“No.”
“I was calling you. You said you were going to turn the oven on.” A suspicious look crossed her mother’s face. “What have you been doing up here?”
“Reading in my room. Sorry, I forgot about the oven.”
Her mum gazed at her for a moment. “Come downstairs, I don’t like you being up here on your own.”
“I’m nearly thirteen. What do you think’s going to happen to me? Aside from being bored to death.”
“Just come downstairs.”
“I will. After I’ve used the bathroom.”
Her mum muttered as she left the hallway, leaving Eliza free to slip into her room and stash the book between the pillows.
She ducked into the bathroom and flushed the chain, spending a moment to wash her hands. Eliza glanced at her reflection as she brushed her long black hair, stark against her pale white face, her dark eyes tired.
It was no wonder. Twelve years of dealing with her mother’s neurosis would be enough to make anyone exhausted. “It’s eaten her up,” Eliza whispered. “And now it’s eating me up.”
Dinner, if a bacon sandwich could be described as such, was a mercifully short affair.
Eliza listened as her father made his familiar “dad jokes,” and wondered if there was a club for fathers where they sat around brainstorming awful jokes. If there was, her dad was surely president of the society.
“We’re going to see if we can get the television working,” her mother announced.
“I’m really tired,” Eliza said. “I was thinking of having an early night.”
“I know it’s difficult for you here,” her mother said, standing and giving Eliza a tight hug. “But we’ll be home in a day or so, and then you can get back to your cello practice. I know you’ve really missed playing with your group. We’ll be home in no time. I promise.”
“I’m alright,” Eliza answered. “I’m just really tired.”
Her mum held a hand over Eliza’s forehead and checked her throat. “Get an early night and wake me if you need anything. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Wake her up,” her dad said, pointing to her mum. “But don’t wake me. Not even if the house is falling down. Okay?”
“Okay, Dad. Goodnight, then.” Eliza left the living room and filled a glass with water. As the tap clanked and sputtered, she opened the cabinet below and found exactly what she was looking for—a small, thin flashlight.
Eliza closed her bedroom door, crossed to the window, and peered out at the wintry night. A row of skeletal branches reached up, dark against the sky; above, a sliver of moon disappeared behind a bank of wispy clouds.
Eliza looked below, searching for a glimpse of the so-called book collector, but the garden and lane seemed reassuringly empty. She shivered at the thought of him and snapped the heavy purple curtains shut.
As she brushed her teeth, Eliza wondered about the book hidden between the pillows. What was it? Who was Edwin Drabe? Why had the book been kept in a hidden room?
She climbed into bed, glad for the thick goose-down duvet and the plump pillows. Eliza pulled the cover over her head and switched the flashlight on, grinning as she retrieved the book and held it up in the soft light. She hadn’t read like this in years.
The book was heavy, its pages thick and reeking of age and dust. She tried to open it, to rifle through its pages, but they were stuck fast. She pulled at them, but no matter how hard she tried, they wouldn’t budge.
Was this some sort of joke? Had someone glued the book shut? Had Tom done this? But why?
And then the cover fell open and Eliza began to read the neatly curved handwriting on the first page.
* * *
November 11, 1809
Edwin Drabe, 1741-
For those in future years who read this account of my dealings with the Grimwytch, may the heavens protect you.
Herein, you shall find a collection of accounts, which describe my travels in our world and the places that border and overlap it.
These tales have been written to salve the tortured souls of the Ghasts and Ghoules who have crossed from their land to ours. And for their victims and those who are locked away in the Midnight Prison or lay slain by my hand.
May they find peace within this book of kindly deaths.
Edwin Drabe
* * *
Eliza shivered as she read and reread the passage. “What’s the point in that if this is just a book of stories?”
Perhaps it was a part of the joke, a mock warning for a book sealed in order to taunt its reader.
But as she finished the first page, the next fell open.
6
Halfers Hollow
The rough woolen gloves covering Robert Chandler’s fingers were so full of holes that they brought little respite from the harsh November chill.
He stared down at the barrow as he wheeled it across the narrow path. It was almost full to the brim with potatoes, but it should have been empty. The potatoes would have sold at the market if it hadn’t been for the unexpected competition from the smartly dressed farmer whom Robert had never seen before. He tried not to think of the bitter disappointment he’d find on his parents’ faces when he got back to the farm.
Robert glanced back at the small market town, with its twinkling lights that made it look so cozy, wishing he’d had time to buy a bowl of soup before setting out for home.
Not that he could have afforded one.
Behind the town, twilight stretched over the horizon, as if reaching out for him. Robert gazed at the empty fields on either side of the path. They were blackening, like pools of night. Bessie, his grizzled old terrier, walked in front of him, her head down as if sharing her master’s low mood.
Ahead, Gallows Wood engulfed the trail, a malevolent, ominous patch of black.
Despite his fears at the sight of the place, he wished he could take the path that cut straight through it instead of having to walk all the way around. But he was forbidden. And if his parents found out he’d been in the woods…well, it wasn’t worth thinking about.
As he drew nearer, the cart struck something upon the path, sending it tipping over. Potatoes spilled across the dark, stony ground. Robert swore as he squatted down to scoop them up. It was difficult telling potato from stone as the night set in. He gathered what he could find and hunched over the cart, peering down at his feet to see if he’d missed anything.
When he looked up, Bessie wasn’t there.
And then he caught the white smudge of her fur in the distance. She was running towards the woods.
“Bessie!” he cried.
Ahead of the terrier was something else. A deer?
Robert hefted up the cart handles and ran, his eyes fixed on his dog as she disappeared into the gloom of Gallows Wood. As he reached the edge of the trees, Robert stopped. He couldn’t help but think of his best friend Sam and the tale he’d told the other week.
Sam had said he’d cut right through the middle of Gallows Wood, and Robert had had little trouble believing him. Sam would do such a thing. Sam was older, braver, and smarter, and Robert would have given anything to own even an ounce of his friend’s courage. But even Sam had balked at the sight of the ghost he’d seen passing through the trees.
It was a lady, he’d said, and no ordinary lady. This one had glowed as if fashioned by moonlight, her eyes as big as saucers and brightest yellow. The ghost—for what else could she have been?—held a lantern in one hand and a gleaming silver sword in the other.
She’d chased Sam from the woods, and only the wards and seals the villagers hung from the trees kept her from catching up with him. Sam had vowed revenge, promising to find a way to best her. And Robert had no doubt his friend would drive her from Gallows Wood.
But Sam was Sam, and Robert was…Robert. And now Gallows Wood stood before him, its dark, spindly trees like fingers reaching out of the night.
In the distance, Bessie barked.
“I ain’t scared of you,”
Robert called to the trees. “I’m going to get my dog back.” Clenching his teeth, he thrust the cart forward along the path that wound into the woods like a snake. He looked up at the bare trees with their tangled branches, empty, twisted things. “Just trees.” He scoured the dark woods for a sign of Bessie, straining to hear the sound of her bark, but there was only the soft whisper of leaves.
When he glanced back, the path behind seemed to have vanished into the night. Distracted by the growing darkness, Robert lost control as the cart veered down a small incline, taking him with it. It splashed into a stream.
Robert fought to keep the barrow on its wheels. As he righted it, a light flashed from the trees. He set the cart down, ignoring the ice-cold water sloshing over his hobnailed boots. “What was that?”
He stared into the trees, searching for the light, but there was nothing.
“Seeing things,” he reassured himself, but as he considered calling Bessie again, he thought better of it. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself.
Just in case.
Robert pushed the cart up through the frozen mud on the other side of the stream, throwing his weight behind it, glad for the exertion for it took his mind off the light. And its owner. Sam’s ghost? The lady with the sword and lantern?
He wondered how long it would take for the path to wind its way out of Gallows Wood. It couldn’t be far, surely? The woods were more a dense copse of trees than a forest.
He stopped as the light flickered once more, this time brighter and closer. It seemed to be hovering in the air. Robert was about to run as fast as he could, when he heard a bark.
Bessie.
He set the cart down, his own fear evaporating as he thought of his dog, frightened and alone in the trees. Was she injured?
“Bessie!” he called, not caring who heard. “Come here, girl!”
The light flickered again, yards away now.
Robert crashed through a thicket of brambles, his coat catching on the spiny branches. He pulled it free and fought on through the darkness. He found himself in a clearing. Feet away, the smear of white fur that could only be Bessie.
And behind her, a house.
She sat and stared intently at the building. Watching.
The light flickered once more. It was coming from a window in the upper floor. And then it went out again. What was it? A signal? Robert had heard there were smugglers living nearby. Perhaps they’d sought refuge in Gallows Wood? Whatever the light was, Robert didn’t care, he just wanted his dog back and for both of them to be home safe and warm, and away from this nightmarish place.
As he stepped towards his dog, a branch snapped beneath his boot. Bessie turned, whining softly. She crawled towards him, low and flat on her belly. Just like she did when she was in trouble.
Or when she was scared.
“What is it, girl?” He reached for her and placed a hand on her head. She licked him, her tongue dry, as her tail beat nervously against his leg. He looked back at the house as a patch of moonlight fell across the building.
He’d never seen such a narrow place. Two windows looked out from the dark mass of brickwork. One window revealed the flickering light, while the one below remained empty and black. The front door was as narrow as the house itself, and even if Robert had wanted to enter the place, he would have had to turn sideways.
Why would anyone want to build such a strange place?
But as he continued to consider the building, he realized it wasn’t a house. It was half a house. As if someone had taken a great knife and cleaved it in two, leaving one half standing and the other…gone. Robert glanced on either side of the building for a sign of its other half, but there was no rubble, only a thick carpet of wintry leaves.
The light flickered once more, drawing Robert’s eyes, and this time he realized why it kept coming on and going out.
Someone was pacing before it.
He saw it—a tall, stick-thin silhouette. It raised a hand, beckoning to him. Bessie yelped as if she’d been struck and leaped up, running away with her tail thrust between her legs. “Bessie!” Robert called, but it was no use, she was gone, vanishing into the dark stand of trees.
He was about to follow after her when he heard the tapping.
The hairs rose on the back of his neck as he gazed up at the figure rapping its bony knuckles against the glass. It moved then and as it did, he could see the light behind it—a candle balanced on the arm of a chair. Something about the figure transfixed him.
What was it? What was wrong with it? Something was amiss.
It rapped its hand again, this time louder.
Robert stepped back, fighting the tide of revulsion that threatened to engulf his senses. Something tore into his knuckles. He looked down to find a tendril of bramble stuck into his hand.
Carefully, he unpicked the thorn from his skin while behind him the tapping grew, making his heart thump madly. He pictured the bony hand breaking the glass. Smashing through the only barrier between him and that misshapen thing.
He ran, plunging through the forest, wading through bushes, tripping over logs, and pulling himself up as he stumbled through the trees. He had no idea if the sound of skittering footsteps at his back was real or imagined.
But still, he could hear that tapping. That dread-white knuckle rapping upon the window.
Finally, he found the path and, in the middle of it, his cart. He grabbed its handles and fled, his lungs tight as he fought for breath. He didn’t stop running, not until the trees thinned and he spotted the strips of dark red cloth hanging from their gaunt limbs. Scarlet wards and binds, left by the villagers to keep the evil of Gallows Wood at bay.
Only when Robert was past the wards did he stop, catching his breath and clutching his side. He glanced back, but there was no sign of the man at the window. At least, not that he could see, for Gallows Wood was a silent mass of spindly limbs and trunks, any of which might have been the figure. Robert grasped the cart with his frozen fingers and ran on.
The village was silent. A few lights flickered in windows as people settled in for another cold night.
When Robert reached his house, he spotted Bessie, her ears flat against her head as she lay sheepishly before the stout oaken door, her eyes unable to meet his. Robert set the cart down and stroked her head with his numb fingers. “It’s alright, girl. I saw him, too. I saw him, too.”
He raised his hand and thumped upon the door just as the lights of the world seemed to wink out and he tumbled into a black abyss.
* * *
Robert woke as a hand slapped him gently upon his cheek. He looked into a pair of eyes gazing down at him. It took him a moment to recognize his mother’s concerned face. His father stood behind her, arms folded, face unreadable.
“What happened?” Robert’s mother asked, her hand on his forehead. “You’re frozen.”
“I…” Robert looked back at his father. “I didn’t sell anything at the market. Not a thing.”
“Don’t worry about that for now, son,” his father replied. “What happened to you out there? Answer your mother.”
“Bessie ran off. She ran into…Gallows Wood.”
His mother’s hand flinched away from him. “Tell me you never went in there. Tell me!”
“I went in.”
Robert flinched as his father punched the low beam above his head, his eyes narrowed. “What did we tell you about Gallows Wood? What the hell did we tell you?”
“Not to go in.”
“And so you did. I can’t believe it, not after all the times we’ve told you,” his father responded. “You’re a fool, boy, a bloody fool.”
Robert gazed at his feet as his father moved towards him. “Bessie went into the trees. After a deer. I couldn’t just leave her, could I?”
“Never mind excuses,” his father replied as he leaned down and examined Robert. “What did you see in Gallows Wood?”
“I saw a house with a man in a window. He looked starved. He looked like a skel
eton. Who is he?”
Robert’s parents glanced at each other. “Never you mind,” his mother warned. “There’s a bowl of stew on the hob. Eat it and go to bed. You need sleep. That’s all there is to it.”
“And forget what you saw,” his father said, his voice low. “Because you saw nothing. Do you understand me?”
“I understand, Father.”
* * *
Despite his father’s order to forget what he’d seen, Robert couldn’t forget, and that night, his sleep was fractured by terrible nightmares.
He found himself back in Gallows Wood, standing before a tall, grimy mirror. A row of candles surrounded him, and the darkness beyond their circle was impossibly black. Robert glanced into the mirror, holding a hand towards the filthy glass, reaching for his reflection. But there was nothing there. He reached further.
And then it appeared.
But the reflection wasn’t his. It was the man from the window, reaching for him. And as he leaned closer, Robert finally saw what he’d failed to see before.
And now he knew exactly what was so wrong with the man.
Robert awoke, gasping for air, his heart beating frantically. With a dull, growing dread, he realized that the vision offered in the mirror was no nightmare. It was what he had failed to really see in Gallows Wood.
That the reason the man who had beckoned to him from the window had been so horribly disfigured was because he’d had no mouth.
As the soft light of dawn spilled through the window, Robert’s parents rose from their bed, dressing quickly.
“Where are you going?” Robert asked.
“You should be asleep,” his mother replied. “We’re going to Hackwich Market to try to sell what’s left of the potatoes. You’ll have to look after yourself today.”
“And don’t even think about leaving the house,” Robert’s father warned. “Now, get back to sleep.”
The Book of Kindly Deaths Page 3