1999

Enjoy this short story by Mace Styx.

Mostly, the reason given at this place was put down to ‘noises’. The bin area, I should explain, was a separate caged section at the back of the restaurant, which again, by law, had to be kept at a designated distance from any food preparation area. This small, secluded patch of the car park, which was perhaps four or five meters by six, was poorly lit and contained around a dozen massive steel drum litter bins, into which all of the day’s waste needed to be poured. The problem with the area, especially at night, was that it backed onto the woods.

This being England, and the wildlife of England being what it is, there was no threat from any animals. There was nothing lurking in the woods any bigger than a badger or a fox and anyone complaining about animals would get the inevitable jokes about being gnawed to death by a squirrel or attacked by a rabid hedgehog. There might, on occasion be the odd stray dog out there, but even that wasn’t anything to really worry about. Yet, several members of staff, who would happily take out the bags full of waste in the daylight, refused to even entertain the idea of going out there at night.

I remember, around six months into my first year at the place asking a friend named John what all the fuss was about. His answer wasn’t exactly clear, but something about the way in which he told it, made me begin to think twice about going out there myself.

© 2022 Mace Styx (Hljóðbók): 9781669619154

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Hljóðbók: 6 oktober 2022