The Dark Corridor

The whole, frightening experience began at around 5 O’clock on the evening of the 23rd of December 1969. The chill night air was biting and the last remnants of day were creeping over the horizon. The thought of spending another night away from home, away from the comfort of the family over the festive period would be enough to fill most with melancholy and yet, here in the Wayfarer’s Inn, there was not the slightest feeling of loneliness. Quiet contentment appeared to be shared by all of the residents. Jonathan Harper was a travelling sales representative. Nothing too much could be said about him except that he gave the impression of someone uncomfortable with the thought of Christmas alone. If there were anything that left one to assume he was not part of the crowd, this would be it. Otherwise he was no different to anyone else in the inn.

Outside a thick, cloying mist rolled in off the hills spreading icy tentacles across everything in its path. It wouldn’t be too long before the landscape were covered in a heavy, white coat of frost. The residents knew that they would be here for some time - transport to these far outreaches was, at the best of times, limited and as for their own vehicles, parked in the yard around the back of the inn, no one was going to risk driving in these conditions - no one with any sense that is.
The Wayfarer was a small Inn, only ten rooms; each one bijou but welcoming; yet it exuded a warmth that was easy to comprehend. This hotel, deep in the English countryside, offered a respite for the exhausted traveller. The site of a lonely inn, lights glowing like a beacon to the lost, would act as a welcome break for the weary.
Sat in a comfortable, wingback, leather armchair Jonathan mused over the day’s business. He had completed a successful mission into Scarborough and his company would reap the benefits of these labours with a healthy contract, sure to earn them a huge amount of money over the coming year. Jonathan took a sip of brandy and looked into the comforting fire that was burning brightly in the fireplace beside him. Thoughts of his family, the children opening expensive parcels on Christmas morning without him, left him with a small tear rolling down the side of his cheek; yet over the next few days he would have little more time to think of them - he would be too busy trying to survive.
It was about 5 minutes to 5 O’clock and he was almost asleep in his chair when he was approached by a cheery gentleman. Not too unusual a man, except for his dress. His clothes seemed odd, out of place for the modern style of the day. Jonathan, avoiding comment, stood and introduced himself. He invited his fellow resident to take a seat opposite him. The man appeared a jovial sort, ruddy cheeks and a broad grin that Jonathan responded to straightaway: "I couldn’t see myself going much further in that", he said, pointing to the atrocious weather outside, "I’m just glad that I found this place when I did" he added. "It’ll be here for a while, according to the Inn keeper. Says it often gets like this in these parts with it being so open to the elements" said the man. He held out a warm hand of friendship to Jonathan, "Henry Clement, or should I say Pilot Officer Henry Clement, DFC".
The two men sat down, Jonathan thinking it rather strange that his guest should introduce himself in such a way. It was a little unusual for people, in his experience, to introduce themselves twice, once to affirm military status. "Perhaps he assumes I am a military man too", he thought to himself.
"Come far?" the gentleman asked.
"London - Kensington to be precise. I was hoping to get back home tonight but when I saw the fog was getting worse I phoned the wife to say I’d find somewhere to stay for the night and be home tomorrow," Jonathan replied.
As soon had the words left his mouth he felt taken over by doubt. Was it the expression on the gentleman’s face? Was it the fact that the weather was that bad? Was it even, the thought that facing Christmas ‘alone’ somehow appealed to his sub-conscious? No specific reason occurred to him, he just sensed doubt. In any way the feeling of contentment, of comfort, in the company of Henry somehow appealed more than the prospect of leaving the safety of this place. Being with his family on Christmas day may still be possible if the fog lifted in time.
For a while the two men continued in deep conversation, occasionally laughing, occasionally arguing, but in all, remaining friendly with each other. It was apparent that his guest had been a serving officer during the Second World War, originally flying missions across Germany in the reconnaissance corp. before joining the mission to ‘Arnhem’ as a pilot transporting the parachute drop safely to their destination. Jonathan was fascinated. Such tales of heroism were often seen on the television yet here he was, listening to every aspect of a life as a pilot during this daring time.
"I haven’t so much as been involved in the boy scouts", he told Henry, "And here you are, telling me all about a time I could only be in awe of. Well here’s to you, Henry", added Jonathan, raising his glass. His companion gratefully accepted the plaudits.
Several hours had passed before both gentlemen chose to draw the evening to a close. Tiredness had encroached upon them without notice as they yawned almost in unison, neither having any idea how long they had been in conversation, except to say that several drinks had passed their lips and further chatter would result in either or both falling asleep where they sat.
Bidding his guest a good night, Jonathan moved slowly to gather his things. Since his arrival he had neglected to check into his room - he was told that it would have to be prepared as he was an unexpected, but never-the-less very welcome guest.
The gentleman at reception had a somewhat ‘odd’ appearance. The more he thought about it the more he noticed that his clothes resembled those of a similar period of dress to that Henry appeared to belong. He began to look around the whole reception area, at various objects, at the pictures on the wall behind the clerk, at the telephone exchange in the corner, everything reminded him of the 1940’s. Jonathan hadn’t noticed it before, but now the whole place appeared decked out as if in a bygone era.
"Excuse me?" he asked "I feel as if I have walked into some kind of themed Hotel, do you collect memorabilia at all?" A puzzled look upon the clerk’s face told him that this was not worth pursuing. "Perhaps he’s not the conversational type," Jonathan thought to himself, contenting himself with the prospect of a warm bed and a peaceful night’s sleep.
On entry to his room he noticed that the theme downstairs carried on here too, however he was too tired to think about it any further. After turning on the bedside light and settling down his bedclothes he stepped into the bathroom for a quick wash and returned to the warm bed in anticipation of a comfortable night’s slumber. A few moments later and he was fast asleep - the rigours of a hard day’s work finally taking its toll.
It was approximately 2 am when Jonathan was disturbed by a knocking at his door. Rising from a heavy sleep, his eyes still not settled enough for him to turn on the lamp at the side of his bed; he wandered across to the door. On opening, the site of smoke rising from the corridor, in the direction of the stairwell gave cause for alarm. Calling out for whoever knocked at his door he suddenly became aware of a droning noise emanating from above. Within moments, the person responsible for waking him had returned. He couldn’t see the owner of the voice for smoke. "You’d better make your way downstairs to the lobby. We’ve been hit".
"What?" cried Jonathan in astonishment, "You say, ‘we’ve been hit’?"
There was no reply. The disembodied voice had already made its way down the corridor, warning other residents to vacate their rooms. Jonathan followed his fellow guests safely making his way downstairs.
The lobby was crammed full with residents, so much so that chaos reigned. Nobody stood out as knowing what was going on as Jonathan searched for his friend, Mr. Clement. He was nowhere to be seen.
Grabbing at the desk clerk he asked him for some answers. "I can’t tell you much", the clerk replied, "Except to say that we’ve been hit."
"Hit? Hit by what? What do you mean, we’ve been hit?" Jonathan asked again, once more to be thwarted by the clerk. Nothing could explain the smoke and there did not seem to be any damage that would add weight to being ‘hit’ by anything.
Jonathan had almost forgotten about the droning noise he had heard earlier when he was still upstairs, rushing around the corridor looking for the stairwell. On deciding to ask one or two of the other guests if they had heard it too he was surprised by their response.
"That’ll be the bombers flying overhead. They’re always around at this time of night" one cried out. Another said one might have crashed on its way back home.
"On its way back to where? Where’s home? Jonathan asked, curious to know what this was all about. "Is there some kind of airbase near here? Is this a flight path for aircraft?" he questioned further; nobody offered any more information. They all appeared too concerned with themselves to give him any answers.
At that moment, a rather dishevelled and bloodied gentleman entered the building. His head was adorned with a leather cap and flying goggles. Thinking it rather strange that anyone would be flying on an evening such as this Jonathan overlooked the man’s injuries. There was something else peculiar about this chap, a familiarity about him that he couldn’t quite place. "If I’m not mistaken", he thought, "I’ve seen his face before". Within moments there was sudden rush of guests towards the man, each one offering assistance and subsequently disturbing Jonathan’s concentration.
"Quick, someone help the gentleman to a chair. He looks as if he’s been in the thick of it", shouted the desk clerk. Standing in amazement, Jonathan realised something was not right here and he intended getting to the bottom of it, though he would have to wait until the morning, as the main concern was the comfort of this apparent victim of an accident.
Running to the bar Jonathan grabbed a glass, filled it with brandy before taking a swig himself and then took the remainder over to the bewildered patient.
"It came at me, straight from nowhere. I tried you know, I tried!" the mystery man mumbled.
Jonathan could not make head or tail of what he was muttering about. "Poor fellow, he must be deluded", he thought to himself. "Whatever it was that had happened outside must have given him a shock and he’s confused". Within moments the man had fallen into an unconscious state. Efforts to bring him round again proved fruitless; he was out for the count.
Checking on his safety, the clerk advised that the gentleman be given breathing space, whilst he felt for a pulse. With a sigh of relief, he realised that the patient would be likely to recover after some much needed rest. Putting the man’s feet onto a stool he proceeded to call out to the other guests for a blanket. Someone with forethought had already arranged for this and it subsequently was laid across the patient in order that he remain warm while he slept comfortably.
Gradually, the chaos died down and everyone began making their way back to their rooms. Jonathan following suit, felt quite confused by recent events. He was determined to find out what had happened that night but this was no time to ask.
Leaving the clerk to deal with the mystery gentleman Jonathan retired to his bedroom once more, still puzzled by the poor chap’s condition and the reasons for such. He took one final look out of his window to see if there was anything that could satisfy his curiosity but all he saw was thick, thick fog and a white landscape. Nothing else could be gleaned by further enquiries that night so, resolving to sort things out in the morning, he decided to get some much-needed sleep; it would be a long day tomorrow. Jonathan hoped he would be able to travel home for a family Christmas. The fog would make travel difficult but he was determined to make it home.
The weather conditions for Christmas Eve had not improved any. In fact, if anything they had become increasingly worse since the previous evening. Pulling his curtains apart, Jonathan noticed that where he could see the white carpet covering the surrounding countryside the night before, this morning visibility was almost down to zero. There was no way he could travel under these circumstances at all. "It would be incredibly stupid to set off in this", he murmured to himself.
Once Jonathan had carried out his daily ablutions and dressed himself he made his way downstairs, determined to call his wife and advise her of the dangerous conditions and to tell her that he would try again later that day if things improved.
On the stairwell, crossing his path was Jonathan’s friend of a few hours, Henry Clement. "What was all the fun and games about last night then?" he asked.
Henry stared for a moment in bewilderment, almost as if he hadn’t met Jonathan the previous evening, before replying that he had no recollection of what was being asked of him. "The crash!" said Jonathan. "Last night there was some kind of accident and a gentleman was rescued. He’s probably still downstairs at this moment. I must say the poor man looked in an awful state", he continued "I suppose they couldn’t raise you up last night so you probably missed it all. Quite a commotion, I’d say"
Again Henry stared blankly into his face. Now Jonathan was beginning to feel rather uneasy about his friend. "Henry, It’s Jonathan, we met yesterday evening, do you remember?" he asked, puzzlingly.
Without wishing to appear absent minded or ignorant, the distinguished gentleman acknowledged his companion and in an attempt to avoid embarrassment responded, rather wishing to save awkwardness on both accounts. "Of course. Yesterday! I remember. Of course you’ll have to forgive me, I may have drunk a little too much and that’s when the memory plays up, isn’t it? You’re the gentleman that erm’ that erm’" said Henry, gracefully covering his ignorance. "Jonathan. Jonathan Harper", he affirmed. "I’m sorry, I should have realised that you have probably just woken up. "Nonsense. Not at all", said an apologetic Henry, "Perhaps we can meet up in the bar later? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get to my room", he added. And with that, Henry marched off in the appropriate direction. Once again, Jonathan felt overcome by confusion. "I could have sworn he didn’t recognise me", he thought to himself, continuing his way down the stairs to the lobby.
Jonathan’s search for a telephone took him to an old fashioned booth at the far side of the reception area. In a fashion, this didn’t seem out of place; especially with the other furniture in the inn, but again it was not something he was accustomed to. However, his only thoughts were whether he could get through to his wife to inform her of the current situation.
Eagerly Jonathan dialled the number’ 01 984 7325’ "Hello operator, which number are you calling?" said a voice at the other end of the line. He hung up immediately. Calling the number twice more he received the same response. "Hello operator, which number’?"
"How odd!", he exclaimed. Dialling once more he allowed the operator to continue before he answered her. "Yes, I’d like to place a call to London 984 7325 if I may?" he asked.
"I’m sorry sir, that number is not available", came the reply. "May I ask who are you trying to reach?"
Nervous panic began to manifest itself in his speech as he passed details of his home address to the operator. "I’m trying to reach my wife, Mrs. Cathy’ Catherine Harper, 94. Whiterush House, K’ Kensington, London".
Immediately the operator responded, "I have no such person listed at that address sir. Are you sure that you have given me the correct address?"