by M. L. Rayner
Jack still lay soundly asleep, only the deep breathing reminding others of his presence. Bran didn’t care to listen to any more. Although the story had become intriguing, he could very well sacrifice hearing the ending in return for sleep. Marcus sat forward. Bran knew too well his friend would want to hear the tale until its end.
“Please, carry on,” begged Marcus. “You’ve gotta finish it now.”
The old man took a deep heavy breath and sighed. “If you insist.” His tone was more troubled as the story went on.
*
“By the time we heard the second child had gone missing, another boy at the age of eight, the day had already begun to lose its light. The group of men who had ventured out earlier that day were exhausted. But somehow they returned to the forest, urging themselves on, this time to find the child and bring him home.”
“But you couldn’t find him, could you?” Marcus interrupted.
“No…” He paused, bowing his balding head. “No, young man, we could not.” Gregory’s heart was heavy in his chest.
The old man stood, his knees again cracking under the pressure of his weight. Making his way over to a corner unit, he shuffled about in the drawers.
“You boys like Chopin?”
“Is it a kind of cake?” asked Bran.
Marcus rolled his eyes, embarrassed.
“It’s a composer, you idiot.”
“A what?”
“A composer. You know, Beethoven, Mozart?”
“I know what a composer is!” said Bran, attempting to divert judgmental eyes away from his obvious humiliation. He took a moment longer as they waited for his response.
“Got any of those Shakespeare tunes?”
Amongst the Mists
Chapter Fourteen
T he needle gently rested on the spinning vinyl, sending a comforting crackle around the room. The flames appeared to sway in time with the tranquil sound. The old man returned to his seat as the music began to play. The piece was written for only a piano, the tempo slow and sad.
Bran scowled. Why didn’t they just say piano music? Fuckers!
He thought the sound was depressing. It was also somewhat spooky. Not at all in a good way. Yet, this time he stayed quiet. Marcus said nothing, paying no attention to Bran or the eerie sound of Chopin. Instead, his sight remained fixed on the old man.
Gregory sat, his eyes closed, slowly bobbing his head with the rhythm. His face strained, holding back an emotion he had learned to bear. He exhaled, almost forgetting about the visitors sitting at his table. His head ceased keeping time, and his hand that had been conducting the music rested on his knee. Again he began to speak.
*
“The searches went on. Yet, not so much as a hair did we find in our efforts. We just couldn’t understand it. No witnesses, no trace. It was as though they vanished into thin air, like they never truly existed at all. Local authorities were again informed. And again they disappeared as quickly as the missing children. Times were different back then. The police in these parts had very little authority. Their job was to keep the town as quiet as possible. Each week became harder than the last for the locals. Come Christmas the remaining search party decided to rest. We had missed the company of our own families greatly over the months and wished to spend time resting by the side of our own fires. The peace did not last even the day. As I sat on that Christmas morning, my granddaughter playing happily upon my knee, a heavy bang struck at the door. My wife, she…. she wailed at the man at our doorstep and ran frantically to me. Our neighbours’ daughter had been taken.”
“Taken?” Marcus was now very intrigued by the old man’s words.
Music continued to spill out from the speakers, somehow fitting the story being told.
“Yes, taken. You see, this time someone watched the child leave. The family’s eldest son told the household what he had witnessed. He had watched his younger sister take interest in a view beyond the window pane just before she sprinted out into the frosty wilderness. He followed her, never letting her know of his presence. The child, he said, was speaking aloud. To what, he could not see, could not hear. But when his patience had been tried enough, he allowed himself to be seen and demanded her immediate return.
“His demands, however, fell on deaf ears. She did not acknowledge his adolescent proclamations of authority, nor did she stray from the path. The boy ran after her and watched as she slid behind the thick leaves.
“He came to a blind turn, but alas, his sister was not there. He did not feel at all alone as he stood watch. He called out for his sister, knowing by now he would be left with no alternative other than to retrace his steps to inform his father. He turned. A twig snapped loudly beneath his foot, sending a shiver up his spine. ‘Help!’ a distant voice echoed through the quietness of the woodland. The frightened young man looked around him. He knew very well that this particular cry came from no child.
“Well, now it was apparent. Someone was stealing Thyme’s children. Three children in three months, soon to lead to its fourth. The men no longer carried walking sticks and lanterns. Instead, they lugged pitchforks and guns, now determined to end the life of another. And who could blame them? I, for one, could not.
“December spread into January and then into February. We had found nothing and deemed ourselves failures to the village. I returned home late and kissed my wife upon her lips, my granddaughter upon her cheek. I fell into the deepest sleep, only to be woken late that evening by the sound of frantic screams. I ran to the commotion, half asleep, half awake, finding my wife lying on our grandchild’s rug. The bed covers had been torn from their place in the search. The cupboards and hiding places about the house had been opened and investigated. My heart broke that day. As I lay slumbering in my armchair, peacefully dreaming, my granddaughter stepped away from my protection. I was guilty of failing her.
“Shortly after that, the settlers began to abandon the village, too afraid the same tragedy was bound to befall their loved ones. The houses were left unlocked, the doors wide open, and their walls over time began to fall, like the very memory of Thyme.”
The two boys exchanged a worried look, unsure whether to believe this actually happened.
“And your granddaughter?” asked Marcus.
“What of her?” he asked unhappily.
“Well… Did you ever find her?”
“No. No, I did not. And to be truthful, I have spent too many a year searching.”
“Then why don’t you just leave like the others?”
“Because…” He thought a moment. “Just because one is gone, does not imply they are dead. I stay in the hope of that thought. It is a feeling I believe in very strongly. Unfortunately, my wife could not bring herself to believe the same. It was inevitable for us to part after that.”
A silence circled the room, soon followed by dimness caused by a dying candle.
“I stay here, son, in hope of her return. Regardless of living or spirit, I will be here… waiting.”
Amongst the Mists
Chapter Fifteen
“Come now, it’s time you all retired.” The old man spoke softly, guzzling the last of what remained in his glass. The vinyl record had already been turned over. The next piano piece struck an uncanny resemblance to what had already played. The boys left the table as they were told, waking Jack from his corpse-like sleep. He jumped up, terrorised by the realisation of where he was. But his fright was short-lived. He gazed about the dimness of the room; a dazed expression plastered nervously on his face. Half awake, yet half asleep, he recalled how he had come to be there. By morning, he would barely remember being woken at all. The old man insisted they take the last burning candle, but it supplied little more than a few minutes of flickering light.
Jack finally rose from the hard wooden chair and wearily walked to the hallway. Removing the candle from the table also removed most of the soft light from the kitchen, leaving the old man with nothing more than the glowing embers on the grate as he continu
ed to sit and nod his head to the music.
With the door firmly closed behind them, the boys made their way to the upper quarters of the house. Although they were at ease with the narrow hallways, it did feel like the walls were closing in around them. The candle lit the way well enough. When they reached the upper level, Marcus raised the flame to illuminate the artwork.
“All trees,” he stated.
“And?” replied Bran impatiently. His steps were intentionally heavy.
“You’d think he’d get tired of painting them.”
“Well… You don’t get tired of talking shit.”
“Whatever,” uttered Marcus under his breath, not willing to take the childish bait. The day had been long enough already.
Marcus continued to pan over the crudely hung artwork, in some strange way admiring the old man’s persistence that spanned decades. The weak glare of the flame hovered over a large summer portrait. The leaves were bright, the flowers vibrant. And to compliment the pleasantness of the artistic mood, a round beaming sun marked the sky with streaks of yellow and white dashes. Another painting followed, although strikingly similar. It was without a doubt an impression of autumn. Its vivid colours of orange, yellow, and brown were prominently featured, reminding Marcus of his favourite season of all. In fact, he would go as far as to say that if the image included a pumpkin or two, he’d probably have wanted it for himself.
They continued down the hall, the seasons forever changing at his sides. Summer, Autumn, Winter, and Spring, many of which had been duplicated time after time but remained fixed to the wall all the same. An owl shrieked from the outside world, the sound piercing the rooftop and loudly echoing its way through the halls of the house. The sound was followed shortly by a rodent’s death scream.
“Jesus Christ!” yelled Bran. “I almost had an accident.”
They broke out in nervous laughter, grasping their mouths tightly so as not to cause Gregory concern from below.
“What do you think it was?” whispered Jack, secretly uncomfortable with the idea of it ever happening again.
“It’ll just be a stinking rat that got what’s coming to it,” said Bran, feeling no empathy for the creature’s abrupt end.
Jack couldn’t help but feel some sadness for the helpless rodent. He loved most things, especially animals. The fact of the matter was, if he were to think such an incident regularly occurred, a choking lump would swell in his mouth and tears would form in his eyes.
With the bedroom door now in view, Bran and Jack pushed past Marcus, eager to reach the comforts of their beds. It was what they expected when they agreed to stay here, after all. Regardless, Marcus seemed to be in no rush. He stepped back into the hallway, immediately catching sight of a painting that was hanging differently from the rest.
After studying the patterns made by the brush strokes, he determined the painting was in fact a night portrait of Thyme. At first, he could see nothing but the black and grey paint smudged across the canvas. He thought there was something else, though, something he had missed; something he hadn't quite understood. There was more to this particular picture than just an evening with trees, and Marcus, as curious and devoted as he was, wanted to know the whole story.
“Get in here, and shut that sodding door!” Bran was ever so ready to put his head down to sleep.
But Marcus did not listen; his concentration was consumed with the final piece of art. The candle light scattered across it. Up, down, left, right. He almost gave up on the idea, until suddenly, there it was. He saw it.
As plain as day you might say. How he could not have caught sight of it previously was beyond him. It was so clear. His eyes were fixed. And now he hoped, wished, that if he observed its strangeness for long enough, what he saw would retreat and hide in the stygian patterns where they originated.
“Bran!” Marcus whispered harshly. “Bran!”
“What do you want?” An irritated and muffled voice called from beneath the thickness of warm covers.
“Come take a look at this.”
“What?”
“This picture.”
Bran tossed about in the bed, his head reappearing from beneath the quilt.
“What? Why?”
“Just come take a look will you… Please!” Marcus begged with a hint of desperation in his voice. He needed a little help to find some peace of mind after his recent discovery.
Bran swung his feet to the floor and stomped across the loosened boards, if only to impart his irritation.
“The old man best have painted a picture of your mum’s tits. Otherwise, I don’t give a toss!”
It was typical for time to run out as it did, and regardless of how Marcus felt, the flame of the candle slowly flickered and faded into darkness, followed by a brief stench of smoke.
Swallowed in the lightless hallway, both friends stood close, guided only by the cast of the moonlight as it lit that section of the hall.
“So… what is it?”
Marcus looked away from the outline of his friend to the wall, which was now in darkness. Discouraged, he pointed to where he guessed the middle of the painting should be. "You see it?"
But Bran could not even see the movements of Marcus’s hand.
“See what? It’s pitch black out here.”
“The picture!” shrilled Marcus, earnestly urging Bran to witness what he had seen.
“Calm down, it’s only a painting.”
“There’s just something about it.”
“What?”
“I dunno, something odd.”
Enough was enough. Bran was tired and determined to rest. He walked back to the bedroom, pushing Marcus along the hall.
“Sleep on it,” he said. “You never know, it may come back to you.”
It was the perfect persuasion. It helped him to get Marcus to finally wind his neck in and also let him get the rest he so desperately wanted. Finally, they settled. They weren’t surprised to find Jack collapsed on the bed. He had already escaped into the land of dreams. Outside the wind blew wildly, but from where Marcus lay the stars twinkled brightly, shining through the thin material of the poorly hung curtains.
“Bran?”
“Hmm?”
“What do you make of old Gregory?”
“What you mean?”
“Well… you reckon the story’s true?”
“I don’t know, mate. You know what old folk are like. My grandfather makes up crap half the time. It’s got to the point no one even listens anymore.” Silence filled the room before he continued. “What I’m saying is, yeah, it’s terrible kids went missing. But, did anyone think they may have just run away. Adults tell what suits them all the time. Makes them feel a little bit better on the inside. If it helps, let them do it. That’s what I’ve come to understand anyway.”
Both said nothing more and turned to face the cold surface of the wall. Marcus closed his eyes and was deep in thought, but in only a few minutes his concerns escaped him and his body relaxed as he welcomed sleep.
Amongst the Mists
Chapter Sixteen
A ll was quiet now. The same as it had been for all those countless lonely years. The music had faded gradually as the record reached its end. The needle had been guided into a constant loop of crackles and scratches. Reminiscing took a lot out of the old man. It had been some time since he dared let his mind go back to those days when Thyme stood proudly. So long in fact, he found it all the harder to believe such terrible events actually happened.
How long had it been since he last had guests? Real guests. And not a desirable illusion of his own selfish wants. The old man brooded over the question he knew could not be answered. It had been so long he’d started to feel like some form of a wandering spirit himself. He had been left alone in a village that all others had long since forgotten, neglected and left to rot amongst the long-abandoned past which clung effortlessly to his tormented soul. Always being alone during the night never fazed him. The darkness had become a friend
, and there was nothing to fear from it. Although from time to time he recalled many memories that filled his spine with ice, the darkness was never one of them.
The old man exhaled heavily, tilting the back of his head against the wooden frame of his chair. His breathing soon indicated a very clear sign of emotion before he relented and broke into sullen sobs. If any truth could be said of the darkness, this was it. It was the perfect camouflage, a mask for the needy, allowing the opportunity for any proud soul to unleash their guarded emotions and express their neglected burdens without the cruel wrath of watchful eyes and judgment. The old man wept, crying aloud into the silent night. He crossed his arms around him, holding his torso tightly to control and calm his nerves. As his sobbing subsided, so did his need for air. His chest loosened, and his shoulders relaxed and dropped to his sides once again.
I should have told them he thought, wiping the snot from his nostrils and trying his best to prevent the fallen runs from hitting his shirt. I should have told them everything.
It goes without saying the story told that evening was not in any honest way complete. He pondered on the idea, the memories, the fear.
What would they have thought of me if I was to tell them the entirety? To tell them… what I witnessed when searching for those children? I know what they would think. Nothing! That’s right. Nothing! They would not have reason to think. Their legs would be far too busy. They would flee. Yes, without doubt. They would flee. And I would be left to worry about the consequences.
Moonlight peered in through a dirt smeared window. The glass pane was held upright with the help of a single slotted plank. Gregory faced the sheet of pale light and watched the shadows gradually shift in the clouds. The old man was tired. The desire for rest was relentless and lingered deep in his bones. Yet his brain remained flooded with concern as he continued to consider his predicament.
What… What if they didn’t run? What if they thought me only a fool? That I was nothing but an old man who had lost his marbles. An old man who had nothing better to do with his remaining years than to entice children to his broken home and feed them stories. Those stories would instil fear in the mind of any grown man or woman, let alone a child.