Cottage Road
12th February 1885.
Delivered to the residence of Mr Percival Bumble.
Dear Sir,
You do not know me, and yet I know you so well. Your routine, your movements. I even know the queer manner in which you insist on stepping out of your front door with your left foot before your right. I also know the route you take to work each morning, stopping by the factory gates for five minutes to catch your breath before you continue down the cobblestones. There is no need for alarm — my knowledge and interest in you is not of evil intent, although it might appear so.
Cottage Road holds a secret, one that requires a man of peculiar manner to discover. That man is you, Mr. Bumble. On the night of the full moon, when the clock strikes eleven and the gas lamps flicker in the cold, I ask you to walk the road.
Disregard this request, nothing shall come of it, except an unease that will eat away at your soul until you take your final breath in forty-seven years’ time. Follow my instruction, and you will see what no mortal has seen before.
Yours,
Nameless Friend.
————
14th February 1885.
Delivered to Mr Percival Bumble. Bumble & Stratham Solicitors Office.
My dear Mr. Bumble,
I trust my first letter reached you in good health. Your silence is noted. I take it as contemplation rather than ignorance. I delivered this to your office this morning as I am aware of your intention to work late this evening. I would have thought a man of your intellect would know better than to dismiss my writing to you.
Please allow me to clarify, I do not write to you as a prankster of sorts, nor some lonely spinster in need of some fun. My letter to you is truthful, and my intent bears a heavy weight. The choice is yours, of course. Should you continue to ignore me, I shall trouble you no more.
Should you change your mind, if curiosity gnaws at you and leaves you feeling queasy, then I suggest you prepare for your journey down Cottage Road. Ensure you leave any affairs tied up, do not utter a word to anyone. Not even Mr Stratham. Discretion is paramount to this.
Yours, still waiting,
Nameless Friend.
————
16th February 1885.
Tucked into the bush on Mr Bumble’s doorstep. Discovered upon his return from supper at The Club.
Mr. Bumble,
It pains me to have watched you crumple up the last two letters I have sent you. I beg you to remove them from your fireplace. Must you be so hesitant? So fearful? Have you not the longing for adventure? Do you not question the unknown? I can assure you, the rewards of the bravery you will illustrate by venturing down Cottage Road are far greater than the comforts of your current life.
I can see your brow furrow as you read this, I once more request that my letters are not to be thrown carelessly into the fireplace. Please, place them under the odd-shaped paperweight that sits unused at the edge of your home-desk.
Need I continue to attempt to pique your interest in my proposal? Allow me to share with you a glimpse of what awaits you: the echoed whisper of voices from a century long forgotten; a shadow that moves from wall to wall without a body to cast it upon the bricks; and a scent — sweet, familiar, it lingers long after the street has emptied of the drunks.
I saw it once with my own eyes, I shall not disclose the details of the thing in full. I dare not rob you of the experience.
My dear man, take that scornful look off of your face, it is not very becoming.
Take courage, Mr. Bumble. The full moon fast approaches.
Yours,
Nameless Friend.
————
22nd February 1885.
Sent by Mr. Bumble in response after a few sleepless nights. Left in the plant pot.
Dear Nameless Friend,
Whoever you may be, crafty crook, you have succeeded in ensuring my discomfort. I have not slept this past week, my mind has been fogged over with your peculiar letters, my peace disturbed. I am compelled to confront this mystery, if only to prove you a prankster.
Very well, you have convinced me. I shall walk down your blasted Cottage Road on the night of the full moon at eleven. Should this be a hoax, as I suspect, know that I shall find you and the legal action that ensues will be the least of concerns playing on your mind.
Yours in, reluctant agreement,
Mr. Percival Bumble.
————
22nd February 1885.
Left without postmark or seal. Placed on Mr. Bumble’s home desk at night.
Mr. Bumble,
I am pleased by your response. I assure you that you will not regret your decision, though you may stubbornly wish to do so. The arrangements are plain, simple to follow: you must arrive alone just before the clock strikes eleven, bring no candlelight — you must venture in the dark, and speak of this to no one, not before, not after. This remains with yourself until eternity. At the strike of eleven on the night of the full moon, you will take your journey down Cottage Road, alone. These instructions are of utmost importance, if you fail to adhere to them, I fear for what the consequences will be. I dare not think so morbidly about such thing. Do not say I did not warn you though.
I will not be there to greet you in person but know I shall be watching from a near distance. Ensure you step out of your house right foot first, I know this is a disgrace to your usual mannerisms, but please, your right foot must hit the cobblestones first. I cannot explain why. If you should falter, there will be no assistance, you will not be caught, God cannot protect you. Should you succeed, however, you will have my respect.
Step cautiously, Mr. Bumble. The cobbled pavement of Cottage Road holds memories of a distant past, a century that wishes to no longer be forgotten by your people.
Remember, right foot first. Perhaps you should put your right boot on first whilst preparing to leave in order to refresh your memory.
Be vigilant.
Nameless Friend.
————
Date unknown.
Written by Mr. Bumble. Found several days later, ink smudged, corners torn. A red stain splattered across the page.
Dear Nameless Friend,
I know not how to begin this; words do not convey the horrors that I have witnessed as a result of your letters. Cottage Road — a simple street by daylight, unassuming of anything out of the ordinary. Yet by the light of the full moon, it was transformed into something else entirely. What it became, I do not even know how to illustrate in words, and my vocabulary fails to provide enough to portray exactly what I witnessed.
I followed your instructions clearly. Just before the bells on the clock tower chimed eleven, I arrived at the top of the road, alone and with no light. I had not mentioned my outing to my colleagues, nor the gentlemen that I dine with at The Club. I stepped out of my house, right foot first as you stated, I do not understand that instruction still, but I followed it. The shadows that filled the walls of Cottage Road were alive and moving most unnaturally. There were no bodies on the street, how these shadows were cast, I do not know. They defied all I thought I knew about this world. A cold breeze blew over the street, it went straight through my bones, rattling through my skull. I blinked away the pain of the cold and in front of me, there was a figure — an outline. It seemed barely human, but it kept watch over me. Always watching. It never stopped.
It did not utter a single word to me, and yet I understood its intent: Go no further. I allowed curiosity to get the better of me, I was unable to help myself. The road stretched out in front of me, dimly lit by the full moon and the gas lamps that were flickering in the breeze, struggling to remain on. I should have listened to the mysterious figure. As I continued my walk down the road, right foot in front of the left, a hundred paces or so, I saw it. God help me I saw it.
No more, I insist I think no more of what I saw. I cannot describe the thing that must not be named. I can still feel its gaze upon me now, I have drawn my curtains shut and bolted the door. It feels as if it is in the room with me as I pen this to you.
This is my warning, my confession. Perhaps the final piece of writing I ever compose. My dear Nameless Friend, burn this, burn this letter. I beg of you. Burn it. Speak no more of this. I implore you never to write to any other innocent man and make them suffer the horrors that I have witnessed. No man should ever have to see that.
Speak never again of Cottage Road.
I fear it followed me home.
Yours, in utter despair,
Percival Bumble.
————
1st March 1885.
Left upon Mr. Bumble’s mantelpiece.
Dear Mr. Bumble,
I applaud your bravery. Few posses the proper means to face the road, and fewer return to speak of it. I sense fear in your pen. The account you have provided, while admirable, is incomplete. You must have seen more in the shadows? Surely it whispered a word to you?
I ask that you do not shy away from the truth. The road does not like half-measures. You walked it stones, its history, you saw its secrets, have you not grasped the purpose of it all? Return. Face it once more. Understand it in its entirety.
I can assure you that you are overreacting, I shall do no such thing as to not ask more to take the journey you have taken down Cottage Road.
Write to me once more when you fully understand.
Yours, patiently,
Nameless Friend.
————
12th March 1885.
Slipped through the window of Mr. Bumble’s home office, despite it being barred and locked.
Mr. Bumble, my dear Mr. Bumble.
Your lack of correspondence is noted, although I must say I am not surprised. Those who dare venture down Cottage Road often struggle to process what they have seen. You must get over it, I fear the road has chosen you.
It is not but a street, Mr. Bumble. It is a doorway. Time, shadow and memory merge into one. The figure you saw is not of evil intent, it is a guide. It urges you forward. You turned back too early; you are yet to reach the heart of the street. It is waiting.
Know this, my dear Mr. Bumble: the road does but rarely offer second chances. Should you continue to ignore it, you may find it creeping into your routine. You should expect to find it in the floorboards, your boots, and even your evening porridge.
Be wary.
Nameless Friend.
————
31st May 1885.
Found under Mr. Bumble’s pillow. His bedroom was locked.
Mr. Bumble,
The road and I grow impatient now. You have seen the wonders, the secrets, the horrors, and yet you still hide away. This fear does not suit you. Have you not noticed the changes around you? The distant footsteps in your study that get closer and closer despite no one being there? Have you not noticed the shadows that shift across the walls of your study in the day light, the ones that get more aggressive under candlelight? Oh, my dear Mr. Bumble, do not say I did not provide adequate warning. I did inform you of the dangers of ignoring us, did I not? I know I enclosed the right information in those letters you keep underneath that oddly shaped paperweight on your desk. Crumpling the paper cannot save you, you cannot hide in the creases in the letters.
I implore you to listen, step back onto Cottage Road, Mr. Bumble, I insist. Your boots have not moved from in front of the fireplace for months. If I were you, I would go out barefoot next time. Do not touch those boots, it is for your own safety.
Right foot first.
Nameless Friend.
————
4th June 1885.
Placed upon Mr. Bumble’s desk, written in a strange red ink.
Mr. Bumble,
This will be my final letter addressed to you. Cottage Road and I have both grown tired of waiting for you. You have dilly-dallied for long enough. Return, otherwise it will get you. I know you can hear it right now; I can see you hiding your head to block out the noise. I know you hear the tapping on your windowpane, even though it is past the midnight hour, and no trees are by your window. I know you hear the creaks of the floorboards as if someone is pacing, I see you turn your head in fear, your eyes widen each time you realise you are in fact alone.
On the night of the next full moon, you will walk down to theroad once more. You will see what you saw last time, you will follow every instruction. Do not put this off, do not ignore this under any circumstances. If you do, the road will choose another way of persuading you, perhaps a less forgiving one. This is your last chance, Percival. The road is growing tired.
Yours, as always,
Nameless Friend.
————
Epilogue:
The letters were found, preserved in their now yellowed parchment envelopes. They were found in Mr. Percival Bumble's study. The letters had suffered severe creasing that not even the odd-shaped paperweight on top of them could flatten out. They were discovered shortly after his sudden disappearance in May 1885. His house, a modest yet large building on Chapel Street, was found in a strange disarray. The furniture was overturned and scratched, the curtains had been torn from the rods holding them up, and a strange cold lingered in the air despite the warm spring day, and the hearth that still burned despite the lack of coals. Something sweet clung to every room of the residence, it was a sickly scent, almost like decaying flowers, or moulding honey.
Neighbours and passers-by reported having heard strange sounds on the night of Mr. Bumble’s disappearance. Mrs. E. Jones, the neighbour to his right, insisted that she heard guttural murmurs from his study constantly, she said it was punctuated by a sharp tapping. Mrs. Jones assumed that this was Mr. Bumble reading aloud to himself or pacing in his study, but as the noises continued past the strike of midnight every night, the noises grew louder and more persistent, almost closer. Every time she opened her window to investigate, Mrs. Jones discovered nothing.
The morning after his disappearance, Mr. Bumble’s bed was found untouched, his door was locked from the inside and a chair had been pushed up against it. Charcoal, his cat, was found in the corner, eyes wide and his fur stood up on end.
Cottage Road, the street which the letters referred to, became a place of conspiracy and speculation following the strange case of Mr. Bumble. In the daylight, it was a normal street, a long cobblestoned pavement, but at night, locals claimed to feel an unnatural stillness to the street. They claimed the shadows grew to be distorted and leant towards those who dared to walk down it. A faint humming sound could sometimes be heard, according to several reports. It was claimed that the street could be heard to be breathing.
Several individuals who were either intoxicated, or egged on, attempted to walk down the street on the night of the full moon, following the exact instructions given to Mr. Bumble. Each one of them returned shaken, unable to discuss what they had seen that night. Some did not return at all.
To this day, almost a century and a half later, Mr. Bumble’s fate remains unknown, but his letters serve as a warning by those who are easily tempted by curiosity. The last letter he ever wrote was stained with ink smudges and a thick, dried red ink. It had been torn into several pieces and contained one phrase, written in a scratchy, shaky hand that one would not assume belonged to Mr. Bumble normally. It read:
‘The Road does not end.’
Should you ever have a yellowed parchment letter slipped under your door, placed upon your pillow, or hidden in a nearby bush, take caution. It may begin as a gentle invitation, but the end is far worse. The road, as the Nameless Friend promised, does not offer second chances very often.
Be wary, dear reader, for the road does not end.
Lola Hobson is a poet/writer based in the North of Wales, where she studies English Literature. Lola has been featured in several anthologies and is an in-house poet for Bitter Melon Review.