Hard luck jenny a horror.., p.1
Hard Luck Jenny: A Horror Novella, page 1
HARD LUCK JENNY
A HORROR NOVELLA
DAVID SODERGREN
This book is a work of fiction.
Any resemblance to names and people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the author.
This book is not available to be used for training or use by artificial intelligence (A.I.) in any respect.
Cover art by Cheryl Marriott
Copyright © 2025 by David Sodergren
All rights reserved.
For Heather
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Afterword
MUSIC
Extra Special Thanks to my Patrons
About the Author
Also by David Sodergren
1
Aside from his name, the thing Dennis Norris hated most about himself was his inability to go more than an hour without needing to pee.
The problem had begun in his late twenties, and only worsened over the ensuing decade, turning his and Mel’s monthly theatre trips into gruelling tests of endurance as he fidgeted in his seat and counted down the minutes until the interval. Recently, he had even given up on the cinema, since the installation of new reclining chairs left little room to awkwardly squeeze past the other patrons’ feet on his frequent visits to the bathroom.
But where his weak bladder was at its most bothersome was on the long drives between Edinburgh and Durness, a small village in the far north of Scotland his mother had inexplicably chosen to retire to. She claimed she wished to live near the sea, and when Dennis had pointed out her home town of Edinburgh was also by the sea, she had scoffed and sipped her wine and said, “Not that sea, dear.”
He had no idea what she meant, but it was apparently a good enough reason for the obstinate battle-axe to move a six-hour drive away from her only kin and set up home in the most remote region of the country.
But Dennis was a good son, and despite the distance, he made the drive once a month to retune her telly and input her Wi-Fi password after she had somehow erased it from her computer for the umpteenth time. For her part, his mother prepared him delicious home-cooked meals, washed his socks, and tucked a hot water bottle into his bed like he was still a child and not a married man rapidly — too rapidly — approaching middle age.
Admittedly, it was not an unpleasant way to spend one weekend a month, but by Sunday, he longed for his freedom, and today was no exception. He had set off after a dinner — roast chicken with all the trimmings, followed by a bowl of ice cream with a Cadbury’s Flake in it — and although he had only been driving an hour, already nature was calling. Normally, this would not have been an issue; Dennis always drove the same carefully planned route, one which ensured he was never far from a public toilet or motorway service station. But shortly after leaving Durness, an unexpected problem had presented itself.
A fallen tree on the road had sent him on a baffling diversion into uncharted territory, and in the fifty minutes since, he had driven alongside an old logging trail through miles of thick woodland, with nary a town or village in sight. If he didn’t come across one soon, he’d—
“Are you listening to me?” Mel asked over the phone.
“Yeah, sorry,” he chuckled, glad his wife was keeping him company on the drive. “I just really need to pee.”
“Well, there’s a shock.” He could practically hear her eyes rolling. “Where are you now?”
“I’m not sure. Middle of nowhere. All I can see are trees.”
“Then pull over and go in the woods. No one’s gonna see you.”
She was right, of course. Since setting off, he hadn’t passed a single vehicle on the deserted roads. And what did he care if anyone saw him peeing by the side of the road, anyway?
Well, for a start, public urination is illegal, and—
“You still there?”
“Huh? Yeah, sorry. I was thinking.”
“Well, try not to drift off. Those roads are dangerous.”
He detected a note of caution in Mel’s voice. Understandable… but unnecessary. He had already survived one car wreck, and would never make the same mistake again. After the accident, it had taken him a full year to get back behind the wheel, and even now he navigated the roads with the nervous vigilance of a learner driver.
Of course, he wasn’t drunk this time, which helped.
Don’t think about it.
How could he not? Last Tuesday had been the two-year anniversary of his newfound sobriety, a landmark he celebrated with a Domino’s pepperoni pizza and a can of full-fat Coke all to himself. He hadn’t touched a drop of booze since that fateful day, and he intended to keep it that way.
Still, he supposed Mel was right to worry. The sun had vanished behind the impossibly tall trees, and the narrow, winding country roads were slick with rain.
Welcome to northern Scotland, he thought grimly. Come for the shite weather, stay for the, uhh, shite weather.
The speedometer nudged forty, and he eased off the pedal as he approached a bend. Through the windshield, slivers of light flickered between the trees.
“Hey, wait a minute. I see something.”
“What?”
Rainwater pounded against the windscreen as he took the corner doing a little over thirty, his wipers glancing across the glass with a series of excruciating squeaks. The road straightened before him, and he squinted into the darkness.
“Come on, come on,” he muttered.
Ahead, the trees seemed to fall away on both sides. On the left was nothing but the vast emptiness of a field. But to his right…
“Well?” asked Mel, her voice crackling through the speaker.
“I see buildings.”
“What? I can’t hear you.”
“I see buildings,” he half-shouted. He didn’t want to get his hopes up and risk tricking his bladder into relaxing, but it appeared to be a collection of small crofts and larger two-storey cottages.
“That’s promising,” said Mel.
“I’m not so sure. It looks pretty dead.”
Each building lurked in the shadows with their curtains drawn, as if the occupants had already turned in for the night. A solitary streetlamp provided scant illumination, lighting one small section of pavement and a red post box. Was that the light he’d seen through the trees? Dennis’s hope evaporated. With each passing second, his chances of finding somewhere to pee dwindled. Soon, he’d have to—
Wait.
Was that…?
“Yes!” he cried, pumping his fist in victory before quickly placing his hand back on the steering wheel. He smiled to himself as warm, golden light flooded onto the wet road from a wide building tucked behind a bank of pine trees. He subconsciously sped up, flexing his thigh muscles in anticipation.
“Is it a town?” asked Mel.
“Almost. More of a village.” He sighed. “Thank heavens for that.”
“Thank heavens indeed,” Mel replied, her teasing sarcasm not lost on him. “Is there somewhere you can go? A hotel, or—”
“No hotel,” he said. “Just…” His mouth felt dry, and he cleared his throat. “Just a pub.”
“Oh.” Mel’s disappointment was palpable. She had never been adept at hiding her feelings.
“I can keep driving. There’s bound to be another town soon, or a petrol station—”
“No, don’t be silly. If you gotta go…”
“You gotta go,” he finished, as he pulled the Toyota up alongside the stone building and killed the engine. There he waited, the car silent except for heavy raindrops drumming off the roof. “I won’t be long, babe.”
“I know.”
“Just gonna nip in, do my business, and come straight back.” He hesitated. “You can stay on the line if you like.”
She was quiet. Too quiet, as if seriously contemplating his suggestion. Then, she said, “No, that’s silly. I’m sorry. I do trust you. You know that, right?”
“I do.”
“Good. So quit your yapping and go pee, and call me when you’re back on the road.”
“I will,” he smiled. “Okay, better go. The Rockarn Inn is calling me.”
“Rockarn? Sounds like a metal bar.”
“Maybe.” He glanced out the rain-smeared window. “But it sure as hell doesn’t look like one. Talk to you soon.”
“Enjoy your pee. Love you!”
“Love you.” He hung up, and steeled himself. Mel needn’t worry about him getting drunk, not anymore. The accident had instilled in him an almost Pavlovian response to alcohol. Nowadays, the smell of it — even the idea of it — made him nauseous. He hated going into pubs, and actively avoided work nights out due to his newfound phobia, but today, circumstances dictated he must face his fear head-on.
Leaving the security of his car, he stepped into the torrential downpour. With its gabled roof and harled walls, the pub looked like it had been standing since the Reformation. The voices of several men bellowing a raucous folk song bled out, while dark shapes bounded and spun past the welcoming glow of the windows.
Sounds lively,” he mumbled, and wondered whether his bladder could possibly hold on a wee while longer. There was nothing worse than walking into a bustling pub, especially a rural one where everybody undoubtedly knew each other and outsiders were frowned upon. Even back when he had been an alcoholic, the act of sheepishly entering an unfamiliar pub always reminded him of the opening scene of An American Werewolf in London. But dammit, he was desperate, so he buried his inhibitions and jogged through the rain. Under the fabric awning, Dennis took a breath and pushed the door open. A bell jangled metallically above him, but few turned to look at the interloper.
Jeez, the place was rammed.
It must have been a special occasion. Or perhaps — and this seemed the more likely option — there was nothing else to do in Rockarn on a Sunday night. Regardless, it appeared the entire village was crammed into every available nook and cranny. People jostled by the bar, breaking out in raucous laughter. Others danced to the folk music, waving pint glasses back and forth, the beer frothing over the sides and spilling down their shirts and jackets. Beyond them was a snooker table, around which several men and women crowded.
Terrific.
Wishing to get the ordeal over with, Dennis shuffled between the cramped bodies, contorting himself into bizarre shapes to avoid bumping into anyone. “Excuse me,” he muttered as he passed each person. “Thanks… ta… cheers.”
The pub was surely over capacity. And where were the loos? He couldn’t see anything through the assembled throng, and felt like a dad who had agreed to take his daughter to a Taylor Swift concert and somehow ended up caught in the middle of the crowd. But while he couldn’t find the toilet, he was in sight of the bar. Squeezing between two burly men in Shetland jumpers, he sidled up to the counter and signalled to the barman, who promptly turned away.
Mustn’t have seen me, thought Dennis, though he had trouble believing it.
As he waited patiently, a pretty young woman at the far end of the bar caught his attention. She dabbed at her glassy eyes with a handkerchief as several older women fussed around her. Dennis removed his glasses, wiped the rain from the lenses with his sleeve, and looked again.
Yup. The young woman was definitely wearing a ram’s skull on her head, balanced atop a crown of dead flowers.
“What’ll it be, then?”
Dennis looked up at the barman in surprise. “Huh?”
“I said, what’ll it be, son?”
“Oh, uh, a Coke, thanks.” He had no intention of drinking the beverage — more liquid at this stage would be a foolish move indeed — but he also knew from experience he’d have to buy a drink to use the facilities. In his current state, it was a battle he was unwilling to fight.
The barman glared at him. “A Coke?” He shook his head in what appeared to be disgust. “On a bloody night like this…” He half-filled a glass and slammed it down in front of Dennis. “Four pounds.”
“Four?” He considered mentioning that the sign behind the bar listed a vodka and Coke for one pound fifty, but right now, Dennis didn’t care. His leg twitched as he fished a fiver from his wallet and handed it to the barman. “Where are the toilets?” The man jerked a thumb towards the back of the room and walked away.
Dennis waited for his change, but the surly bugger never returned. This was going to be the most expensive piss of his life. “Rude,” he grumbled, and stole a final glance at the crying woman in the skull headwear.
So weird.
He figured it must be some old folk custom, then abandoned his Coke and snaked through the crowd.
The pub was, in its own way, charmingly retro. There were hipster bars back in Edinburgh that would give their ironic stuffed deer heads for a fraction of the rough-hewn, rustic charm on display. From the wood-panelled walls and chipped mirror to the well-loved dartboard and threadbare carpet, the vibes — as the young folk Dennis taught liked to say — were unreal.
Three doors lined the far wall, and as Dennis neared, he looked back at the bar, and at the woman still sobbing while her entourage comforted her. She leaned forward, resting her head on her hands, and only then did he notice the black veil tucked behind her hair.
“Oh, shoot.”
Suddenly, the curiously busy pub made a whole heap more sense. Glancing at the occupants, he saw more veils, more black dresses, and men in smart, dark suits.
“You idiot,” he whispered, and bit his lip.
He had stumbled into someone’s wake.
Okay. That was no problem. He wasn’t staying, not when he had the best part of a five-hour drive — or longer, depending on the diversion — ahead of him. Ideally, he could slip in and out without being noticed, and luckily, so far only the grumpy barman had paid him any attention. He entered the bathroom — dammit, the only cubicle was in use — and unbuckled his belt by the urinal. There, he closed his eyes and emptied his bladder, relishing the sweet release.
A toilet flushed behind him, followed by the clunky rattle of a lock. As his urine arced against the filthy ceramic, someone left the cubicle and washed their hands in the sink.
Please don’t talk to me, please don’t talk to me, please don’t—
“A sad day,” the man said in a gruff voice. “You gonnae miss him, aye?”
Dennis kept his head down.
“Ah said, you gonnae miss him?”
Hot damn, could he not piss in peace? He turned his head towards the man, who was wiping his wet hands on his trousers. An older gentleman, he wore a dusty black suit and a belligerent look on his weather-beaten face.
“Oh, uh, sorry,” said Dennis. “I don’t actually know, umm… the deceased.”
The man continued wiping his hands, his steely gaze never wavering. “You didnae ken Colin?”
Dennis kept peeing. He wished he could stop, and also that the man would quit staring at him. “Is, uh, Colin the…” — how the hell to word it? — “…is this Colin’s wake?”
“Aye, it’s fucking Colin’s wake, you wee cunt.” The man stepped closer. “And I dinnae think yer very funny.”
Dennis could smell the man’s aftershave. He glanced down at the urinal, where his stream was mercifully coming to an end. A few seconds, he told himself, and he’d be back on the road.
“I’m not trying to be funny,” he said, unused to holding a conversation while peeing. “I… I just stopped to use the bathroom. I’m on my way home from Durness, you see, and—”
“Lucky you,” the man snapped. “But poor Colin’s never goin’ home again, is he?”
A heavy silence filled the room. Was it a rhetorical question? The man didn’t move, and Dennis thought he’d better answer. “No, I guess he’s not.”
“Because he’s dead.”
Dennis tucked himself into his trousers and fastened his belt. “Yeah. It’s tragic.” He moved to use the sink, but the man blocked his path.
“You should pay yer respects tae Jenny,” he said.
Dennis offered him a tired smile. “I don’t know who that is.”
“Colin’s widow, ya wee gobshite. You should pay yer respects.”
Dennis didn’t like the man’s tone, but he also didn’t like the man’s thick, brawny arms and cold, psychotic stare.
“I would,” he said, “but honestly, I’ve never met—”
“She’s had a rough year.”
“I can imagine.”
“The fuck you can.” The man took another step closer.
Dennis motioned towards the sink. “Uh, may I use…”
He refused to budge, instead repeating, “You should pay yer respects tae Jenny.”
“I will,” said Dennis, his voice dripping with forced sincerity. “I will definitely do that. I’m sorry.”
“Disrespectful bastard,” the man snorted, and shoved Dennis against the cubicle before storming out of the bathroom.
The door swung shut, and he was alone once more, his heart hammering in his chest.
“Guess I’ll go pay my respects then,” he said, in a voice so quiet he barely heard it himself. “You freaking weirdo.”
2
With a long sigh — and a prickle of humiliation — Dennis fastidiously washed his hands. The encounter had rattled him, but he felt better having peed, and looked forward to hitting the road. Time was ticking on, and he had to be at school eight-fifteen Monday morning for the staff meeting. At this rate, he’d be lucky if he got more than six hours of sleep.
