Amongst The Mists

by M. L. Rayner

  “Are you deluded!” snapped Bran, the desperation on his face forced Marcus back all the more.

  Is he blind as well as thick?

  “He shot… He shot Jack! Look, you stupid idiot!” Bran pointed to the bloody mess that trickled down the tree.

  “We… we gotta go!” screamed Bran.

  “But he didn’t shoot anyone!”

  Bran’s short sprint slowed until it became nothing. He turned to look at the two figures staring back at him through the fire. The forgotten torch light now masking the ghastly corpse beyond them.

  “What the hell has got into you, Bran?” pleaded Marcus, now unsure of whether to stick by his travel companion or keep his distance.

  “What’s got into me? What’s got into you?” The words came tumbling out as he tried to collect himself.

  "Jack’s dead! He shot him!" Bran exclaimed, pointing aggressively at the old man.

  Marcus looked behind him, to where Jack sat limp and pale.

  “He shot a tree, Bran.” The words came out confused and slow, as if he were not wanting to cause Bran further distress. “We haven’t seen Jack since Thyme.”

  What?

  Bran’s blood ran cold, a tightness captured his chest which he powerlessly tried to break. Silence took them all, as they waited for Bran to summon his words.

  “He’s… behind you!”

  Marcus looked again. He felt like part of a pantomime show.

  “There’s nothing there, mate. Nothing but a bullet hole.”

  “But Jack… he’s been with us all night. We’ve been talking to him, for Christ sake!”

  “You’ve been talking to thin air, pal. I was getting rather worried. That was a nasty knock you took to the head.”

  Bran gruffly rubbed at his face and tried to pull together the memories that had seemed so clear, trying to think of anything, anything at all, that would make Marcus believe his story.

  “The boat!” shouted Bran.

  “OK… What about it?”

  “Jack was screaming for help. We pulled him… you and me. Remember? We pulled him up from the water. He nearly drowned!”

  Marcus looked back to Gregory, embarrassed for his friend. A great concern stirred within him. After all, Bran had not been the same since his fall. Bran had never acted so strangely before, and to be truthful, Marcus wasn’t entirely sure how to deal with him.

  “Bran, it was a bird. Nothing more than a drowned raven. It must have flown too low during the storm. By the time we got to it, it was already dead.”

  “So, who carried me from the boat?”

  “I did.” For Marcus the reply was all too obvious.

  Bran couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The body was right there. Right in front of them. Fresh blood still oozed from the single wound and covered Jack’s face like a red silk mask.

  How can he not see it? How could he not…

  Bran shifted his crazed, maddened stare to Gregory, whose expression looked all too casual.

  “You!” shrieked Bran. “You can see him. Tell him you can see him.” He waved his tightly clenched fist at the old man. “You put a bullet straight through the poor bastard’s head!”

  Gregory frowned at the gesture. He was neither threatened nor intimidated by a mere frightened boy.

  “What you going to do with that fist, boy?”

  “I’ll thump ya, you see if I don’t!”

  “I believe you forget yourself, son. I carry the bullets.”

  “It’s your last chance,” sobbed Bran. “Tell him you can see him, that you… that you shot him!” Bran’s eyes began to water, tears blurring his vision before they ran down his cheeks, and his speech began to crackle. “Look back and tell me he’s there!”

  The old man shook his head without sympathy before turning to look back.

  “Aye… I see him, boy. I see him as clear as I see you now.”

  Surprised, Marcus glanced over the targeted shot again, though he could see nothing, nothing but the shattered oak. The thought had crossed his mind that the old man was simply humouring Bran, in an attempt to gain his trust and calm his delirium.

  “I told you! He shot him, Marcus,” Bran continued, wiping the phlegm from his nose.

  “I shot no child.” Gregory held a finger in the air to ask for silence. “I simply shot a form that deceived you as one.”

  Bran smeared the tears across his blubbering face; the cuff of his shirt was soaked.

  “What?” said Bran.

  “I know how it sounds. I, too, had my doubts until I saw the spirits myself.”

  “Spirits?” questioned Marcus.

  The old man scratched at his mud matted beard. He knew he wasn’t explaining himself clearly, but this was difficult. No matter how he considered his words they all came out the same. He just needed the boys to understand.

  “Come here, boy,” said Gregory as he reached out to Bran.

  The invitation stood for quite some time. Bran may not have been all that clever, but he certainly was no simpleton.

  I think not, as he stepped back farther. Gregory allowed his hand to fall and his grasp on the gun to loosen.

  “Have I yet given you any reason to distrust me, boy?”

  “Well…” said Bran, looking back to the blood ridden carcass, its hands hanging limply at its side.

  “Come, let me show you,” said Gregory, “then you’ll understand. You’ll see as I do.”

  He knew he shouldn’t. But something deep within Bran persuaded him to listen. He wasn’t sure what it was. The desire for fear to end, no doubt, was part of it. His feet shuffled forward then back.

  “That’s it, good lad, good lad. You just keep coming.”

  The old man placed his arm securely around his shoulders, embracing him tightly to his side. The unwelcome embrace gave Bran the uncomfortable sensation of capture, as the old man’s stench drifted strongly up each nostril. And although Bran wasn’t willing, his hesitant steps were forced forward, retracing his walk to the bloodied corpse.

  The night around them suddenly grew cold. Within only a few seconds a mist rolled over the ground, spreading softly above the camp floor and dampening the fire to a steamy hiss. The bark of the tallest trees glimmered in sparkling white frost. Their breath before them formed a foggy cloud in the winter's air. The boys were so enthralled in the dreadful scenario they didn't notice the abnormal change. But Gregory noticed, and he listened to the lake slowly cracking, forming thick bedded ice.

  “Come, who do you see?” The old man asked him as they approached the dead boy. In fact, they were so close that the sickening sound of dripping blood was far too much for Bran to bear.

  “Come now, who do you see?” Gregory prompted encouragingly.

  “I… I…” Bran gave himself a second while he tried to push down the lump that was trying to make a permanent home at the back of his throat. “I see Jack.”

  Gregory's stare sent shivers up Bran's spine. The man reached down to his belt and retrieved a sharp edged blade with its hilt wrapped in something eerily reminiscent of human hair.

  “Hold out your hand, boy.” Gregory wrestled Bran closer, his time running short and patience wearing thin.

  Footsteps ran frantically behind them. Heavy breathing rattled the air, distracting their stare from the dead. And then, the gun was cocked.

  “Let. Him. Go!” yelled Marcus, aiming the barrel at the old man’s chest.

  Old Gregory immediately released his grip, allowing Bran to dash forward and stand alongside his friend.

  “Now, young Marcus, let’s not do anything rash,” the old man stuttered, reaching out to grasp and lower the tip of the barrel.

  “Back off, old man! We ain’t getting bummed tonight!”

  Old Gregory stepped back. A puzzled look crossed his face as he searched for words to say.

  “Bummed? Surely you both don’t think...?”

  “Hell right, we do!” shouted Marcus. “We know your game. And my friend ain’t getting any t
onight!”

  Marcus steadied the gun, his finger held firmly against the trigger. All he needed was an excuse, any excuse, to justify his shot. And he sincerely believed he would do it if it became necessary.

  Bran leaned forward, tapping his friend repetitively on the shoulder, as Gregory stepped forward in exasperation.

  “We have no time for such utter nonsense. If you wish to shoot, then shoot. I will not stop you.”

  Gregory walked back to the cooling corpse, readying himself as he took the sharpened blade to the palm of his hand. He sliced quickly. The cut was deep and smooth. Almost immediately, his hand gave birth to shiny red pearls. The blood beads raced down his wrist to the tip of his bony elbow. Stunned by the gory sight before him, Marcus's aim fell slack. He whispered to Bran, “Let’s make a break for it.”

  “No. Wait,” replied Bran, mesmerised by the scene.

  With his one clean hand, Gregory lifted Jack’s head by the scruff of his curls and dragged his bloody hand roughly across the skin of the young corpse’s face. He looked back at the boys like a teacher would gaze at uneducated students. There was nothing more to be done. Stepping back, he clenched his dripping fist in pain and silently waited for the inevitable.

  Amongst the Mists

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  M arcus stumbled backward, dropping helplessly into a hard fall. Fear took up residency in his young eyes as they, too, could recognise the lifeless body of the friend he had thought home and safe.

  “Jesus Christ!” His words cracked as he hit the ground, releasing the gun from his grip. The single shot that was fired into the air caused them all to flinch.

  No matter how hard he tried, Marcus couldn’t look away. The unnatural image of oozing blood stringing from Jack’s weak jaw embedded itself deep in Marcus’s mind. He closed his eyes and muttered persuasive self-incentives that only he could interpret. It was a trick he used often; a knack to escape his fears, burying them deep. Though he’d never in his life experienced a sight such as this. He lay back, reassuring himself the whole ordeal was nothing more than a sick and twisted prank or perhaps an absurdly disturbing hallucination.

  He anxiously opened one eye. He squinted, which restricted his vision, as he peeked across the camp.

  “No…” Marcus whispered.

  Of course, all remained as it was. Every gory detail. Why he expected it to be different at that precise moment was beyond him. He would’ve given his left arm for someone to quickly pinch him right about now, to awaken him from such a horrendously gruesome dream.

  Marcus knew well enough this was no dream; no dream he’d ever experienced. He sat forward, waiting for someone… anyone, to speak and break the silence.

  “Bran?” asked Marcus, reaching for a hand to guide him to his feet.

  “Quiet!” whispered Bran, waving his hand aside. His eyes quickly scanned the trees above them.

  “What is it?” said Marcus.

  “The gun,” said Bran. His head still tilted to the darkened sky. “It fired, but no birds fled. Listen, can you hear it?”

  “Hear what?”

  “Exactly. There’s nothing. Not so much as a flutter.”

  “Who gives a shit about pissin’ birds! They probably all swarmed off earlier.”

  “You sure?” said Bran.

  “No, but….”

  “Marcus…”

  “What?”

  “Shut up.”

  “What? Why?”

  Marcus stood, his knees shaking helplessly beneath him as his mind finally began to clear. He turned his face to the starry sky before catching a view that caused his palms to sweat.

  Tall trees encircled them, each one stretching higher and higher to the crisp clear sky, giving the illusion the branches were desperate to touch the twinkling of the stars. It was then Marcus caught the intermittent twitch of tiny shapes, soon followed by more, and more, until he began to question if the entire forest was cursed and had come to life.

  “What is that?” Marcus spoke hoarsely, straining his eyes to the simultaneous movements of tiny feet. His shoulders locked side by side with Bran, a form of interaction usually far too close for their liking. Regardless, they remained knitted all the same, if only for a little protection.

  “It’s birds,” said Bran.

  Bran was right. The branches above spread out, clustered with tiny eyes that observed their every movement.

  “Did you see them fly back here?” asked Marcus.

  “No, I think… I think they’ve been here the entire time.”

  It was the strangest sight. The tiny creatures looked like ornamental figures perched silently in their domain, intrigued by every move made below them. Bran didn’t like this, not one bit. The more he paced and gazed up to the trees, the more the feathers were highlighted by the gloom of the rising moon.

  “Get out of here!” cried Bran, raising his hands and loudly clapping them together in an attempt to drive them away. He continued until his hands grew tired, eventually allowing his claps to echo and fade while his hands throbbed with pain.

  “It’ll do you no good, young man,” said the old man, his silhouette barely visible as he crept further out of sight.

  “The hell it won’t!” replied Bran as he marched over to the weapon left abandoned in the dirt.

  “Go to hell!” He cocked the gun, hopeful that the chamber remained loaded as he turned to take his aim.

  “Now see here boy!” yelled Gregory. His voice was low and stern as he began to step forward.

  But it was too late.

  Bang!

  The gun fired, throwing the butt into Bran’s shoulder with a violent kick. The weapon dropped to his side.

  “Shit!” Bran mumbled. “That hurt!”

  Marcus had covered his ears, predicting the shot was coming. Bran was no stranger to firearms. Well… pellet guns, and he would often try to shoot any filthy creature that tried its luck wandering into his mother’s garden. Saying that, he wasn’t much of a shot. A terrible shot to be truthful. And from the look of it, as Marcus searched the tallest trees, his aim had not improved.

  “Boys,” hushed Gregory. He was ignored.

  The birds remained still. Yes, all of them. Not one flew, shrieked, or fluttered. They did nothing but stare down at the strangers like vultures scrutinizing their next feast.

  “All them targets and you couldn’t hit one?” said Marcus with a push.

  “They didn’t bloody flinch,” said Bran in astonishment. “Not so much as a quiver.”

  The same rolling mist brushed gently against Bran’s ankles, giving the impression something lurked just out of sight. He kicked that chilling sensation away. He looked up again as the creatures above them began calling aggressively. It was a troubling sound, the kind of noise that caused Bran’s heart to pound and adrenaline to spike.

  What the hell is this? he thought, still aiming the gun at the haunting trees. The creatures' calls grew deafening, somehow disguising the pattern as one distorted cry.

  It was a vile sound. He scowled, unable to tolerate the torturous racket.

  “Why do they do that?” yelled Marcus, his face grimacing through the high-pitched whines that dove deep into his ear drums.

  “I’ll show them!” yelled Bran. His finger squeezed tighter around the curve of the trigger, and he held his breath this time to steady his aim.

  The trigger released as he took his stance preparing for the gun to kick back again.

  Click

  Bran looked down at the gun.

  Click, click, click.

  No, it was no good. The chamber was empty, and he carelessly dropped the gun on the ground. The birds immediately ceased their distressing screams. As though intrigued, they perched themselves forward, their sharp beaks pointing like daggers to targets.

  Old Gregory edged forward though his body remained cloaked by the dismal gloom.

  “Why are they staring at us?” repeated Bran, his words heard clearly as they flowed through the humi
d air.

  “They aren’t staring at us,” said Gregory knowingly and reached out to reclaim his weapon.

  Marcus’s skin turned pale. He felt his hair stand on end while he fiercely tried to rescue his voice from the black abyss of fear. Instead, he stubbornly grabbed Bran by the hand forcing him to meet the same certain fear. It took Bran a moment. He glanced quickly away from Marcus, determined to release his irritating grasp. However, there was no time to think about that. Not now.

  Jack stood at an angle, his back arched, and his feet submerged in a floor of soft hovering mist. His eyes rolled to the left, then wearily to the right, before crossing in the middle to observe the hole at the centre of his bloodied head.

  “Jack?” whispered Marcus, taking a step forward to the twisted figure.

  Jack grunted, his wide eyes lifting at Marcus’s approach. A disturbing smile appeared from ear to ear as he noticed the old man watching.

  “Hiya G…Guys!” Jack said, tilting his head curiously to the side. The bones of his angled neck cracked with stiffness.

  Marcus stopped. The voice he heard was playful, yet rough. It was nothing like the sound of his friend. There was something wrong here, terribly wrong, and he turned to look for Gregory.

  “It’s not Jack, is it?” said Marcus.

  “No… no, it is not,” spoke Gregory holding out his wounded hand. Red ruby beads still ran smoothly from his twiglike wrist and dropped in teardrop forms on the dry curled leaves.

  He moved closer, but never carelessly, as he measured his every footstep.

  “Hiya G…Guys!” said Jack again. Only now his smile fell flat, and he watched closely as the oncoming hand of falling blood drew nearer.

  It made a noise, a noise unlike anything they had ever heard before. A grinding, gurgling groan passed its scabbed lips, the tone constantly modulating from high to low and back again. It was an unpleasant sound, a despicable sound.

  The boys watched as old Gregory trod on, pushing this… this thing… back with an invisible force, as his palm stayed rigid and narrow.

  “Back to the fen with you,” ordered Gregory, flicking the droplets aggressively from his tingling hand.

  The figure fell back, slowly edging nearer to the lake’s edge, its distress filled with anguish as it flinched away from the blood.