High Air
A short horror story. Cruise Executive Frank Wilson is about to receive a Lifetime Achievement Award. While writing his acceptance speech events return to haunt him. Adult Themes.
CONTENT ADVISORY - Violence, mental illness, scenes of a sexual nature, sexual assault.
The JasonWard Creative Substack is for readers like you. I really appreciate your time spent here and invite you to support my work by taking out a subscription. A paid subscription gives you access to exclusive content plus the entire archive of over 100 articles, reviews, interviews, short stories, podcasts and playlists all full of creative insight designed to help you develop your creative projects and practise. This week is a short story that was originally written for a contest and was my first attempt at writing horror - which was kind of fun.
Out of the window Frank saw a flock of swifts. He watched them in their hundreds zooming over the grass towards the trees at the end of the garden, rising like a wisp of rotating smoke and suddenly braking to land on the trees as if to take a breath before the next big push. He had read that these groups are known as screaming parties and every day at dusk they set out on their climb to the high air, safe above the world.
He felt the vibrations of his cellphone through the wooden the desk. “Yes darling. Of course….yes I am writing my acceptance speech this evening…..I don’t know exactly what but, I have to send it to the corporate comms woman first thing… yes I’ll definitely need to keep everyone happy…yes and some funny anecdotes about life at sea and then hopes for the future of cruising - what do you think?…. 20 minutes? … yes of course … yes what an honour it is to be nominated for this lifetime achievement award yada, yada…yes I fed the dogs, and the paddock fence is repaired…OK yes darling, I have to get writing - enjoy Paris…see you Tuesday”
Frank Wilson was always frustrated that his wife Gloria gave equal weight to domestic mundanity and his huge success. He was happy to get off the phone and sat back in his black leather executive chair looking at his laptop screen. He loved the way it was framed by a large window showing his perfectly kept lawn that melted into the woodland behind his house from where the screaming party rose in one black cloud. Frank watched the birds and reflected that after 40 years of ships, planes, people and movement this house really was the perfect place to relax.
He looked at the open Word document on his screen entitled Acceptance Speech. He smiled and typed ‘Good evening shipmates…’ Well, how else would I start? A quick movement away to the left in the trees caught his eye. Probably just another bird looking for somewhere to settle as the sun sets - part of the daylight world’s search for sanctuary before dark he thought before typing the phrase onto his document in case he might use it to sound a bit more poetic.
His attention was brought back to the screen by a soft chime from the laptop. He slid his reading glasses down from his forehead and leaned forward to check .
New Message: ‘Frank. Do You Need Help Writing Your Speech?’ Must be from the speechwriters’ group he thought clicking on the email. There was a picture of the first ship he had worked on back in 1985: Crown Explorer. Underneath the image there was a message in a neat Times Roman font ‘Do you remember what happened here - because we do?’
The sender was weknowyou@mailserve.com.
Frank clicked on ‘reply’ and wrote ‘Who are you?’ Within seconds a reply came: ‘SMTP error 510 email address does not exist’. He glanced around the room, which was static and silent, then took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Out of the window he saw the swifts in their black swarm still circling ready to climb.
He started typing again: ’Good Evening Shipmates! Forty years ago, my first steps into the cruise industry were up the gangway of Crown Explorer’ His collar felt a little tighter as he thought again about the strange email. Another chime from his laptop.
Frank clicked on the new message and saw a scanned photograph of him at 25, looking tanned, slim and happy in his officer’s whites. He was sat on a sofa with his arm around a beautiful, dark-haired woman wearing a white Cape Canaveral t-shirt.
The message underneath read ‘Did Aurelie have the baby?’
Oh Jesus. Frank’s head felt light, and he took a deep breath to get stable. In 1985 when he met her, Aurelie was exotic and Mediterranean. They were both young and passionate and when she told him she was pregnant Frank did the right thing and paid for her to go home to take care of it. In those days pregnant women couldn’t work on cruise ships so that was that. But Aurelie never returned to the ship. He convinced himself that she must have decided to stay with her boyfriend at home in Marseille. Frank had long since learnt to put the episode out of his mind especially during daylight hours. As he always said, “I didn’t get where I am by dwelling on missteps”. But sometimes, at night, in a far-off hotel or a long flight her face would appear and once or twice he had let himself wonder about what happened and what might have been.
He smiled a tight-lipped smile and breathed out through his nose. He took off his reading glasses and looked out of the window but could no longer see the the swifts. He wondered if they had already had gone to the high air.
He heard the arrival of a new email announced by the laptop’s friendly chime.
‘Dossier’ was the title line. He opened the email and saw a photo of a plain manila folder with the words ‘Dossier Mlle Simmonet, Aurelie’ written by hand above the stamp of ‘Maternité Clinique Du Marseille’.
Frank understood enough French to know what kind of clinic this folder came from. If this was confirming that he was a father, then he might need to call his lawyer. On the other hand, this could all be some bizarre hoax which is why he did something he had always forsworn: he raced to open Facebook on his laptop and searched for Aurelie Simmonet in Marseille. Tension built behind his eyes and paranoia opened an account in his brain as he clicked on the first profile that matched his search. The photo dropped his stomach like a bad trip down the back of force ten wave. It showed him and Aurelie in his bed in cabin 1191 onboard the Crown Explorer. He remembered watching her in just her panties run across the cold cabin floor to set the timer on the camera before jumping back under the bedclothes to pose. The caption to the Facebook photo read ’Hello Frank - how’s the acceptance speech?’
His mind scrolled through the list of potential aggressors who could be fucking with him. Or could it just be faking or fishing - find a bit of info and build a story or it could be Aurelie? She would be 63 now and the child, if there was one, would be in its forties. How could he discover the contents of the folder or if it was even real? And what would he do with a 40-year-old child now? Were the two of them hunting him or was this being orchestrated by someone else?
His mind raced to Gloria. She had decided to go away and knew that he would be at his desk writing a speech. Had his wife discovered the secrets that he had kept from her by omission - she never asked so he never told.
Outside the window Frank saw that the day was in its final red throes and the sun had all but dropped below the horizon. Darkness was spreading and here in the country it was so deep and impenetrable that Frank often left the outside lights on to feel safer and less exposed. He went to the kitchen and took out a Waterford crystal whisky tumbler from the wall cabinet. It felt reassuringly heavy in his hand as he pushed back the lever on the American fridge which dispensed a couple of chunks of ice into the glass. He took a couple of paracetamols for his developing headache and went back to the living room to pour himself several fingers of a small batch Irish whiskey he had been gifted by a grateful supplier. The paracetamol went down easily with a warming, smooth swig of triple distilled Irish goodness. Frank carried the glass back to his office and placed it on a flyer for a new gardening service that had been delivered that morning. He watched the condensation from the glass form a rough circle on the shiny paper and took another swig.
Another chime. New Message ‘Frank Wilson Relaxes at Home’.
Fuck this! The message contained a link from an unknown sender which he would usually ignore but his famed rationality was flying off with the swifts. The man who had steered cruise lines through wars, economic crises and Covid stabbed the link.
A solid black box appeared in the middle of the screen. It flickered, a green light illuminated at the top of the screen and suddenly Frank was face to face with himself looking through his laptop’s webcam. What the fuck was this and who the fuck was watching him? The next slug of whiskey brought warmth to his face.
He got up off his chair to walk around and realised his fists were clenched. The emails had made him angry and now his home had been invaded with this webcam trick Frank felt less sure that he could control the situation. He got a Post-It Note out of his desk drawer and stuck it over the laptop’s camera - problem solved. He didn’t notice that the green light on his webcam had gone off.
Frank knew that he could be hacked, God knows he had sat through enough doom-laden IT security briefings in his boardroom. The difference here was that the hackers or whoever had managed to get to his camera in his home. Had they been in the house to do this? Would they be asking for money – that was another trick the IT nerds had talked about, wasn’t it?
He was now more convinced that that Gloria had discovered something or met someone. But would she really she set him up and use her long weekend in Paris with Martha as a cover?
More likely Tony was behind this. He had always been Frank’s number two since they had worked onboard ships together. Frank remembered that they had both wanted to fuck Aurelie all those years ago and had even bet on who would win her over. Perhaps Tony had never got over the fact that he, Frank, had got with Aurelie first. Or maybe it was a prank or maybe, or maybe what?
Frank had an urge to check the house. If somebody else was here, then he needed to know. He emptied his glass, leaving just the half-melted ice and took it with him for a refill. Walking along the hallway to the living room he heard the soles of his slippers echoing on the wooden floor and saw that the final rays of sun passing through the stained glass window over the stairway had left a pool of coloured lights on the wall.
He eased the living room door open and the two black and white collies asleep on the sofa half opened their eyes to acknowledge him. He reasoned that they would have barked if someone was in the house and, as they were silent, he was still alone. But had he not heard stories of criminals drugging the dogs to sedate them? He poured himself a second healthier measure of whiskey from the same gifted bottle and thought about what he might do next.
Frank went back to the hallway and despite the lingering daylight he switched on all the inside and outside lights. He jerked open the stiff door to the cupboard under the stairs, ducked his head inside and entered the combination to open his gun safe which was hidden there. He took out the Dan Wesson DWX pistol he used for target shooting, loaded it and tucked it into the back of his trousers with the handle resting against his belt. ‘Just in case some fucker wants to really play' he muttered to himself.
He went back to the living room and the dogs were still drowsy. He went to the kitchen and saw the two steel food bowls empty on the dark slate floor. He picked one bowl up and sniffed it for poison before realising that he would have no idea what odour he was seeking. The large American fridge roared into life like a truck coming through the wall. The sudden noise caused Frank to reach for the pistol. He struggled to get it clear of his belt at the back, so he decided to keep it in his right hand and headed back to the office closing the kitchen door behind him. The clock in the hallway beat the passing seconds as he made his way back.
Frank sat down again on his chair. He felt its solidity support and protect him.
His phone pinged a message alert. EZ Delivery: Nobody was home to receive your delivery, so we left it on the doorstep and a photo of a book-sized brown package by his front door. Frank looked at the time the photo was taken: two minutes ago. He went back to the living room and looked out across the front garden through the fading light. He saw nothing. There was no van being driven too fast back out towards the road and the collies were still snoring.
Frank edged his way to the front door ready to open it and grab the parcel.
Another phone message alert. EZ Delivery: Our Delivery Agent Josh Jones is here and a photo of a tall white man in his 20s dressed in black standing on Frank’s doorstep. Frank cocked the safety with his thumb, snapped the front door open and aimed the pistol out into the deepening darkness. There was nobody. He saw dusk, plants, trees and heard the eventide chorus of animals and birds joined by a distant village church bell tolling the hour.
Frank put the door on the latch and stepped off the porch onto the paved path that ran round the perimeter of the house. From somewhere down the lane came the deep throaty rumble of a tractor. The outside lights created an illuminated moat in which everything was visible, and Frank looked both ways before heading right past the living room windows and towards the stables.
He noticed that as the sunlight had dimmed so the outside temperature had also dropped and he put his left hand in his pocket to keep it warm. Where was this delivery guy? Looking through the windows he saw the dogs still sleeping, warm and oblivious on the sofa. A cool breeze brushed over his face and slammed the front door in its frame behind him. He spun round, his trigger finger squeezed out all the built-up tension and the sound of the explosive shot rung off the walls echoing out through the dark across the fields. The dogs roared, slamming themselves against the living room window, barking and frothing. The tops of the trees lifted to the sound of thousands of birds’ wings flapping. Dogs on neighbouring properties sent out messages into the half light and Frank’s phone pinged.
A message alert EZ Delivery: You Missed!
Frank rushed back to the front door and picked up the package from the doorstep in his left hand. The dogs were still barking like possessed beasts and their claws were scratching along the living room floor. He took the package to his office, placed his gun on the desk and ripped open the brown box. Inside was a bubble wrapped silver hard drive with a short white cable attached. Handwritten on the drive, in black sharpie, was the title ‘Frank Wilson Welcomes You Onboard - Play Me’.
His hands were shaking as he forced the USB plug into the port on the side of his laptop. There was only one file on the drive which was called Welcome Aboard. Frank opened it and there her was on video, onstage in the theatre of the Odyssey Explorer in 1997. He was in officer whites with his right hand in his pocket and his left hand holding a microphone. His own voice came back to him from nearly 30 years ago: “It is great to welcome a new group of singers and dancers to this beautiful ship. I am Frankie, your hotel director, which means… I’m your boss” The image on screen grinned. “Now let’s get a few things clear about behaviour. I don’t care if you are gay, straight, lesbian or a raving drag queen just keep it in your cabin. However, if you are blonde, pretty and female then you can come and keep it in my cabin!’ The video jerked and repeated on a loop ‘However, if you are blonde, pretty and female then you can come and keep it in my cabin!’ Who the fuck had filmed this? Hunting had become haunting, and whiskey had become a necessity again.
The office felt smaller, the darkness outside made the house feel more isolated and when Frank looked out of the window only a dark reflection looked back. The trees, the grass and the swifts had all been swallowed by the night.
His laptop chimed.
New message: CRUISE NEWS INTERNATIONAL HEADLINE ‘Video Sinks Global Cruise Lines Chief Frank Wilson’
Frank opened the email and saw the front page of Cruise News International The headline was there together with a sub-heading: ‘Wilson Rejects Lifetime Achievement Nomination as Social Media Video Shows Inappropriate Behaviour?’
Below was a picture of Frank with Gloria taken somewhere sunny. In the middle of the page was the same video he had just seen on a loop.
Frank felt the bile rising and got to the waste bin just in time to vomit his whiskey and lunch into it. He was angry that people didn’t understand that this had been normal behaviour in those days. The girls had all wanted to sleep with the officers because they had better cabins with TVs, room service and portholes to see the outside world.
The dogs were still barking, and he went back to the living room to calm them down.
His phone rang before he could get there. Caller ID Withheld. He picked up and croaked out the words ‘Hello, Frank Wilson’.
A female with a soft Welsh accent spoke:
“Hi Frankie. You said it would be fun, so what happened?”
“Who are you?” He knew who she was and that scared him. It was Sarah, the redhead from Cardiff, the woman who had discovered Frank’s most dangerous secret. The one he had shared with the boys in his team. The secret that featured her several times. The secret that caused her to overdose and be flown home as a medical emergency causing the ship’s departure from Miami to be delayed by two hours.
The secret that led to an investigation led by Frank which concluded, after forensic deconstruction of her spending, movements and life that Sarah, the redheaded dancer from Cardiff, had been depressed and the stress of working on a ship had triggered an episode. Frank had spoken with Sarah’s parents and wished everyone a safe and full recovery.
“Oh, Frankie I’m sure that you and your friends know exactly who I am. How many times did you show them Frank?” Sarah had never recovered. Her colleagues, her friends and her boss had all conspired in making and watching a video of her having sex with an older married man - Frank. Not once but several times.
“Show them what?” It was useless pretending as he grasped for control and gasped for air like a garrotting victim.
New Message: There was no text, only a link to a file called ‘Frankie. Do You Remember Me?’
He clicked on the link and the horror became real. Sarah had got hold of his darkest dirtiest secret and edited it together in a 5-minute sizzle reel. Countless encounters filmed from the same angle, the same hidden camera and Frank knew that all of it was destructive.
Oxygen was sucked out of Frank’s chest and what was left in his stomach landed on the floor around the bin. He was helpless. He was a child again wanting to shout, and weep and make it go away.
But this was never going away. This was a hard drive full of shame. It was not about Aurelie, a child or inappropriate comments. The voice on the phone returned:
“Are you still there Frankie?”
“Yes! What the fuck do you want?” He wanted the voice to stop. He wanted Sarah to die and be buried with his secret - with all of it, with the hours of it that were not in the reel. But all her heard was the song:
“'Cause I remembered when I loved you so much
Way back when we were friends
Going together but then you left me
Frankie, do you remember me?
Frankie, do you remember me?
Frankie, do you remember me?”
Echoing and repeating down the phone.
Frank picked up the gun from his desk, clicked back the safety and placed the barrel under his chin. He felt the cold steel circle on his skin and looked out into the darkness. There were lights on the driveway, flashing blue. Loud piercing sirens set the dogs barking again. A metallic voice asked him to come outside. Frank eased the trigger. The swifts would be safe in the high air now.