by M. L. Rayner
The door swung open and rebounded off the torn floral wallpaper, striking the intruder as he entered. It was Marcus. Excitement shone deep in his eyes, indicating a conversation would shortly follow.
“Check this out,” said Marcus. In his hands he carried a black leather book. Although not overly large, it fell on the bed with an unexpected thump.
“Hey, you listening?” said Marcus.
“Uh, what?”
“I said, check this out.”
Bran’s head leant to his side, hardly expecting to be impressed with whatever Marcus had sourced from this dingy old house. He shrugged, not giving the item the time of day before looking away.
“You could act a little more interested.”
“It’s a pissin’ book, Marcus!” His tone was patronising and clearly indicated now was not the best time.
“Take a look at it then!” What little patience Marcus had left was being tested by his friend's arrogant attitude.
Bran lifted it to his lap and fanned out the worn-out pages.
“Amongst the Mists… Sounds like utter shit! I’ve never heard of it.” He tossed the book back like he was discarding junk.
Marcus snagged it and flipped through chapters in an attempt to gain Bran’s interest.
“No, me neither, but look. It’s a book on local myths. One subject is related to Sleathton. How mental is that? I haven’t read it all, only the first few pages. But it’s pretty damn interesting. Might have something to do with Jack disappearing,” he said jokingly. “What you reckon? Want me to read some of –”
Bran jumped up from the bed, arms flailing and determined to speak.
“Shut the hell up about the goddamned book!”
Marcus paused, then slammed the book closed, making no effort to discuss his findings further. Bran paced the room. His temper flushing his face to a bright rose red.
“What the hell are we doing here?” said Bran who stopped and motioned his hands to elicit a quick reply.
“What you mean? You know why. We’re waiting for Jack.”
“Why? He isn’t coming back.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
The room was silent. Apprehension electrified the air as Marcus waited for an explanation. Bran had noticed it. Sure, it took him a little time, but he had found it all the same. All Marcus needed was a little push. A gentle nudge in the right direction, and he would see it, too. A sideward glance, a nod if you will, was made in Marcus’s direction. It took more than once for Marcus to take a hint. He stared on blankly.
“Errr…”
“Look at the window, you turd!” said Bran in despair.
The orange sunset was blinding his eyes, and he held up his hand to block it. And as he did so, the light caught the window just right. Perfectly in fact. How did I not see this before? thought Marcus. There, camouflaged on the grimy pane of glass was the perfect scribble, its letters readable to all.
JAck mRs HomE.
“So… what are you saying? He’s just ran home?” Marcus examined the handwriting only inches away from the tip of his nose.
It was a very strange development. It was difficult to believe something as simple as a three-word smudge could turn their suspicions around so easily, even if it was spelt piss-poorly. Still, the writing indicated a possible explanation as to why their buddy had legged it. And after further inspection, it was without a doubt, no question, Jack who wrote the words.
“Selfish git,” shouted Bran. “That bloody little sod. Just wait till I get my hands on him.”
Marcus could now fit all the pieces together. It was so blatantly obvious.
“Reckon Gregory took him back then?”
“Of course he has. That goes without saying. We’d have been waiting here like a pair of mugs until the old man returned to break the news.”
Marcus considered their options, wondering if Bran wanted to continue their trip at all. Why didn’t Jack just tell us? The question poked at his mind like a sharp splinter in flesh. “So, now what?” He was ready to lip sync Bran cancelling their adventure.
“Well,” Bran paced slowly before continuing, “I say we get packed and make a break for it. It will be dark within the hour. The sooner we leave the sooner we can make camp.”
“You want to carry on? With the trip I mean?” asked Marcus, truly surprised his journey would not be cut short for the sake of one selfish act.
“Of course!” Bran barked his reply and pointed his finger to justify his point. “If that special little sod thinks he can put everything on hold with the snap of his fingers, well, we’ll show him. And as for the old man? Let’s be gone before he returns. I don’t think I can take another night of rambling garbage.”
“Yeah, let’s do it!” uttered Marcus, his rucksack at the ready as he began to button his coat.
“And do it we will,” said Bran. “Just the two of us. The way it always should have been.”
The little black book was tucked safely away into the sleeve of his pack. The intention was simply to borrow it, though it was never clear how it could be returned. They left the grotty room, closing the door with a heavy-handed slam. Bran scurried for the staircase, the width of his bag scraping the wall panels at either side. He was eager to leave the house. There was something about Thyme that didn’t sit right with him. The emptiness for one. Regardless, they would see the back of it now, with never a need to return.
The forest painting of blackened night still hung slanted upon the wall, catching Marcus by surprise as he stopped to study its depth. He had forgotten all about the grim looking impression of night, and he carefully scanned over the canvas, searching for whatever it was that caused his hair to rise and his pulse to race.
“You coming or what?” a voice urged from the bottom step. The sound of an unbolted door latch followed, as the opening remained patiently held for Marcus’s leave.
“Yeah, I’ll be right down.”
Amongst the Mists
Chapter Twenty
H ow could it have come to this? Olivia’s mind begged the question. It had been nothing more than a normal day. A relaxing day where she was a part of the rivers and the elegantly swaying trees. She had done it many times before. What made today so different?
She sat crouched in a rock faced corner. Her only familiarity was the group of crayons floating on the surface of the filth around her. She had almost given up. The idea to stay hidden seemed far more sensible than running astray.
“Someone will look for me. Yes, and when they do, they will find me here, in this spot.”
The thought was appealing enough, but she had great doubts it would ever really happen. She had great doubts about many things. Like how she was alive for one. She was so cold and had been for too long. Olivia wasn’t stupid, she knew very well cold could kill. It was lethal, something the human body could withstand for only a given time, depending on circumstances. That was a fact. So why could she no longer feel its biting wrath? She felt cold for sure, frozen to the bone. Her matted hair had begun to stiffen like icicles. The feeling persisted but would never send her into a deep sleep so she could escape this taunting madness. She placed her fingers on her wrist. A strong pulse beat just below her skin, indicating her reality.
Oh. Not dead yet, she thought sarcastically, huddling further back into the arch of dampened stone. Olivia closed her eyes and listened to the vacant sound of dewdrops falling freely from the trees to the swamp below. Mustn’t fall asleep. Mustn’t fall asleep. The words repeated, playing around in her head like a broken record left to run its course.
*
She awoke from a dream. The dream was not special but provided her with a deep inner warmth of home. Olivia reviewed her surroundings, peeking out from her den of nature. Although disgruntled, she felt as though sleep had protected her for hours. Yet the skies and land around her were still in darkness. Where the hell is the sun? It was not the first time she had wondered about the absence of sunlight, nor would it be
the last. It seemed like days since she had felt the sun against her skin, and she wondered if it would ever happen again. Would the sun ever make itself known? Perhaps. Perhaps there was some reasonable explanation behind it? An eclipse maybe, or some miraculous freak of nature. She dismissed those possibilities. Whatever was going on here didn’t feel like it affected the rest of the world. This was for her, and her alone.
The dribble repeated and broke the silence. Drip, Drip, Drip, Drip. Drip, Drip. It was so irritating! As easily agitated as she found herself now, Olivia could muster patience when she chose. And right about now, her patience was beginning to run thin. She cupped her hands over her ears, blocking out the noise and replacing it with the muffled sound of the sea. She started to sing. Not aloud, but in her head. Not just any song, either, but the words of an old poem her mother would recite on winter’s nights.
Winter’s sights show bleaching white,
A breathless voice so quiet
Carries gloom, yet feels delight,
Its time was short though overstayed.
Hearts forged in ice can feel not warmth
Although they travel far and wide.
Their howling songs through hollow nights
Dissolve the earth by scorching light.
What! She thought with a subconscious jerk, her heart pounding like a bass drum. What is that! Olivia loosened the pressure from around her ears. She listened then pinched herself. Oh yes, she was awake. And she knew exactly what she’d heard. It was a voice, not of just one person but two. The sound permeated the vastness and drilled through her ears and into her consciousness, forcing her to rise to her feet.
“HELP!” screamed Olivia. Her fragile tone trembled in reaction to the pure distress. She had never heard herself screech in such a way; so fearful, so desperate. If help was not at hand, she sensed only death awaited her. An energy surged within her she didn’t know she had. She heard the distant voices more clearly, charging in from every direction.
“Help me! Please, I’m here!”
Olivia didn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop. No matter how much her toes would sting and her legs would bruise. She would not fail. She would find help, or help would find her.
They’re getting closer.
The very thought excited her beyond belief, sending adrenaline gushing through her veins as she kicked off from the ground like a feverish mule. The sound of footsteps on dry land serenaded her as she circled a mound raised up from the swamp.
“Where are you?” she muttered to herself. There was no time left to wonder. A sound drew closer, faster. If she were too slow, this rare opportunity would be missed. The unmistakable sound of bicycle chains clinked through the woodlands, but she could not guess the speed. Instinct encouraged her legs to sprint. If she were to stay put, her unknown rescuers would pedal right on by her. Oh, how she would rejoice when finally rescued! And in a short time, the tale of how she had come to be lost would become nothing more than an amusing memory. Maybe even to Olivia, once acceptable time had passed.
She tried to picture what her heroes would look like when they emerged from the unknown. Tall, dark, dashing. A collective of her VHS heartthrobs. But she wasn't fussy, she'd accept help from anybody who was willing.
There it was. She caught a glimpse of movement through the trees. She shuddered and gave out a croak-like whimper. The realization that they were people… real people… was enough to break her. She could hear them riding closer and closer. All she needed to do was wait.
“Over here!” she screamed. Excitement took over the young girl as her arms flung briskly about the air. A beaming smile. A happy thought. It would last only a minute. The sound told her the pedals were rotating faster, drawing in the ground between them. Her waving became hesitant, and the smile stripped clean from her face. Something wasn’t right. She watched the figures hover through the dimness. They were there all right, this was no dream. Olivia would soon wish it were. As the moon cast its light from the heavens, the horror came before her. They held no features. There was nothing. No faces, no personality. The moving shapes resembled nothing more than blurred shadows alone. Their voices relayed only a distorted gurgle. The sound of racing bikes stopped. Faceless shapes scouted the land, grunting back and forth as though in meaningful conversation. Olivia hid, terrified by the inhuman sounds, and clasped her jaw to control her panicked breaths.
Within a split second, the voices dispersed. Olivia reappeared from her hiding spot, raising her head through the thicket. No sign of the shadows existed. They had withdrawn without a hint of movement or direction.
“What the hell was that?” she asked in the peace of night, believing all hope was truly lost. Whatever they were, they were not here to help. Neither did she know if they were aware of her existence. They moved weightlessly. That much she knew. Ghosts? The idea was shrugged off instantly. She didn’t believe in ghosts. Never had, never will. It was a stupid suggestion, and she kicked herself for implying it. One thing was for sure. The shadowed beings had gone, leaving Olivia to wander alone.
Amongst the Mists
Chapter Twenty-One
T he boys dared not wander back onto the road. The possibility of coincidently bumping into their new friend Gregory was not worth their time or effort. Instead, they ventured over the rear of the property and headed for the hills which would lead them deeper into Sleathton. Marcus had checked the map with precision. Twice in fact. He tried to hurry the journey along, though Bran followed slowly behind. There was no path, and the steep incline was far too difficult to ride. Never had Bran expected the forest to be so dense. It felt as though every obstruction befell him. When he had almost reached the hilltop, he swore blind that every branch, bush, and ditch had it in for him.
It was a warm evening, an evening not at all suitable for this kind of trek. Yet, once they reached the summit, the crest of the hillside curved downward to a smooth open slope. A cool breeze blew through their hair on the easier descent. They didn’t have long. They both knew that. It was their only agreement when leaving the house. Get out of Thyme and make camp. That was the plan. They hadn’t shaken on it but agreed on the matter like men.
Camp was set as the dusk deepened. A small patch of grass, surrounded by a wall of brown stone took their fancy. By the time all was done, both were tired, weak, and confused by the day’s unusual events. And even with all the bottled-up frustration, neither one of them wished to speak of it. Both knew that unfiltered words would cause irreversible regrets.
The campfire crackled from the collapsing deadwood, the disturbance sending up magical sparks that danced in the smoke. They ate their fill considering there was an extra portion to split. It was some kind of a breakfast in a tin that they had swiped from the old man’s home. Surely it would go unnoticed. His larder was mounted with food, though mainly tins. The labels had been stripped from each container, providing a potluck experience of jelled cuisine. Bran hadn’t been fond of the meal, and the knowledge it was stolen hadn’t made it taste much better. Still, he didn’t complain but looked over at Marcus who sat with an empty tin in his lap and his nose pressed between the pages of a book. Bran huffed loudly, a knack he found most beneficial when expressing his undying boredom. A grunt was also used, but Marcus's eyes looked no further than the lines on the page.
“Why did you take that thing, anyway?” Bran had no real desire to ask the question, but it broke his target's concentration.
Win! he thought as Marcus lifted his head, fanning the pages in his hands.
“I don’t know. Just thought it was interesting, that’s all.”
A blank stare flew back past the spitting flames. Bran’s features were an array of shadows and orange light.
“What?”
“Interesting?” Bran questioned.
“Well, yeah. Listen, you didn’t see half the shit piled up in that room. This book kind of jumped out at me. So, as I just said. Yeah, it’s interesting.”
“Girls are interesting, Marcus. The day whe
n you can finally stop looking through those magazines your dad keeps under the mattress and put study to good use? Now those things are interesting.”
Marcus closed the book, setting it down to his side.
“They’re art magazines, I told you!”
“Then why do all the pages stick together?”
“Shut it!” snapped Marcus, rising to his feet and turning to walk away.
“Hey, I’m not judging. If I could stash a collection of Ben Dover magazines under my pillow, you wouldn’t see me leave my room for a week. You’d think I’d been lifting weights.” Bran laughed loudly and stood up. “Hey! What’s the matter? Where you off to?”
“Going for a piss. Reckon you can cope on your own for one minute?”
Bran slumped back down on his folded coat. A silent chuckle tensed his chest and forced his shoulders to bounce. Things were starting to ease back into place. And although picking at Marcus’s dad’s ‘art collection’ probably wasn’t the best topic to start with, it got the banter flowing.
Irritated, Marcus trudged on through the outer camp, searching for a spot where he would no longer fall victim to Bran’s continual taunts.
*
His stream gradually died. The sense of relief was almost too satisfying to describe as he slowly returned along the darkened path, fastening his trousers as he walked. He used the flames to guide him. The fire now only a glimmering flicker in the distance.
“Marcus.” A hushed voice called as he walked, its whisper bouncing through the woodland in all directions.
“Give me a second!” yelled Marcus. He was so close to the site he could smell the unmistakable scent of burning wood.
“You don’t need to tell me your every move,” suggested Bran, his faint outline seen resting beside the blaze.
“What? You just called me!”