My Hundredth Post!

Well worth reading, I assure you.

Hellish Views - Harry Evans

Dec 11, 2025

One hundred posts. In a little under a hundred days, too, I think. Not bloody bad.

In honour of this milestone I have taken it upon myself to come up with something fun.

Firstly, an old poem of mine, just shy of 100 words.

Wet

I walk along,

And in my path

I see a ghost,

Not in a sheet,

Or from the dead,

No, this ghost here is one of mine,

One from a moment best forgot,

And then I’m back,

The street’s the same,

But now, instead of pouring rain,

The sun is shining down on me,

And I look up, with shielded eyes,

And as I do we two collide,

And then we meet,

And then we met,

And now I’m back,

And getting wet,

So off I go,

Along the street,

Away from here,

Where our ghosts meet.

Secondly, a challenge.

Can I get one hundred people on Substack to describe the most horrific and blood-curdling monster possible in only three spooky words?

Probably not, but Kimberly Ramsawak and Haunts You Later, you’re up first.

I’ll be happy if we get to three people - but guys, it ain’t my third post. Just sayin’,

Thirdly, a hundred spooky short story recommendations.

Just kidding - but here are some wonderfully creepy ones:

The Crown Derby Plate (Marjorie Bowen)
The Tarn (Hugh Walpole)
Pirates (E.F Benson)
The Monkey, The Jaunt and Survivor Type (Stephen King)
The Signalman (Charles Dickens)
The Room in The Tower (Benson again)

And finally, a short story about a centurion. After all, a hundred is a hundred.

He had never expected this.

To command a centuria was within his power.

To direct and lead in times of crisis, a strength he always knew he had.

To kill without mercy, a skill he had honed for long years.

But now, left with so few men, he knew his influence over those who remained would begin to dwindle, and soon. He had lost his gladius, and his hasta, and there was no hope of recovering them. Only the pugio remained; the dagger would serve him little to rally the soldiers.

He did, however, have one other thing that might carry him through this alive. The sagum. Caked in mud and dried blood and vomit and all things vile, but still, the brilliant red dye of his cloak gave him power. He was a Centurion, whether with a hundred Romans or a score, or even with the bleak number there were at the little camp.

He gazed around, counting. He could not help it, though he knew what the total would be. Seventeen. An ill omen. They would have to hope a hastatus succumbed to his wounds. At least half of their group was injured, some quite gravely.

It was after dark when they would have the best chance. There had been talk of a plan the previous two nights, but then there had been more men. The second attempt had gone worse than the first, and this one, he tried not to dwell on. They would move forward, seven at a time - the final (weakest) three staying behind, for now, in case they were all forced to return - and then hurry through the forest to the beach. It was no longer unfamiliar territory, even in the dark. His soldiers learned quickly, and it was a dire situation to risk forgetting a single detail of that strange wood. Once the first group were through the forest, they would signal the second. When the two met on the shore, they would make for the trireme together. There were too few of them to use the ship, but it would serve as a safer base of operations - and it had supplies. They had eaten little for some days, and the stream that they camped by was dubious - devoid of fish, with only fleshy molluscs hidden in the muck of the shallows. He hated them. They reminded him of snails, whose torrid flavour no flavoured sauce or spice could disguise. He had eaten them once at a great feast, and his wife had laughed at him as he quaffed wine to obliterate the taste. His thoughts drifted to her for but a moment before he steeled himself. To think too heavily of the balmy days of the future, or to travel to the stony paths of the past, was too risky when so much was at stake.

Preparations were made in near-silence. Torches were bundled, but not lit, and a small quiver of arrows was counted. Weapons were sharpened or polished, and armour was put on. Plumes were, by one or two men, straightened. Prayers were muttered by every man. Even the Centurion.

It was decided he would go with the second seven. To go first was too bold. Foolish.

If he died, who would lead? He did not state this sentiment, but the others knew it. Equally they knew what he was capable of, and this, he hoped, was what held them back from quarreling. That, and perhaps some shred of honour still clinging on. They respected what he stood for.

After a long period of silence and stillness, they saw the first signal. Three arrows, ablaze, shot at thirty-second intervals over the treeline. This would, hopefully, provide some light as the second group made their way.

It was unbearably black under the trees. Evidently the flaming arrows had snuffed out. One might even wonder if they had ever been shot at all, despite having seen them with one’s own eyes. It was among the darkest of darknesses. No birds betrayed their presence with a coo or a cry. No small creatures shifted in the dry undergrowth. There was only the muffled sounds of clanking metal, and the padding of heavy feet on dirt.

The Centurion began to imagine the sounds fading, like in old stories he had heard. Veterans spoke, often after flagons of wine, of strange bearded men on foreign shores that would slit you open from behind, or of huge cats, banded and vicious, that leapt from trees and mauled soldiers to shreds. But no, the plodding of feet continued. This might be the first night of success.

But then the other nights. The nights when he had not entered the forest, and the first group had never returned. On the previous attempt only a single man came back, and he was feverish and half-mad. These things spoke of terrible danger in this place. The survivor had said as much before his collapse into semi-consciousness.

Two nights of silence, and burying bodies in the day. Bodies missing chunks and fingers and bodies with bones ripped out.

Then last night, with one survivor, and the great trail of blood between the trees in the morning.

Whoever was in here, he was sure that tonight they must be gone, or dead. All that blood could not be from his men alone. Some of them had clearly died in combat, though the second group never heard any trace of it. An evil sign, but one he had dismissed - at least, to the men. Privately he was shaken by the discovery.

A noise interrupted these thoughts. A sound familiar as a heartbeat to the Centurion. The screaming of dying men. He turned quickly, hearing twelve feet turn with him, and fourteen eyes squinted into the blackness toward their camp. The screams were done, and now there was only heavy breathing. Muttering. Someone began to speak, but was quickly hushed. The seven men, well-trained and now nearly sick with primal emotions, made a circle, each soldier facing out into the trees.

It was not long before a new sound came. Shaking, shuddering breaths in the dark. Then thudding, like the footfall of a great bear, getting faster and faster. The Centurion was thrown forward, buffeted by a great unseen force. He crashed heavily into the ground, his pugio crushed under him, and gasped. Spinning quickly onto his back, lungs heaving, he could just about make out some of the other men on the ground beside him. The others were obscured behind trunks or by the thick breath of the night.

A horrible sound, somewhere between a thick bubbling and a hound’s whine, rang out suddenly over the many cries of pain and surprise.

Then, a sudden light from above. Three thin lines of light like bowstrings. Flaming arrows lit the scene. They were repeating the signal!

But all thoughts of the others left him as the darkness fled his vision.

Before them stood something truly awful - an abhorrent thing, clothed in the armour of Rome but crooked and mishappen in places that ought not to be. In places a coarse, matted coat of black fur peeked out from gaps in the split leather and metal, and the face… the face was terrible to behold. One eye bulged huge and yellow with bestial hatred, while the other spun wildly around, small and blue and dreadfully recognisable. That smaller eye was one they had seen madness in last night. It was the eye of the survivor.

The Roman stood now amongst his countrymen, hulking and hairy and caked in bile, his grasping hands pink and wet. His jaw looked half-torn, and great canines stretched forth over his chin, which wept dark blood from where the fangs had slit through the flesh. What remained of his helmet hid most of his head and hair, but they could see his torso and limbs were drenched in gore.

The Centurion clawed his way to his feet, half-leaning against the trunk of a tree. Before he could speak, the creature had taken three bounding paces forward and thrust a hand sharply into his chest with unspeakable strength. He felt himself spasm, once, twice, and then the hand retracted and he collapsed to the ground. It was warm and wet.

Just as his vision failed completely, something seized him by the head and he vaguely felt the shifting and snapping of sinew.

A freezing rush of air filled his throat, but the feeling never reached his lungs. Everything faded into silence.

As ever, thanks for reading,

Until 200,

H.E.