(Story by Steven C Davis, shack by Nimue Brown)

The rap sounded through the hut. Not quite driftwood-constructed, but a rap like that hinted at an arm, a physique, that could break the door down without too much effort.

They rapped again.

Salt spray drenched the cabin, rendering the host blind to any other smell. Apart from the potential strength, he had no images, no feelings, about the visitor, other than the vaguest impression that a third strike might be heavier, might even cleave the door in two before he was ready.

‘Coming,’ he called out, ‘don’t mind me, old bones aren’t what they used to be.’

He took a clumping step, setting the rocking chair in motion.

Another clumping step, silently lifting an item from the old, moss-covered table.

‘Almost there, lad,’ he called out, though he doubted the visitor was a young lad.

He shuffled towards the door, trying not to grin. He could hear, now he was closer, the visitor’s breathing.

Angry.

Short.

Petulant.

He reached for the handle of the door, trying not to grin.

‘Open up –’

Benedictus Cucumberpatch opened up the door to the visitor, gently easing his finger tighter on the crossbow trigger.

The bolt pinged and there was a muffled, wet, thump.

Benedictus chortled. ‘Visitors, eh. Who’d ‘av ‘em.’

Written as a free-writing exercise as part of a short story workshop, run by Laura Jane Round on 14.05.2024.