The Mysterious Event
Episode 89 of The
Scene: The Street at Dawn, Upper Dennington, April 2nd, 1974
The fog rolled in thick and low, clinging to the hedges and the brick terraces like it had nowhere else to be. It was too early for most of the town — too late for the rest — and the streetlights hummed with that faint, flickering insistence that always made people wonder if they were about to go out.
Mrs. Harriet Pennington stood in the middle of the road in her floral dressing gown, slippers damp with dew, a mug of tea in one hand and a dog leash in the other.
Her terrier, Biscuit, sniffed the air with deep suspicion.
In front of them, the road had split open.
Not cracked. Not damaged. Split.
A jagged fissure glowed from within, pulsing with a soft, impossible purple light.
Mist curled upward like steam from a kettle.
Harriet took a sip of tea.
“Well,” she said to no one in particular, “that’s new.”
The Official Response
A figure approached through the fog — Mr. Bert Hargreaves of the Parish Council, clipboard clutched like a shield, glasses fogged from the cold.
He stopped beside Harriet, peering down at the glowing tear.
“Oh dear,” he said, in the tone of someone who had expected something annoying but not this annoying. “Another one.”
Harriet blinked. “Another what?”
He flipped through his clipboard.
“Unplanned Reality Tear,” he said briskly. “Category… hmm… three? No, three‑and‑a‑half. Possibly four if it starts humming.”
As if on cue, the fissure emitted a low, resonant thrummm.
Bert sighed. “Four, then.”
The Signs
Behind them, two freshly erected signs stood at awkward angles:
THE MYSTERIOUS EVENT!
PLEASE REPORT ALL ANOMALIES TO THE PARISH COUNCIL.
NO LOITERING.
and
CAUTION: UNPLANNED REALITY TEAR.
SLOW DOWN.
Harriet stared at them.
“You put up signs?”
“Of course,” Bert said. “People need guidance.”
Harriet gestured at the glowing crack in the road. “Guidance for… that?”
Bert nodded. “Especially for that.”
The Investigation
Bert crouched beside the fissure, holding his clipboard over it like a divining rod.
“Right,” he muttered. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
The purple light brightened. The mist thickened. Biscuit growled.
A faint whisper drifted out of the tear — not quite words, not quite sound, something like a memory trying to speak.
Harriet stepped back.
“Is it dangerous?”
Bert shrugged. “Only if you fall in. Or breathe too deeply. Or look at it for too long. Or—”
“Right,” Harriet interrupted. “So yes.”
“Moderately,” he corrected.
The Explanation (Such As It Is)
Bert flipped to another page.
“These tears started appearing last Tuesday,” he said. “First one opened outside the butcher’s. Then one behind the post office. Then one in Mrs. Dalloway’s pantry, which was terribly inconvenient because she was in the middle of making trifle.”
Harriet frowned. “What causes them?”
Bert gave him a look that suggested he had been asked this question far too many times already.
“Well, Harriet, according to the experts — and I use that term loosely — reality is… thinning.”
“Thinning?”
“Yes. Like pastry. Or patience.”
The Moment
The fissure pulsed again, brighter this time. The purple light spilled across the street, painting the fog in strange colours.
Harriet felt something tug at her — not physically, but somewhere deeper. A pull. A curiosity. A whisper of something she had forgotten she wanted.
Biscuit barked sharply, snapping her out of it.
Bert stood, brushing off his coat.
“Right,” he said. “I’ll file this as a Level Four with potential escalation. You should head home.”
Harriet hesitated.
“What happens if it escalates?”
Bert paused.
“Well… last time, the vicar briefly became unstuck in time.”
Harriet blinked. “Is he alright?”
“Oh yes,” he said. “Mostly. He keeps giving sermons from the wrong decade, but some people find that refreshing.”
The Ending
Bert made a note, tore off a slip, and handed it to Harriet.
“Please report any further anomalies,” he said. “Strange lights, unusual sounds, sudden déjà vu, unexpected philosophical revelations, that sort of thing.”
Harriet nodded, still staring at the glowing tear.
“And Harriet,” he added, lowering his voice, “if it whispers your name… don’t answer.”
He walked off into the fog.
Harriet stood there a moment longer, Biscuit trembling at her feet.
The fissure pulsed.
The whisper returned.
Soft. Warm. Inviting.
Harriet tightened her grip on the leash.
“Not today,” she said quietly.
She turned and walked home.
Behind her, the purple light flickered — almost disappointed.
They're all surprisingly calm!! I enjoy that your image doesn't appear till the end of the story (at least in my browser) so it's fun to compare the mental image I've been developing... :-))
Another case for Miss Marple, Father Brown, or DCI Barnaby or Dr. Who ever.