Amongst The Mists

by M. L. Rayner

  “The strangest thing is, and this will surprise you both, nothing bad ever happened to them. They returned to their villages amused and light-hearted, telling such stories about what would soon be known as the Sleathton Ghost and the pranks it played.”

  “Wait,” said Bran with a motion of his hand. “So, you’re saying it’s a ghost?”

  “I’m not saying it’s a ghost or otherwise. I’m purely stating what is told.”

  “So, if it’s not a ghost then what the hell is it?”

  “Look, son, the land on which we walk holds many old stories, this is simply one of them. Some are nothing but fables, childish tales to teach we idiotic mortals right from wrong. Others hold an undying essence of truth, a lesson to be learned and respected. But if anything can be said of this particular tale, it is that some legends are so much more than ghost stories.”

  Marcus gave Bran a gentle nudge, immediately followed by a hardened frown. Bran recognised the look right away. It was an unspoken caution for him to wind his neck in. Bran gave a nod, sat quietly back and closed his eyes to listen.

  “Well now,” said Gregory, speaking slowly to himself. “Where was I?” He scratched firmly at his scruffy red beard in thought. “Ahh, yes,” he said with a yawn.

  “And so, that’s how it was. Day after day, week after week, month after month, the voices continued to spread across the forest. Calling out to anyone in hope of tempting them to play its harmless game. Though very soon, and like everything else in this world, the magic would shortly fade. The voice still called, of course, though people lost interest in the mystery, and in time not even so much as a head would turn as they walked along the narrow dusty paths. It remained this way for years, until eventually the villagers moved on, the voices were forgotten, and the forest land fell silent.

  “It was an eternity. So much time, in fact, the roads and pathways located around the estate had vanished, hiding away any evidence of its settlers and unusual past. It was again a wild place, an unforgiving place, very much like you see today.

  “It happened to be on the 20th February, 1921, that a military group recorded passing through the area after falling off course from the Claymore River. They reported hearing the sounds of terrified screams for help from within the woods. Honouring their oath of duty, they followed the cries for many miles, some say even days. Yet they found nothing. Not so much as a single clue did they find. It was reported back to their superior. Unsurprisingly, the story itself had become intriguingly popular between their units. Within days, patrols in the hundreds marched outward to Sleathton. Their purpose, to uncover the truth behind the so-called enchanted forest. For days the men searched, fighting their way through the brambles. When it got dark the men grew ill-tempered and tormented, listening to the sounds chuckling back at them throughout the night.”

  “So, what did they do?” asked Marcus. His heavy breathing quickened as he listened to the old man’s every word.

  “They did what all mankind does to things they don’t understand. They started to destroy the forest.”

  “But why?” said a confused Marcus.

  “For control, of course,” said Gregory. “But little did they know what circumstances were about to befall them. The trees toppled like falling dominos. And in the distance, bellows of grief could be heard with each snap of falling timber. The calls of mischief that were once heard had merged and now pierced the humid air with sounds of deep and unrelenting sorrow. Many trees had been felled, denuding the once thriving forest and creating fields of logs. And by the time a full week’s work had passed, the voices that had echoed across the land were hushed.

  “Well, the men were joyful at first. They couldn’t leave this uninhabited place soon enough. As ordered, they scouted the remaining woodland. Interestingly, several of the men never made it back to the camps after their first search. It caused no true concern, you understand. People always happen to get lost in rural places like this. And with no map or markings to guide them, it would have been as easy as losing yourself in a corn field. The morning finally dawned, and the last remaining unit started to search the darkest patch of land, ordered to find the men who had recklessly gone missing. Splitting up, the small troop divided the area equally, which would at last see them safely to the other side of Sleathton and thankfully closer to their awaiting homes. The men quickly drifted apart. The tramp of their heavy boots was still in sync as they trudged their separate ways. Of all the remaining units, only one young lad made it to the other side. He was hardly older than a child himself, much too young to be called a soldier. He alone made it through the estate and over the valleys, back to his reporting officer. Oh, the things he reported to have seen would make your hair curl, boys.”

  “What? What’d he see?” Bran was now captivated by the history.

  Gregory cleared his parched throat, letting out a gruff growl and firmly patting his chest.

  “He reported seeing something that simply should not exist. They say he was level headed. But even the sanest of minds can be tricked. He had walked for many hours without food or water, and fatigue was getting a stranglehold on his body. His attention was captured by the sound of water smashing against the mossy rocks. With his mouth parched and his mind weak, he roamed in search of what would quench his thirst. He found the fast-flowing stream of fresh, clear water and fell to his knees. He immediately removed his jacket and tags and submerged his face in the current. The young man drank his fill, before resting against the bank, watching his own gaunt reflection as beads of sweat fell freely from his brow. Sitting there for quite some time, he became almost hypnotised by the glimmer on the water. It was so intriguing he almost failed to notice a slight tint of red flowing across his field of vision. The colour was diluted as the stream twined and twisted around jagged rocks. The man rubbed his eyes ferociously, leaning over to take a closer look. The colour grew stronger, patchy at first, before turning to a vibrant bloody red. He placed his hand in the water and allowed the liquid to run through his fingers. It was warm and thick and embedded itself deep beneath his nails. The trickle had turned to a stream of blood, surging towards him, following every dip and turn of its ghastly trail.

  “Another soldier from his unit sat hunched over on a rock that rose up from the grass. Although he faced the man’s back, he was very familiar with the uniform. The young lad watched suspiciously as his comrade viciously delved his arms into the steady flowing stream. He looked again at the water, annoyed with his sluggish reaction in helping his fellow soldier who was obviously hurt, probably by gunshot. Yet he heard no gunfire that morning. The day itself had been as silent as a graveyard in the depths of winter. Caught up in the emotion of the moment, he sprinted up the bank, forgetting his bag and rifle that still sat hidden beside a tree. Calling out to the soldier as he ran, he was out of breath when he reached the stone. His brother-in-arms continued to drown his blood-soaked wrists. There was no way for the young soldier to know exactly what had happened, but a nervousness churned within his gut as he wordlessly crept beside him. Later he said he recognised the injured man as a bunkmate from his hometown whom he had known quite well. His black hair was drenched and flattened against his face. Concerned for the injured man, he spoke but received no answer from the soldier who stubbornly continued to cleanse his hands. The colour of the stream was not fading but growing more intense, blending now to a dark shade of red wine. He was desperate to know the source of such a devastating loss of blood: the loss of a finger or even a hand perhaps? Nothing could have prepared him for what he was about to see. The comrade’s arms now remained tense and stiff, almost as though he was purposely fighting to keep his hands from rising. The lad looked down, letting out a horrified gasp. He fell to the ground, heaving on only the dryness of the air. The soldier pushed down hard, shaking his hands in anger. His grip clenched the neck of another fellow soldier who had been sentenced to a most horrible death. Blood spilled out from the body beneath the surface, from where exactly he couldn’t see.
But as the lad gazed upon the victim’s face another shock rocked him. The figure who pushed down on the corpse looked to be the same as the corpse himself. They were identical in every way, one and the same.

  “The lad, he stepped back, his skin pale and his body loose. He said nothing, retracing his steps sluggishly and trying to go unseen. His heel struck something hard, sending him off balance and causing him to fall clumsily on his back. Surprisingly, his fall did not cause any harm. Instead, he happened to land on something soft. It reminded him of the lumpy mattresses supplied at the headquarters, that was if you were lucky enough to receive one. He lifted himself, pushing off the cushioned ground. It was soft, yet hard in places, moving freely under the pressure of his movement. Lifting a hand, a stain of clotted blood smeared his palm. Anxious, the boy checked himself to see if he’d been hurt. He wasn’t, but as he moved a putrid stench rose around him. It was an odour so vile. This smell he knew. Bodies lay beneath him. Several of them in fact. All were men who set out on that morning’s search. Their limbs spread unnaturally across the uneven grass, resembling a collection of cheap, discarded toys. The young boy let out an involuntary shriek, clambering over the bodies of his fallen friends. He had no time to think. He had no time to run. A hand grabbed desperately at his ankle, its fingernails digging deep into his skin and piercing his flesh. He cringed in pain, catching sight of the figure who still remained perched upon a rock. The figure stared back at him blankly. His eyes all but gone, a white glow inhabiting their sockets. The figure smiled at him. A dark and twisted smile, as its arms tensed aggressively and continued to strangle the dead.

  “The lad stumbled, the fall sending him tumbling to the bottom of the bank. Life became a blur and the descent seemed never ending. He collided with a tree which sent him splashing into the stream. He pulled himself from the water, crawling upward to escape the gushing blood. He looked down. His uniform remained clean with the exception of a heavy sweat stain. He glared at the stream. The rippling current was now as clear as when he first found it. There was no explanation for it, nor at that point could he have readied himself for one. His heart beat wildly in his chest while his jaw tightened and locked. Terrified, he surveyed the land above him. The figure was gone. Vanished like magic, without a trace. The bodies of his comrades had disappeared, too, also leaving not even one clue, not even a drop of blood, to mark the ground where they laid.

  “Needless to say, the young man made it out alive. And thank goodness for him, too. Otherwise, this written account would never have made it to paper. He finally arrived back to his unit, refusing to speak to anyone but his commanding officer.”

  “And did they believe him?” asked Marcus.

  “They believed the lad had lost his mind,” answered Gregory. “He told them everything, leaving nothing out. Not even the smallest detail was kept secret. He wanted them to believe him. He needed them to. And in time, even the lad himself began to doubt his own story. Isolation can be a very funny thing. It can play tricks on your eyes and your brain to convince you something really exists. His superiors departed, leaving him resting on an old infirmary bed. A tender sting itched at his ankle, and he pulled up his hospital gown. Five nails had torn his skin. The marks were still evident. The wounds were seeping pus, and the sensation of fire surged up to his knee. He closed his eyes, clenching through the pain. He was unable to escape the memory of that day. Yet, no matter what thoughts passed his mind, the love of his wife, the memories of home, all reverted to that one day in the woods and those bright reflective eyes that shone back at him. They stared deeply into him. Even while he slept, they peered past his flesh, watching the soul that got away. He would never forget the expression that accompanied those empty eyes; the cruel smile that would shatter all bravery in a heartbeat. It warned him that one day his soul would be stolen. No matter where he ran, no matter where he hid, he would be found.”

  Amongst the Mists

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  T he bright morning sunshine burst through the curtains, its shimmering path sending a narrow gleam to the far-off corner where the old man lay. Gregory awoke almost instantly. He raised his hand to block the glare and smacked his lips together. The aftertaste of last night's drink was offensive. Gregory was thirsty, his throat as dry as dust. Clumsily rising to his feet, his hip stiffened from sleeping on the floor. He was no spring chicken after all, and over the past decade he had started to accept the consequences of such decisions. The boys lay silent, as they had done through the twilight hours, making it difficult for Gregory to tell whether they were asleep or awake. He made his way to the door with an involuntary hop as he walked.

  Stepping outside, the vibrant colours of the woodland and the morning’s warmth hugged him as he carefully stepped off the porch to relieve his bladder. Each step created a disturbingly loud crack from somewhere inside his body.

  “God, I’m getting old,” said Gregory with a disappointed sigh.

  Everything seemed to be an effort these days, even the simple need to piss.

  May as well be pissing dust, he thought, irritated. He pulled up his zipper and lifted his face to the sky. It was still early morning but they had missed the planned departure at first light.

  Blast!

  Gregory knew it was irresponsible of him to drink so heavily. But the decision to stop was almost impossible to make. He had acquired his love for the drink so long ago now, that as time flowed on, and without his realising what was happening, his thirst for it grew stronger. So strong he no longer denied his dependence on it. The desire had grown unrestrained, morphing from its effects of a calming comfort into the most unpleasant monster, forever sitting on his shoulder and taunting him endlessly. He didn’t want the drink, he needed it! And without so much as a shot, God only knows what torment he’d be in. Regardless, he needed to keep his wits about him. If he somehow came to misplace the boys due to his own drunken stupidity, this entire venture would be pointless. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d come across young folk. He’d be damned if he was going to let those poor boys slip through his fingers. He sat peacefully for a moment and listened to the subtle noises around him: the hypnotic buzz of hovering wasps, the innocent whistle of birds nesting high above the ground, all accompanied by the freshness of the summer morning air. Yes, this was his favourite time. There was something about it, something tranquil perhaps? It was nature at its finest. And it pleased Gregory greatly to behold it, to capture it. The world felt like his own. It was bliss.

  *

  Breakfast was sparse, though they all had come to expect it. The boys had woken tired and groggy, disturbed by a thumping racket outside the cabin walls. They ventured out with heavy eyes, wanting nothing more than to curl up again and go back to sleep.

  “Morning, boys.” Gregory beckoned them over with a wave of his hand.

  The boys did not reply. They had no desire to. It was far too early to encourage chit chat, especially pleasant chit chat.

  “You boys hungry?” asked Gregory. “Here. I made us these.” He handed out two wooden poles, freshly cut from branches of a nearby sapling. Two metal clips were twisted into the base, followed by several rounded hooks spread evenly up to the tip. An almost invisible wire wrapped tightly around each handle, carefully threaded through each hook and purposely left to dangle.

  “Fishing rods?” Marcus was puzzled as he recalled his own abandoned rod.

  “Indeed, son. Not my best work but it will surely catch us a bite to eat.”

  Marcus took the rod, weighing it up in his hand and pretending to cast.

  “It’s great,” remarked Marcus. “But where did you find the kit?”

  “There’s plenty of scrap lying around here. I just gathered what I needed.”

  Gregory tossed the second rod to Bran whose slow and clumsy reflexes allowed the pole to bounce off his face.

  “I thought you said we had no time to lose?” said Bran holding the side of his face. “How is it we have time for this?”

/>   “You wanna starve, do you?” Gregory asked.

  “No but…”

  “Then we must get moving, and fast. The closest river runs short of a mile north. Whatever we catch will serve us well over the coming days, as long as the fish stay cooled.”

  “Days?” asked Bran. The thought alone exhausted him.

  “Yes,” said Gregory without hesitation. “We have miles to go, and time is of the essence.”

  “And what about Jack?” asked Marcus. “You think he’ll be alright?”

  The old man exhaled and knotted his coat tightly around the waist. “I hope so, son, but hanging around here does nothing for no one.”

  Marcus said no more but hurried back inside, his feet still tender from last evening’s excruciating walk. He collected his rucksack, throwing a single strap around his shoulder and made his way to the door.

  “So, what are we waiting for?”

  *

  Looking back, the cabin seemed to dissolve, fading from sight behind the evergreens. It was strange to think they'd never see it again. Though their stay there hadn't been exactly pleasant, the boys still found it difficult to look away. Would they find it again, even if they tried?