After the Gloaming - 4 - Patience

Episode Date: July 29, 2023

After the Gloaming is a production of Dissonance Media and The Other Stories.Patience was written by RJ Meldrum.R. J. Meldrum specializes in fiction that explores the world through a dark lens. His subject matter ranges from ghosts to serial killers and everything in between. He has had over one hundred short stories and drabbles published in a variety of anthologies, e-zines, and websites. He has had his work published by Culture Cult Press, Horrified Press, Infernal Clock, Trembling with Fear, Black Hare Press, Smoking Pen Press, Darkhouse Books, Breaking Rules Publishing, Tell Tale Press, Kevin J Kennedy, and James Ward Kirk Fiction. His short stories have also been published in The Sirens Call e-zine, The Horror Zine, and Drabblez magazine. His novella “The Plague” was published by Demain Press. He is a contributor to the Pen of the Damned and an Affiliate Member of the Horror Writers Association.Mequillen was performed by David Ault - https://www.davidault.co.uk/ Dr. Machen was performed by Mark Nixon - https://www.patreon.com/marknixon/posts Both David Ault & Mark Nixon are from podcast, Shadows at the Door. For more tales of the macabre, head to www.shadowsatthedoor.com or search for it wherever you listen to podcasts. Bartender was performed by Paul Reinbach - http://www.reinbachworks.com/ Cockerlyne was performed by Pete Eaton - https://www.brava.uk.com/talent/pete-eatonPeter Winston was performed by Ty Wilkins - www.tywilkinsvo.comHenry Blackwood was performed by Xander ZweigShelly Stevenson was performed by Alexandra ElroyAfter the Gloaming script was written by James Barnett.Sound production and editing was completed by James Barnett.Theme music was scored by Duncan Muggleton and produced by James Barnett.Music and sound effects were provided by: Epidemic Sound, Sound Stripe, and Freesound.org.If you have enjoyed the episode, please spread the word to anyone you feel may enjoy it and please support the show by leaving a review and giving it a 5-star rating. To support the show and gain access to all episodes now, ad-free, head over to www.patreon.com/nightsendpodcast This episode is brought to you with a Creative Commons – Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives license. Don’t change it. Don’t sell it. But by all means… share the hell out of it.Stay Horrific, everyone! Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Dissinance Media and the other stories presents. In the soft glow of dusk exists gothic tales of the macabre, where the supernatural calls home, and the shadows dance lost you. How are you feeling, dear? A little frightened, I must say. The gravity of being in... I apologise in advance. in a strange manner in the countryside,

sharing tea and cheese with a complete stranger and a storm that won't bugger off. Ah, yes, I completely understand. Oh, you must think me an unappreciative brat. You have no idea how grateful I am that you were here. I could only imagine what this would have been like if this house were empty, as it appeared when I was running toward it. Not in this slightest.

Shelly, new surroundings, a strange solitary man in a haunted manner telling you dark tales. If that isn't a cause for caution, I don't know what is. But you have nothing to fear here. Thank you, Henry. Your words and voice do bring comfort. You are a wonderful storyteller. Being said, I have another tale for you. This one, a little light in tone and,

full of heart about a wee little dog and the weight of his life. This one is titled, Patience. It was a bright, beautiful summer's day. That morning, my team and I had driven up from London to the northern part of Norfolk. There were three of us, Don, Jackie, and myself. We worked for a television production company. Our trio worked well together and were good at our jobs. which on this particular occasion was to find the perfect location for a television series set in the 1950s.

We were scouting out the old army and RAF bases scattered across the county. First on the list was RAF Heimor. Highmore was an excellent candidate for the shoot. Built in 1938, it was a collection of brick and concrete buildings and prefabricated metal hangers arranged in a seemingly chaotic order next to a tarmac runway. rotting window frames, broken windows and walls smeared with graffiti greeted the team. A derelict control tower, its windows shattered, sat mournfully gazing over the abandoned site. Highmoor had been used as a base for Lancaster bombers between 1942 and 1944.

It had been abandoned for good in 1947. I directed the others to take some photographs of the buildings, while I wandered further afield to take some measurements, planning to go as far as possible. to plot out some likely camera angles. I walked to the edge of the runway, looking at the crumbling tarmac. My grandfather had fought in the Second World War, and I remembered that the old man would sometimes show off the shrapnel wounds on his leg that he had acquired in North Africa. Must have been tough to have to fight, to kill. I can only imagine what it would have been like to be in your early 20s, climbing into a Lancaster bomber and flying off into the blue sky to drop

bombs onto German cities. So many of them had never come home. I'd done my background reading on the bases and the airmen. The attrition rate amongst bomber flight crews had been horrendous. I shook my head slightly, focusing once more on the job at hand. Glancing around, I noticed something strange. There was a small, white dog sitting at the edge of the derelict runway about 50 feet away. It was staring down the runway, towards the east where the bombers would have come into land, its tail wagging at a slow pace. It made for an odd sight. Wondering if it was lost, I headed towards it. As I got nearer, within 10 feet or so, the dog noticed my presence and darted away, running between two of the nearby metal huts. I didn't chase it,

knowing full well that a dog that didn't want to be caught would never be caught. I turned back to meet up with the others. The team had opted to stay overnight in a local pub in a nearby village. There were a couple of other locations to check out in the general area before we headed back to London the next evening. As we at our evening meal in the thatched pub, I found my mind was still focused on the dog I had seen. It was a distinct possibility that the little dog was lost.

Why else would it be hanging around an abandoned airbase? I decided to ask the barman, it was a pretty small village and he might know if a local dog had gone missing. I could never have anticipated the response I got. The barman just smiled and laughed. Not a lost dog, not as such. That'll be old Tommy that you saw.

Little white dog, right? Yes, that's right, a little white dog. He's not lost. He's been at the old base for over 70 years now, always in the same spot, waiting for his master to return from the war. I gaped at the man, my face flushing with anger.

That's not funny, you know. I was only concerned about the wee dog. The barman laughed again and turned to serve the next customer. He isn't joking, you know. Said a well-dressed man sitting at the bar, sipping scotch. He lent over, extending his hand. We shook hands. Dr. Macken, local GP.

Dan McKillan. I work for source productions down in London. We're up here scouting locations. Highmore could be good as the location for a forthcoming television series, so that's where I saw this mysterious dog. Macken smiled. The tale is true, you know. I didn't believe it myself when I first arrived in the area, but it really is true. Tommy was the dog's name.

The story is that he belonged to a Lancaster pilot, and Tommy always waited for him at the edge of the runway when his master was away in a mission. One day in 1942, his master didn't come back, but Tommy kept waiting. and waiting. Tommy died in 1946, just before the base close for good. But as ghost remains there, waiting for the sound of the engines. The sound that signals his master is returning,

but his master didn't return that one night in 1942. Nor will he ever return. I guess Tommy will be there forever. Surely you don't believe this. You, a doctor? I do, Mr. Wickhwin. I really do. Mackin seemed serious and sincere, but I simply didn't believe him.

I suspected that the two locals were teasing me and dismissed their fanciful tales. But there was still the issue of the lost dog. It looked as if I would have to do something about it myself, since no one in the village seemed willing to help. The next morning, I sent my colleagues along to the next location without me, while I returned to the air base. I wanted to see if the dog was still there, and to see if this time I could get a hold of it.

I wanted to find out if it had tags or a microchip so that it could be returned to its rightful owners. Parking at the air base, I exited the car and headed back to where I had stood the day before. Looking down the edge of the runway, I saw that the dog was sitting in the same spot. And as before, the dog was gazing down the runway, almost as if he was waiting for a plane to return.

shaking my head in disgust at myself for being so suggestible, I walked towards the dog, but once more it noticed my presence and took off running between the buildings and out of sight. This time I chased him. Rounding the corner of one of the buildings, I experienced one of the most amazing sights of my entire life. I saw that the little white dog was running between two metal buildings, about 20 feet ahead of me. The dog headed towards a brick wall that blocked his escape route, but as the dog approached the wall, he didn't slow down or try to avoid it. Instead, he went straight through, as if the solid red brick barrier simply wasn't there. I gasped in amazement and stopped dead. It was suddenly true. This wasn't a lost dog. This was a ghost.

An urge came to me. I needed to find out more. about this dog from 70 years ago. I went to see Dr. Macon. Macon wasn't surprised to see me. In fact, he was rather pleased. I was embarrassed, but described what I had seen. He smiled. You've experienced what many of us have. Tommy always follows the same route, between the two metal buildings and then through the solid brick wall. That's why it can't be caught. I then asked the question I felt I needed to ask. In response, Macon-Ton-Ton-Ton. told me that there was only one village resident who could possibly help me, Cocholine. He told me that Cocholine was 92 years old and had been stationed at Highmore during the war.

After the armistice, he had married a local girl and settled in the area. He still lived in the village, looked after by a small army of nurses and caregivers. I thanked the doctor and went on my way and called on Cocholine that afternoon. I found the old man sitting on his front porch. Introducing myself, I asked my question. Mr Cocholine, I'm interested in finding out about Tommy, the little dog who sits on the runway at Highmore. Can you tell me more, please?

Cocholine grunted. Heard of the tales, have you, lad? You've seen him too, I'll wager. You're not the first to come and ask me. Many people have tried to catch him. It's a ghost, especially one that runs as fast as he does through solid walls. The dog you saw is the ghost of little Tommy. I remember Tommy.

Remember him well from the wall. I wasn't flight crew. I was ground crew. Loading the bombs and I remember the little fellow. Sitting at the edge of the runway, every time they went on a mission, I remember clear as day the time they didn't come back. Hamburg it was. Out of 20 bombers that left the base, only five made it back. The flack got some of them.

The fighters got the rest. Some went down over the city, others over the sea on the way home. His master was one of them that got lost. After that, Tommy just sat there day after day. We tried to get him to move. We home him even. But he wouldn't shift. Died in that very spot in 46.

We buried him right there too. The group captain said not to you. But who cared about him? The war was over and I was being discharged the next month. There was suddenly another question I needed to ask, an important one. Some instinct told me that it might be the most important question. Mr. Cocholine, what was the name of Tommy's owner, the pilot of that Lancaster? Cocholine closed his eyes and lay back in his first.

chair. For a few moments, I thought he'd gone to sleep, but then he spoke. Flight Lieutenant Peter Winston, a nice lad, only young, not one of the pompous, arrogant ones. It was ordinary, working class, not like those posh blocs. A good pilot, by all accounts, too. But when there's flack and fighters, even the best pilots can die. Not much that skill can do when you're flying straight on the bomb run. His plane was called Lucky Lucy. After his girl back home, Lucky Lucy went down over Hamburg, shredded by flack, a night raid, taking off at dusk and returning at dawn.

Those Germans had some very accurate flack. Just lads themselves. two defending their city. The boys who saw the lucky Lucy go down said they saw no parachutes, like the lads were already dead, or at least too injured, to jump. The old man shook his head.

Horrible way to go. Thank you, Mr. Cocholine. Thank you very much. I had a feeling I knew exactly. exactly what I had to do. I would have to wait until the next day. The next morning I made sure that I was at Highmore just before dawn, the same time that the bombers would have returned from their night raids. I saw that Tommy was still waiting in his appointed spot, still gazing hopefully into the eastern sky. There was finally no doubt in my mind that the story was true. Day after day, night after night, Tommy waited for his master to return.

Not even death could stop him. I hoped that my plan would work and that Tommy would find peace. I walked towards the dog, speaking softly. Tommy. Tommy. Tommy. You've been waiting so long for him, haven't you? I'm waiting for Peter to come home.

This time the dog. dog did not move. Instead, his ears pricked up at the sound of his master's name. You know what, Tommy? I think I know why you've had to wait for so long. You've needed something that no one realized, something you can't do yourself. They're lost out there somewhere, and they need someone to call them home, to bring the lucky Lucy back. Tommy didn't move. I turned to the runway, looking eastwards into the sun that was starting to peek over the horizon. I closed my eyes and spoke. Lucky Lucy, lucky Lucy, lucky Lucy.

Come home, you've been away too long. Peter Winston, Peter Winston, Peter Winston, come home. Tommy is waiting for you. I waited. There was a sound in the distance. An engine. I couldn't see properly the light from the rising sun was making me squint and there was a haze on the runway,

but I was sure it was the noise. of a propeller-driven plane. Unable to see it, all I could do was listen. The noise of the engines got louder and louder, and then there was a sudden squeal of tires on tarmac as the unseen plane landed. I heard the plane taxi briefly, then come to a halt. The engines were shut down.

I looked down at Tommy. He was still there, sitting on the edge of the tarmac, his tail wagging furiously. I knew that he would have been trained to stay put. Runways were dangerous places. Voices sounded from the tarmac, but I couldn't see anything in the hazy early morning sunshine. Good fight, lads.

That'll show these crouts. Same again tomorrow. There was laughter. Now where's the little fellow? Where's my Tommy? I looked down at the dog and Tommy finally met my gaze. His tail flicked in anticipation. Go to him.

Tommy went. I watched as a small white dog raced ecstatically across the tarmac towards the unseen figures. The last thing I saw was the enthusiastically wagging tail as Tommy disappeared into the sunny haze of the dawn. I heard delighted squeals and barks from Tommy and more laughter from the crew, but the noises were fading now. Soon they faded away completely, and I found myself alone on the edge of a runway of a disused airbase in Norfolk, with the sun slowly rising in the east. After the gloaming is a production of dissonance media and the other stories.

Patience was written by R.J. Meldrum. R.J. Meldrum specializes in fiction that explores the world through a dark lens. His subject matter ranges from ghosts to serial killers and everything in between. He's had over 100 short stories and drabbles published in a variety of anthologies, e-zines and websites.

His novella, The Plague, was published by Domain Press. He is a contributor to the Pen of the Damned and an affiliate member of the Horror Writers Association. McQuillen was performed by David Alt. Dr. Mackin was performed by Mark Nixon. Both David and Mark are from the podcast, Shadows at the Door. For more tales of the Macarpe, head to Shadowsatthedore.com or search for it wherever you listen to podcasts. Bartender was performed by Paul Reinhbach.

Cochallon was performed by Pete Eaton. Peter Winston was performed by Ty Wilkins. Henry Blackwood was performed by Xanders Swig. Shelley Stevenson was performed by Alexandra Elroy. After the gloaming script was written by James Barnett. Sound production and editing was completed by James Barnett. The theme music was scored by Duncan Muggleton and produced by James Barnett. Music and sound effects were provided by James Barnett.

Epidemic Sound, Soundstripe and FreeSound.org. If you've enjoyed the episode, please spread the word to anyone you feel may enjoy it. Please support the show by leaving a review and give it a five-star rating. To support the show further and gain access to all episodes now, add free. Head over to patreon.com forward slash nightsend podcast. All work remains the property of the respective author. This episode is brought to you with a Creative Commons Attribute. Non-commercial no derivatives license. Don't change it. Don't sell it. But by all means share the hell out of it.

Stay horrific everyone.