Short Horror Stories

Message in a rock by Stewart Mc Kay

The crunch of gravel and the crash of the front door.

"Go and show your Mum," he says.

"Mum, mummy, look what we found at the beach!"

I rest my book on the arm of the sofa and resign my peace to the scrap-heap.

Tom bursts in, still wrapped in his blue overcoat and smelling of fresh air. In his hand is a rock, smoothed like a skimming stone but too big. I'm surprised he can hold it in one hand.

"What is it, darling? Come on, take your coat off and tell me."

I begin to pull at his buttons as he wriggles in excitement. "It was on the beach, near to where we always let Snowy chase the seagulls. I wasn't going to pick it up, but then I thought it looked quite strange and went back to see it. Isn't it pretty?"

"What is it?"

"It's something, but not a rock like I thought." I inch him from the jacket and unravel his scarf.

"It looks like a rock, darling." He hasn't yet stood still and released his grip for me to get a decent look.

"No it's not. It's not heavy enough. See!"

Finally he forces it into my hand and, right enough, it's incredibly light. The colour and the shape remind me of a terracotta bathroom tile, one with irregular, smoothed edges. Is it made of polystyrene? A film prop?

"You’re right, Tommy."

Rolling it over in my hands I see that the other side has a multitude of faint scratches on the surface.

"It's writing." Tom says, softly.

"Mm-hmm." I can't make it out. It's English perhaps, or at least a Romanized language. I need a stronger light.

"Ooops!" My coffee mug takes a tumble. The rock is discarded in the living room as I shoo Tom out to save the carpet.

After dinner, with Mike slumped in front of some Bruce Willis rubbish and Tom in bed, I take the rest of a bottle of wine into my study. I clear some books and manuscripts to the corners of the desk and examine the 'rock' under a strong lamp. Its smoothness stands out immediately. There are no blemishes, no scratches. Amazing, I think, for something that's been lying on a pebble beach. Again I find the lightness hard to explain.

For something that is apparently just a rock it somehow makes me think of an expensive piece of technology. It has a dull, matt finish like the cover of my laptop. Impulsively I bang it off the edge of my desk. A light rap and a slight groove in the wood; but no mark on the rock.

I focus on the other side. It's undoubtedly writing, formed in a neat square, but even under a strong light I can't make it out. It's so faint. Staring at it is quite disconcerting: I feel like I've nearly made out a word when it seems to melt back in to the brown mass. I put it down and screw my eyes shut.

A loud thump from above. Tom's room is directly above. Through the open door I can see Mike now asleep, head slumped forward.

"Tom, are you OK?" I call up in to the darkness at the top of the stairs.

"Yes mummy."

"I heard a loud noise. What happened?"

"I fell out of bed."

"How on earth did you manage that? I thought you were sleeping."

"I was, but then I woke up and wanted to look out the window, so I stood up”