips into first. Eases off the brake.
Ahead Only.
Rolls forward.
Slower!
Ahead Only.
Meep!
Who the hell — ?
He turns right. Flinches.
What’s that behind the low loader? The Ferrari? Yes, wedged against the trailer. Under the end of it. Christ! The longest scaffolding pole’s through the windscreen. But what’s that on it?
Robert turns away.
Oh, God!
Towards the sign.
Ahead Only.
Keep your eyes on that. Just that.
Ahead Only. Ahead Only. Ahead Only.
Nothing else, no matter — 
Meep! Meep!
Who’s beeping now?
He glances at his rear view. Returns to the sign, fully exposed now. His gaze tumbles down it. Up. Down again.
There’s something at the bottom of it. A football. Scarlet. Punctured.
Meep! Meep!
No, not a ball. It’s — 
Meep! Meep!
Ahead Only.

Rumble Strip was originally published in Short Circuits on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Stan daren’t lift his gaze from the stretch of pavement directly before his feet. His new hips have made him a steadier walker, sturdier, but the rips in the tarmac still threaten to upend him. And what with the wet — 
By rights, he shouldn’t be out here at all. Yes, if Sheila hears about this from one of the neighbours, there’ll be hell to pay. But he doesn’t feel right without a daily perambulation, even if it’s only to the co-op a hundred yards away, after the paper. He has to get some fresh air — cold as it is — if he’s to stand a hope of sleeping through the night. That’s why he waited all day for the rain to stop.
Still, he probably wouldn’t have attempted this without his new cane. Last time he went over, he had put his faith in the old, single-point one. He lay across the broken flagstones round the corner for over an hour. And that was in summertime.
On weekends, the close buzzes with parents and grandchildren, but it’s largely visitor-free on weekdays. The locals rarely venture out in the dark. So, if he goes over now, he might not be spotted before morning. And what with the cold — 
‘Nice stick!’
Stan starts.
Who?
He looks up. Right. Left. Flinches.
Oh.
He’s relieved to discover the exclamation came from someone as old as himself. Older.
The lady from number 17 who Fran says never talks to anyone?
‘Yes,’ Stan says. ‘My daughter bought it for me.’
The look on her face — 
Probably a fellow sufferer. Or was it mention of Sheila?
Fran says this old dear doesn’t have children. ‘None visit her, anyway. That’s why she stands on her porch whenever mine turn up, and gives them — me the evil eye.’
But she must have someone, mustn’t she? I’ll ask after them — 
She grips her stick tighter.
Stick? It’s more like a staff. Or club. Gnarled, crooked — Something out of a fairy tale that someone casts a spell with. A wizard or — 
Recalling Fran’s nickname for the old dear, Stan stops this trail of thought for fear he’ll blurt it out.
No, better not mention family, in case they don’t get along. That’s all too common these days. And seems to cause more heartache for those affected than those without any family at all.
But he has to say something. The silence between them has become oppressive.
He clears his throat, and raises his cane. ‘It’s called a HurryCane,’ he says. ‘As in Hurry up! Yes! They obviously didn’t have anyone like me in mind when they came up with that.’
She doesn’t laugh, snort — smile, even.
Stan swallows. Lowers his cane. ‘It comes apart,’ he says seriously. ‘Collapses, I mean. Which is handy when you’re out with the — ’
The knuckles around the staff bulge.
No, can’t say that either.
‘My daughter found it online.’
The eyes fixed on have yet to blink.
‘You know, the internet?’
Maybe she doesn’t know what that is.
He considers explaining. Decides against it.
‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘it was nice talking to you, but I better be getting along. Doesn’t do to stop still outside at this time of year.’
Perhaps she doesn’t understand the language? No, she spoke first, didn’t she? And in English. Probably her hearing, then. I’ll ask Fran about it.
He nods curtly. Turns aside. Continues, head bowed.
‘Family’ is what he was going to say earlier. A walking stick you can break down comes in handy when you’re out with the family. Prevents you from poking the grandchildren’s tooties. Or them taking your eye out when they have a go with it. But he couldn’t say that, of course, for fear she doesn’t have grandkids.
He pauses. Looks up, at the stretch that did for him last time: the run of pavement covered by wonky flagstones, with a high wall on the right that throws it into deep shadow come night or late afternoon at this time of year.
He should turn round.
No. Must get back on the horse.
He continues, slower than before, the cane closer to his body.
What’s that noise?
He stops.
Shushing?
He looks over his shoulder, as much as he can with his gammy neck.
The skateboarder again?
He turns back. Heads for the grass verge, away from the wall, towards the narrow band of light that skirts the houses.
Would a skateboarder be out at this time of day at this time of year?
Shush-shush!
What to do?
Shush-shush!
The cane! Sheila said it’s luminous or something, didn’t she?
He holds it up, out, to his side. Winces from the effort.
Shush-shush!
No, that’s not coming off wheels.
Shush-shush!
Sounds more like feet shuffling up the tarmac.
‘Hello?’ He starts around — 
Something strikes him, the top of his hat. One quick rap.
Has the hail started up again?
He looks up.
The top of his skull burns. The fire whips down his spine. Hips. Legs.
He drops to his knees. Forward, onto the glistening flagstones.

The old dear places her staff in the darkest corner of her porch. Lifts the cane. Looks it over. At the three rubber tips at the base that form a hoof. The indentations in the handle that accommodate fingers.
Satisfied, she grips the stem in both hands, and wrings it. Turns this way, that, quivering with exertion.
Defeated, she relaxes. Opens the low cupboard door. Slings the cane inside.
It lands on top of the others.

Standalone was originally published in Short Circuits on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Robert starts his second lap at a gallop.
Determined to recover his peak performance time?
Not get shut in again at least.
The park warden should check for stragglers before he locks up for the night.
But a new man was on call last month.
And he hadn’t been briefed on his final duty, evidently.
Compelling Robert to complete his circuit with a clamber up the wrought-iron gates.
One of the spikes at the top gashed his right thigh.
Keeping him out of action for weeks.
He turns into the home stretch.
Ah — There he is, before the illuminated bollard.
The new man.
I’ll give him a piece of my mind.
But is it the warden?
No — It’s a fellow jogger.
Someone he knows?
He looks familiar.
And he’s just starting out, by the look of things.
But he’ll never make it round in time — 
Or is he heading home?
It’s hard to tell from here, with the light behind him.
Whatever, Robert resolves to forewarn him.
So, he ups his pace.
Strange.
The faster he goes, further, the less certain he is of the other jogger’s direction of travel.
Odder still, he draws no closer.
I have seen him before, I’m certain of it.
Robert scoffs.
He’s running in the same direction as me.
Of course.
Have I lost that much form?
Or is he faster than me?
Incensed, Robert dashes for all he is worth.
But doesn’t gain on him.
In fact — yes — I’m moving further away.
He breaks into an all-out sprint.
Keeps it up for fifteen second.
Thirty.
A minute.
No use.
He still can’t tell whether the jogger is approaching or moving away.
Facing him or showing his heels.
And now Robert can’t seem to break out of it.
Stop or slow down.
All at once he feels as though he might remain like this forever.
Has been at this forever.
Never gaining on the other.
Never stopping or slowing.
Never knowing which direction he is travelling in even.
He is certain of one thing, though:
Why the other runner looks familiar.
He’s me!

Forwards Backwards was originally published in Short Circuits on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

“Go away!”
“What?”
“Go away!!”
“What — What is it?”
“Someone’s here.”
“What?”
“There’s someone there!”
“Someone — ?”
“Some thing.”
Robert untwists the duvet. Turns towards Laurie.
Her wide eyes glint moonlight.
“It’s a dream, darling. You were dreaming.”
Laurie shakes her head stiffly.
“A nightmare — ”
“No!” she says. “There’s something there.”
“Where?”
Laurie tenses.
Her pupils slide up, into the left corner of each eye.
Robert’s gaze follows them. Continues on. Towards the patch of darkness above her head. Circles it. Returns to her.
“I don’t — ’
“It’s there!”
“But I can’t see anything?”
“Behind me!”
“Behind — ?”
Laurie grimaces.
Robert shrugs. Pushes himself up. Off the mattress. Onto the jack of one elbow.
As he peers, something advances out of the shadows at her back. A figure no bigger than a doll. Blood red. Eyes flashing. Teeth gleaming.

Some Thing was originally published in Short Circuits on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

She starts awake.
Coughing?
Yes.
Dry.
Curt.
A man?
That wasn’t a woman’s timbre, certainly.
Why should it unnerve her?
It was only the last guest.
The asthmatic old duffer next door expectorating.
No, that couldn’t have been him.
He departed earlier, didn’t he?
On the last boat out, yes.
So, she is alone in the sanatorium.
On the island.
It comes again.
Louder.
Clearer.
Not a cough.
Rather, the noise someone makes to draw attention to themselves prior to speaking.
And it isn’t coming from the adjacent room.
But the far end of this one.
Its darkest corner.

Ha’ Page Horrors was originally published in Short Circuits on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.