The Hungry Lens: And Other Strange Tales

By Matthew Pegg

Scary Tales...

This collection of fantastic and haunting stories includes ghosts, horror, fantasy and contemporary fairy tales; told with ingenuity and wry humour.

Children climb a staircase in the woods and disappear.

A crow becomes a reluctant bride.  

A silent movie st

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mantle Lane Press
• Release date: May 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9781068645907

Matthew Pegg

Matthew Pegg lives in Leicestershire in a house full of books and cats. He has been an actor, director, graphic designer, drama teacher, and has run education departments in regional theatres.He began his writing career as a playwright. His plays include Escaping Alice, produced by York Theatre Royal in 2012; a street theatre show about Nicaragua; a one man adaptation of Twelfth Night; a puppet play that toured to care homes; and Ant Farm, a play for youth theatres set in an ant colony. He began to write fiction during an MA course in Creative Writing at Nottingham Trent University, where his fiction tutor was the late author Graham Joyce. Since then his short stories have been published in a number of anthologies from publishers in the UK and the US.

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The Hungry Lens

And Other Strange Tales

Matthew Pegg

First published by Mantle Lane Press 2024

Copyright © 2024 by Matthew Pegg

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This book is a work of fiction. All characters, organisations and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

The moral right of Matthew Pegg to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

The following stories have been previously published:

‘Wolfskin’ (in Bark and Bone. [Space Cat Press, 2023]); ‘The Peacock House’ (in Secret Stairs. [Silver Empire, 2019]); ‘The Well Wisher’ (in Respectable Horror. [Fox Spirit Books, 2017]); ‘Small Sacrifices’ (in The Last Diner. [KnightWatch Press, 2014]); ‘The Samson Museum’ (In Little Magazine of Magnificent Monsters. [The Were-Traveler, October 2013]); ‘Chalk Marks’ (in μtxt 1 [Medusa’s Laugh Press, 2014]); ‘March Hays’ (in Death’s Realm. [Grey Matter Press, 2014]); ‘The Snout’ (in Strangely Funny 2½. [Mystery and Horror LLC, 2015]); ‘What We Caught in September’ (in Elemental Foundations. [Zimbell House Publishing, 2015]); ‘Andrew in the Maze’ [I Am All Stories, 2020].

Mantle Lane Press

Mantle Arts

Springboard Centre

Mantle Lane

Coalville

LE92DE

UK

www.mantlelanepress.co.uk

Cover images, Pixabay: Vintage green background texture by Oberholster Venita. Raven by Angela. Camera by Kerstin Riemer

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Contents

The Well Wisher

Crow Girl

Ghost Walk

The Snout

Chalk Marks

Crocodile Blues

Meet Me Beneath the Cherry Tree

The Hungry Lens

Lady Virginia on the Lam

The Peacock House

The Samson Museum

Small Sacrifices

Andrew in the Maze

Wolfskin

The Bouncing Policemen

The Tower in the Garden

What We Caught in September

Interview Day

Secrets

March Hays

Story Notes

About The Author

The Well Wisher

In my dream I was in the study, lying on the polished wooden floor, gazing up at the plaster ceiling. I was in my nightdress. I couldn’t move, pinned like a butterfly on a board. I heard slow footsteps. A grey figure moved into sight, veiled and clothed in cobweb and smoke. It peered down at me. I couldn’t make out any features though I strained to see clearly. Dust drifted down from its rags and burned my throat as I breathed in.

The figure held something in its hand, a familiar object, a black glass inkwell. It tipped it slowly until black fluid trickled out, spattering my face and filling my mouth, tasting of iron and something sweet. I choked and coughed up ink; it flowed over my chin, soaked my collar and puddled in the base of my throat. My eyes became black pools, light was blotted out. Ink filled my lungs and my chest heaved as I tried desperately to take in air. The room was flooded and I was drowning in a sea of blackness. I awoke with the sheets soaked in my perspiration and the first rays of daylight bleeding through the curtains. I told myself that it was just a dream, that it was all over. And I almost believed it.

It had begun on a bright spring morning. The sun shone through the tall windows of the schoolroom, dust danced in its beams like motes of gold. I studied my charges: Edward, industrious, scribbling, head bowed over his Latin, Rupert, distracted by something he had seen through the window, mouth agape, and Emily, chewing the end of her pencil thoughtfully as she considered some knotty problem in her textbook.

‘As it is such a fine day,’ I said, ‘I propose that we take our paints into the gardens.’ This suggestion was met with general approval. We consigned Virgil to the cupboard, collected watercolour boxes, pencils and paper, left the Hall and decamped to the grounds, to sketch the lake and the faux Temple of Apollo set among beech trees on the hill.

Simon Montague found us there an hour later.

‘Miss Andrews!’ he cried as he trotted down to where we sat, ‘I’ve been sent to fetch you.’

Simon Montague was half brother to my charges, the sole issue of Lord Montague’s first marriage. Recently returned from a scientific expedition to the South Seas, he was tall, very brown, and as ugly as any man I have ever seen. His face was long, his nose too prominent, his hair an indeterminate colour and his mouth too wide. I had met him for the first time on his return five days previously and found myself staring at him whenever we met, in wonderment that such disparate features could sit together on one face.

The two boys dropped their brushes and pencils and ran to meet Simon who horsed around with them good naturedly, pretending to be winded as they tried to wrestle him to the turf.

‘Come and see our pictures!’ said Rupert.

Simon looked at their efforts and praised them both. ‘Is that a shark in the lake,’ he asked Rupert.

‘Yes it is. It’s just eaten Edward.’

‘No it hasn’t!’ said Edward.

‘Yes it has. It’s my picture and if I want a shark to have eaten you in it then I shall have it.’

‘Then I shall have elephants trampling you to death on the lawn.’

All the while Emily had been absorbed in her own painting. Leaving the boys to chase each other, Simon looked over her shoulder.

‘That’s wonderful Em,’ he said.

‘It’s not quite right yet,’ she said, chewing the end of her brush.

‘I think you’ve really captured something,’ he said.

I was pleased. My own watercolour skills were indifferent. The boys’ paintings were what you might expect: Edward’s competent but overly careful and blocky, Rupert’s careless, full of detail inferred but not actually seen and of course sharks. But Emily had real promise. Her painting of the lake transformed it into a mysterious landscape of lambent water reflecting spiny trees and turbulent clouds.

‘When you have finished may I have it?’ Simon said, ‘I shall put it on the wall in my room.’

Emily glowed with pleasure and nodded her assent. ‘I should like to be a painter when I’m grown up.’ she said to him confidingly.

‘Girls can’t be painters!’ shouted Rupert as he raced past.

‘Miss Andrews says that girls should do whatever they wish.’ Emily shouted back.

I blushed at that. I am firmly convinced that our sex is unreasonably subordinate to the male of the species in many instances, but my own life since Mother died has not been distinguished. Seamstress, school teacher, governess, governess, is the less than illustrious trajectory of my career. Father is infirm and reliant on what little I can send home, so I have had to set aside my own aspirations. But I see no reason why Emily should do the same.

‘Miss Andrews is extremely clever,’ Simon said to Emily, ‘And you would be wise to pay attention to her advice.’

Emily smiled at him and I was infuriated to find that the wretched, ugly fellow had induced me to blush even more.

‘But I forget myself,’ Simon continued, ‘Miss Andrews, my father wishes to speak with you.’

I worried that I had committed some indiscretion. It had happened in my last employment, where I was outspoken when I should have been silent and silent where I should have spoken out. Suddenly I felt that the bright summer sun and the honeyed breeze that blew across the lake were mocking me. I would be dismissed and banished from this place too and I suddenly realised how much I liked it. I told the children to return their paints to the schoolroom after which they might have the rest of the morning for their own devices.

‘Am I in trouble?’ I asked Simon as we entered the hall.

Simon looked surprised, ‘Father simply said that he wants your advice. About the children I would imagine.’

I relaxed a little. Simon left me at the door to Lord Montague’s study. I took a deep breath and knocked.

‘Come.’ Lord Montague was at his desk and rose when I entered. He ushered me to a chair in front of the fireplace and sat facing me.

He paused, clasping his hands together, pensive.

‘The boys… how would you say they are?’ he asked.

‘They are well, sir.’ I replied.

‘They do not seem preoccupied? Sombre?’

I nearly laughed aloud. This was so far from the characters of Edward and Rupert that their father might have been describing another species. But I merely said, ‘They are as boisterous and as full of high spirits as any boys I have known. I detect no signs of unhappiness.’

He pursed his lips and gazed into the dead ashes in the fireplace.

‘Has something happened, sir?’

‘Yes I’m afraid it has.’

Lord Montague arose, unlocked his desk and returned with a piece of folded notepaper which he handed to me. I nearly dropped it. A sharp pain shot up my arm, as if I had been stung by a wasp. The world about me went grey and cold for a moment as if I had been plunged into murky water. I heard a thin inhalation of breath close to my ear, smelled something rank like rotting pond weed, and felt a wave of emotions, not my own, a suffocating impression of frustration, sadness and anger.

A second later it was over. I gave a gasp of shock.

‘Are you unwell Miss Andrews?’ asked Lord Montague.

I took a deep breath. Nobody in the household was aware of my peculiar sensitivities and I was determined to keep it that way. I did not want to be dubbed irrational or dismissed as a hysterical young woman.

‘A moment’s dizziness that is all.’

I looked at the folded note. I could see nothing odd about it, nothing that might induce the episode I had just experienced. The paper was thin and cheap, of a kind available everywhere. The note within was written in black ink. At the edges of the letters, where the ink had bled into the paper, there was a slight mauve cast. I read:

‘Sir,

The curate Bastable has a hidden secret. Do you know it? His taste is for young boys. He wants to take them on his knee to kiss and fondle and more! He is a sinner and a hypocrite. He will burn in hell for ever and good riddance! Do you look after your boys Sir? Do you? Do you know they are innocent still? Look to their safety Sir and act!

Signed Yrs.

A Well Wisher.’

‘This is vile stuff,’ I said.

‘It is indeed,’ said his Lordship quietly, ‘But that does not preclude it also being true!’

I felt breathless. I had a limited notion of what took place in private between men and women, married or not. But this was something different and appalling. Did people do such things? Could it be true? Had I neglected Edward and Rupert? Not noticed something terrible happening under my nose? I took a deep breath and attempted to gather my thoughts in a rational fashion.

‘The boys receive religious instruction from the curate,’ I said, ‘But on those occasions all three of the children are present and so am I. Mr Bastable would have to find a way to get one of them alone and I do not believe that he has ever had such an opportunity. If the boys were together he could do nothing. They may squabble but they are loyal to each other and I don’t believe that either would allow harm to come to the other.’

Lord Montague gave a thin smile at that. ‘I believe you are correct.’ he said.

I thought of tall, stooping, humourless Mr Bastable, his long hands, his fingers like white sausages.

‘He would then have to ensure their silence, either through threats or bribes or both. Even if that were possible I am sure their demeanour would be affected. There would be some sign of distress or unhappiness, some alteration in their behaviour. And there has been none. Considering that, I do not believe that anything can have happened to your sons.’

Lord Montague gave a heavy sigh of relief.

I felt compelled to add, ‘But I might have missed something vital. I am wholly ignorant of… this kind of thing. So I may not be the best judge.’

He stared at me for a long moment. I realised I was clasping my hands so hard that my knuckles were white.

‘If you wish it I will talk to the boys.’ I added. The idea put me in a panic, but it was my responsibility after all.

He gave me a wry smile. ‘Thank you but I don’t think that will be necessary at present.’

He looked at the paper again.

‘This may be simply an attempt to smear the reputation of a good man, motivated by jealousy or spite.’

‘Or it may be true and sent to you because you are in a position of authority.’

He nodded. ‘I do not wish to ruin anyone’s reputation on the dubious evidence of a poison pen letter, but neither can I ignore it. I hope I can trust you to say nothing to anyone else.’

‘Of course.’

‘Then I’m wondering if I might prevail upon you further? It’s difficult for me to make discrete enquiries but you may talk to Reverend Fletcher. Ask if he has heard any rumours. Find out if these accusations have any truth to them.’

Very reluctantly I agreed to do my best and took my leave.

The afternoon found me calling at the vicarage, in a state of some anxiety, unsure of how to broach this subject. I was shown into the Reverend Fletcher’s office. The vicar was a rotund man with half moon glasses and a halo of white hair. He was seated behind his desk, examining three pieces of paper. No sooner did I begin. ‘Mr Bastable…’ than the vicar went rather pale.

‘Has his Lordship by any chance received a letter?’ he stuttered.

‘He has,’ I replied.

‘Anonymous?’

I nodded.

‘I was afraid this would go further!’ The vicar indicated the three papers. I was careful not to touch them. They were in the same hand and on the same thin notepaper as the one sent to the Hall. The ink displayed the same mauve cast. The letters accused the curate of the same beastly behaviour, this time with members of the choir.

‘Have you spoken with him?’ I asked.

‘Last night,’ he said, ‘He denies all.’

‘Well he would,’ I thought and then chastised myself for this uncharitable thought. ‘May I talk to him?’ I asked.

The vicar conducted me up the stairs and to a door at the rear of the vicarage.

‘This terrible business must be rooted out,’ he said.

‘I agree.’

‘We must find the writer of these filthy letters and stop them. It must go no further. People would lose faith in the church, in me as their vicar. It would be a disaster.’

I stared at him. I had thought he meant we must root out the truth of Mr Bastable’s conduct but he seemed concerned only with reputation.

‘And if it is true? Would that not be a disaster for the children?’ I asked, unable to hide the asperity in my tone. The vicar stared at me and his face reddened in anger.

‘Young Lady, Mr Bastable gave me his word that it is untrue. The word of a gentleman and a man of God! I do not doubt him and neither should you.’ His eyes flickered to the side as he said this. I knew he lied. He doubted and was afraid. I suppose it was wrong to blame him for that.

He knocked on the door. ‘Mr Bastable, Miss Andrews is here from the Hall. May we speak with you?’

Silence.

I rapped on the door myself and at my touch it came upon me in a rush, this thing, the taibhse, from behind the door, and the unexpectedness stole my breath away.

No light, no breath, no warmth, drenched, suffocated, bone creak, drawn thin, stretched vertebrae detached and grating, hot needles pierce eyes, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I could not help myself and I have tried and tried but still it dances, plagues me, forbidden thing in me, and burns and burns until I go mad, red motes in my eyes are laughing faces, withered children loving my agony and despair, until darkness, cold and blackness fall.

I collapsed against the door. The spike of pain in my head was like a hot poker but I knew it as an old friend and it brought me back to myself. The vicar fluttered his hands at my partial collapse. I wanted to run but I would not be ruled by fear so instead I flung open the door and saw the curate Mr Bastable hanging in mid air, naked but for his nightshirt, chin on chest, face dark.

The vicar sat down heavily on the landing, and had an attack of vapours. So it fell to me to step into the room. I took in every detail as if I was a camera: the wooden chair on its side on the carpet, the bible fallen from pale hands, long, long fingers curled like dead spiders, his belt affixed to a hook in the ceiling, and the envelope on the washstand, which contained the confession.

I read it, there in his bedroom, next to his cold body, before the gardener and his boy came to take him down and before the authorities arrived.

‘I swear these abominable notes are untrue. I have never laid a hand upon a child, never given in to my unclean thoughts, never acted upon the imaginings which plague me. I do not understand why I am tested so, and can bear it no longer. I am cursed to be a sinner in mind if not in body. I have fought this foul thing until I have no more strength. If my secret thoughts are known by all, there can