After the Gloaming - 5 - The Broomway

Episode Date: August 5, 2023

After the Gloaming is a production of Dissonance Media and The Other Stories.The Broomway was written by Caitlin Marceau.Caitlin is a queer author and lecturer based in Montreal. She holds a Bachelor of Arts in Creative Writing, is an Active Member of the Horror Writers Association, and has spoken about genre literature at several Canadian conventions. She spends most of her time writing horror and experimental fiction but has also been published for poetry as well as creative non-fiction. Her work includes "Palimpsest", "23 McCormick Road", "Magnum Opus", and her debut novella, "This Is Where We Talk Things Out". She also has two other collections, "Femina" & "A Blackness Absolute". For more, check out https://caitlinmarceau.ca/.This episode was narrated by James Barnett AKA Jimmy Horrors. James is the creator/producer of the Night’s End podcast and After the Gloaming. He is also a writer and voice actor and more recently an audio producer on The Other Stories podcast. You can connect with him on social media @jimmyhorrors. For more info on James’s projects, head to www.JamesBarnettCreative.com.Henry 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, and a bonus episode, head over to www.patreon.com/nightsendpodcastThis 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 before night falls, Gothic tales of the Macabre, where the supernatural calls home, and the shadows dance, hold tight, and don't the lost you may become. My, that was lovely.

I'm so happy that Tommy was able to reunite with Peter. Indeed, a short but powerful tale of eternal love and loyalty. Henry, is everything all right? Henry? Oh, I'm sorry, dear. I was just thinking of my family. Are you okay? Yes, yes, pay me no mind. Would it help if you told me about them? Like, how many children do you have?

Well, I had a young lad named Henry Jr., twins named Beatrice and Eleanor, and my eldest daughter. Her name was Isabella. The light of my life. She brought so much light to this house and our little village. You see, all around this area used to be a... village. Oh, I'm sorry, Henry. I didn't realize that there were...

We don't need to speak about it if it brings you too much pain. It was a long time ago. But guilt does it. I didn't mean to bring up any ghosts of the past. Say, this storm is still going on and I am still wide awake. How about another story? Ghosts of the past, that's very apt. Yes, another story for my guest.

This tale is one of sorrow and dreams of a different life. This one is titled, The Broomway. The mud is thick and heavy, and it coats the bottom of his worn leather boots, making the trip back harder than it has to be. It's his last journey across the Broomway, and he's desperate to never return. It should have taken him less than two hours

to make it back to wakering stairs, but it feels like he's been wandering in the fog and muck for days. He hadn't wanted to come back to the small town, and once there he'd been desperate to leave. Now the promise of the tide hangs over him, and the offer to spend the night in the barkeep's spare room suddenly seems more palatable. He wishes he'd accepted it.

The house was nearly exactly as he had remembered it. Stone walls graed by time. Tattered wooden shingles. Dirty glass windows, and acres of land now riddled with weeds. The only thing different about it was the neglect that had weaved itself through every crack of the property, like vines of ivy growing through a brick wall. Once the paperwork had been finalised, deed handed over, and the money exchanged, the only thing left for Edgar to do had been to leave,

which, as everyone on Fowleness Island knew, he was especially good at. In truth, if it hadn't been for the farm losing value with each passing month that was left abandoned, he'd have never gone home. He inhales deeply, the salty air stinging his nostrils and making his eyes water. And he tries to recall if the broomway normally smells so strongly of the sea, or if it's just the encroaching water. Edgar takes another step, but his foot plunges deep into the mud, throwing him off balance, and he falls to the ground as pain shoots up his leg.

The papers in his jacket pockets spill out around him, grime and water saturating the paper and making the ink bleed. During their correspondence, Simon had insisted on leaving the door to the house unlocked after its sale. In case Edgar wanted to collect any of his things. He'd protested at first, writing back that any belongings he'd have wanted would have been collected by now. However, as the day of the trip neared, he was increasingly thankful Simon had insisted on opening the farmhouse to him one last time.

The closer the sale got, the more palpable Edgar's pangs of grief had gotten at the thought of his old life and the family that had once been the centre of it. While there weren't any photographs to collect or valuables to salvage, there had been comfort in the idea of revisiting the trinkets from a time long since past

and finally laying to rest the memories of his wife and his son. He wipes his chin and the side of his face clean with the back of his hand. trying to remove as much of the sludge from his skin as he can, spitting some out as it runs into his open mouth. It's acrid and thick, and it makes him gag. He pushes himself up, tries to stand, and sits down just as fast.

His ankle feels hot under his skin, like there's liquid metal running through his veins. And he whispers a silent prayer that he hasn't broken anything. The idea of making the long journey back to bury St. Edmunds, even on horseback, will be especially daunting and equally unpleasant if he's broken a bone. The fog presses in around him, kissing the back of his neck and chilling him through his wool clothes. His trousers are soaked through from his seat on the ground, and he suspects he'll need more than just one hot bath to clean the mud from his skin. Despite it being mid-afternoon,

the sky is dark, and the sun is entirely hidden behind curtains of grey. It fills him with dread, as he imagines the approach of the water, first trickling in, then finding him all at once with great sweeping waves. Is this what they wondered too? The door handle was freezing cold against his sweaty palm. Once inside the house, there was only a short walk to his old bedroom. A broken window by the kitchen confirmed what it already suspected.

The place had been picked clean of any useful possessions. Still, Edgar made his way to the small, bedroom he'd once shared with his late wife. Room was so much darker without floor as smile to brighten at. Her blonde ringlets had made her appear Cherubic, even as an adult, and her blue eyes had been like endless summer skies. She had been soft, tender, and kind, and had loved him dearly. While their belongings had mostly been taken by those in need, some of her clothing had been

left behind and strewn across the floor. He lifted a skirt to his face and breathed deep, the dust irritating his lungs and making him cough, but the small sweet clover was still there, however faint. Not far from his bedroom was the nursery Joseph had slept in. He'd been a small baby, but had burgeoned into a big toddler and had been quickly outgrowing his crib. The wooden horse he'd played with and a few of the toy blocks were still heaped in the corner near where he'd slept. His crib, plain by any standard, was gone with the rest of his things. Edgar picked up the horse and rubbed his thumb across its long neck,

removing a stripe of dirt and grime from the carved maple. Joseph had tried to bring it with him on their trip to the market. Flora had insisted he leave it behind. She'd worried he was going to lose it in the city and cry for a new one, which would have forced Edgar to spend money he didn't have on a toy his son didn't need. She hadn't known it would be their final trip across the Brumway. Edgar had. He tries to jerk his foot from the mud,

but any movement at all sends a jolt of pain up his leg. He digs into the cold ground around his ankle, shoveling handfuls of wet earth away from his body, in the hopes of getting himself loose. It only makes things worse. With each scoop, it feels like his leg is being dragged further in. He reaches down and travels down. tries to free it from the room of his boot, hoping to grab the leather and tug his limb out,

no matter how much it might hurt. But as he roots around the tender joint, he doesn't feel the cowhide at all. But he does feel sends a chill up his spine. He'd loaded the handcart with wheat, baked goods, preserves, and jars of honey. Flora was good at making jams and pickling food, and it was this skill that always guaranteed her more honey than her family could eat come full. Edgar made sure the family kept only the smallest amount for themselves, took the rest to the mainland to sweeten trades or turn a profit. Edgar had never been poor, and so he'd always had great hopes for himself and his life.

With the house and inheritance from his father's passing, his mother long since dead and in no need of financial support, he'd never felt the burden of having to provide. But then he'd seen Flora, and her eyes blew like the heavens, and she was pregnant before her. that even had time to consider marriage. It was hard finding work with a soured reputation and few practical skills.

And so he soon began farming the land he'd promised he'd leave. On the day of his son's birth, he'd cried, mourning the life he'd wanted and the one he now had. But it wasn't too late for him to start over. It was a cold day the morning they left the farm, with fog thicker than cotton. Joseph was bundled in heavy wool, and Flora wore a long green cloak. He made sure they left later than planned, complaining about repairs that couldn't wait and misplacing his sheepskin gloves.

By the time they left, he knew the tide wouldn't be far behind them. He led the way, pulling the handcart through the tall grass and over uneven roads. Joseph giggled from the back of it, sitting on the cart's wooden floor and watching as his mother brought up the rear of their three-person caravan. They waved goodbye to their neighbours, most of whom they'd seen in church on Sunday, and began their trek across the water. Edgar always hated crossing the broomway, thin strip of land only visible when the tide was low. It was a road that had claimed more than its fair share of lives. It wasn't an overly long journey from the foulness to the mainland, but it could be a hard one depending on the load he was hauling and the speed he was moving.

The mud, stones, sand, an uneven footing made it hard to keep a brisk pace and made the hand cart feel 50 pounds heavier. Sometimes the wheel would sink deep into the mud and become immovable. And so Edgar had quickly gotten into the habit of travelling with a plank of wood and a small spade in case he needed to liberate the cart from deep in the ground. Except this time. This time he left his tools at home. and when the wheel got stuck there was no way to free it he screams

pushing backwards in the muck with all his mind as he tries to wrench his leg free to no avail the pain makes him breathless and spots appear in his vision fog trembles around him and he feels the thing move up his leg it grabs at him with hands as cold as ice

he's not sure if whatever has found him is trying to drag him under or if it's trying to pull itself out. Form grabs at Edgar, moving faster, pulling its small body out of the mire. Too stunned to move. He watches as black eyes search his face and a pale, lipless mouth opens, rasps and gurgles spilling out from its throat. Grapes him, clawing at his shirt,

while its hands pass through the material of his sweater like air. They pressed down into his flesh and hold him in place. something moves behind him. He told them it was faster to run to the mainland and back that it was to go back to the foulness. Flora asked to go with him, or at least for him to take Joseph, but he insisted they guard the handcart.

All of their wares were on it, and if anyone stole them before they could bring them to market, they'd be done for come winter. He needed them to wait for him. He promised he'd come back with help. She told him she would. He could hear the lie in his words the moment he said them. He knew it wouldn't be long until the tide rushed in and washed them away.

Soon he'd be free to start a new job, in a new town, in a new life of his own making. He kissed Flora goodbye, letting himself get lost in her eyes one final time, before running as fast as his feet could take it. By the time he reached wakering stairs, he was soaked to the bone and nearly drowned. It was more than he could say for his family. Edgar looks over his shoulder to see the ground rising. No, not the ground, he realizes with some trepidation. Something coming out of the ground.

It rises out of the mud, hovering over patches of coarse of coarse sand and moving silently through rocks, making its way towards him. This spectre is larger than the first, and it looks through him with summer blue eyes. He covers his mouth with his hands, muffling a scream. Joseph presses the side of his face into his father's chest as floor draws closer. He watches as she peels back her lips, fog pouring out and falling into clouds around her and cascading down the front of her gown. As she tries to talk, the air rattles.

but no sound is made. The ground around Edgar is wet, and he wonders how long he's been stuck here, trying to free himself and outrun the tide. The smell of salt is heavier now, and the sky above him looks nearly black. Frantically, he tries to push Joseph off of him, but his hands pass clean through.

They hurt, like they've been dumped in ice water, and Edgar shouts desperately for help. Thrashes in the mud. drop some dirt spluttering his face. He hears Flora before he sees her, a heaving of her breath, chilling him to the bone. She crouches next to him and wraps one arm across his chest, then snakes the other hand around his neck.

Her presence cold as ice and anchoring him alone to the ground. She rests the side of her head against the top of his shoulder, looking up at him as mud and tears trailed down his sweater. She whispers again, but he doesn't understand. The water rushes around him, moving fast and getting faster. He struggles against Flora and Joseph, who only hold him tighter. He tries to pull his leg from the earth, but with each attempt he sinks deeper. He shivers from the cold of both the Thames estuary and his dead family.

He knows it's a hopeless fight as the water quickly rises above his neck. and forces its way down into his lungs. He turns his head and looks into his wife's blue eyes one last time. He asked them to wait for him. His family had obliged. After The Gloming is a production of Dissonance Media and the Other Stories. The Broomway was written by Caitlin Marceau. Caitlin is a queer author and lecturer based in Montreal.

She holds a Bachelor of Arts in Creative Writing. is an active member of the Horror Writers Association and has spoken about genre literature at several Canadian conventions. She spends most of her time writing horror and experimental fiction, but has also been published for poetry as well as creative non-fiction. Her work includes Plymcest, 23 McCormick Road, Magnum Opus, and a debut novella. This is where we talk things out.

She also has two other collections, Vermina and a Blackness Absolute. For more, check out Caitlin Marceau.ca. This episode was narrated by James Barnett, aka Jimmy Horace. James is the creative producer of the Knights End podcast and After the Gloaming. He is also a writer and voice actor, and more recently an audio producer on the Other Stories podcast. You can connect with him on social media at Jimmy Horrors.

For more info on James's projects, head to James Barnettcreative.com. Henry Blackwood was performed by Xandes Schweig. Shelley Stevenson was performed by Alexandra Alroy. After 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, Soundstripe 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 five-star rating. To support the show and gain access to all episodes now at free and a bonus episode, head over to patreon.com forward slash nightsend podcast. This episode is brought to you with a Creative Commons Attribution 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. Thank you.