by M. L. Rayner
Chapter Forty-Three
O livia awoke from the same old dream. A sense of despair overcame her as she welcomed back the blackness that had engulfed her life. Frustrated, she let out a deranged scream. There were bruises over her arms and legs from hitting the hard ground, and her head filled with unstoppable images as the tears began.
Olivia shuddered and wiped the tears and sweat from her face, recalling the demon's haunting voice. And the smell of those damned pumpkin cakes! It was so real that she was sure it would linger here in this world. But there was one thing for sure; she'd never taste one again. That idea left a dull ache swirling in her gut. Despite her desire to vomit, she was hungry. She had looked at so many plants and leaves, wondering if any were edible.
Would they taste good?
Olivia tugged on the leaf of a nearby plant and inspected its texture and colour in the moonlight. She thought it didn't look poisonous, but how could she be certain?
Doesn’t smell poisonous either.
The remark, even if just to herself, seemed rather stupid. Olivia pulled the plant up from its roots. She opened her mouth, took a large bite, and cringed at the foul potent taste. It was strong and assaulted her taste buds. Both shoulders scrunched in disgust.
Chew, God dammit, chew! She was unable to force her jaws to obey. A loud crunch finally could be heard when she bit down on the stem. She shook in revulsion as the vile thing slid slowly down her throat.
“Not too bad.” She exhaled and prepared for the second course. She bit down hard and quick, but the taste never faded no matter how fast she chewed.
One more bite. Just one. She tried to convince herself and placed a rolled-up morsel gently on her tongue, dwelling on the lengths she had gone to trying to survive.
The night remained unchanged, a picture-perfect setting for a living nightmare. Everything was motionless for now. The solitude was comforting as she remained camouflaged by the surrounding ferns. Slightly emotional, she reminisced about the day she doodled innocently by the spring.
My notebook! she thought, wondering if someone, anyone, had found it. Olivia leaned back to conserve what little energy she had left. A coldness came up from the earth, but she hadn’t noticed the goosebumps forming on her flesh. Her eyes closed, knowing that sleep would not come easily. A branch snapped in the distance, putting Olivia on edge. The forest was still. Just what she was hoping for. The woodland silhouette defined the land and reminded Olivia of those popup books she owned as a toddler.
Looks clear.
Convinced, she prepared to hide. And that’s when she saw it.
There was only one. At least, that’s what she thought. A girl no older than she emerged from the trees. The small body was draped in a grey tattered gown, her blonde hair plaited with a bow illuminated by the moonlight. Olivia watched nervously as her vision faded in and out from lack of sleep.
Please go away, she thought, her nose now just above the ferns.
The child stood as still as stone, gazing at Olivia through soulless, white eyes.
“Shoo! Get out of here!” commanded Olivia while she frantically waved her arms.
She searched the surrounding area for a quick and easy exit. There wasn't one. Instead, more figures materialized near the tree line. They all stood rigid and watched her from afar.
They were children. Innocent children, just like her. Something had happened to them, something terrible. Olivia could sense it. She could see it in their faces. Their eyes screamed out in torment as their bodies remained locked in place.
“Leave me alone!” Olivia screamed, her voice trembling, a flush of tears rolling swiftly down her cheeks. She had no idea who these children were. She didn’t want to know. But she was certain she had no intention of becoming one of them. Footsteps rustled across the forest floor; childlike whispers stirred the echoes from another world. Yet still the shadowed children observed her. Olivia slowly retreated, shuffling her feet backwards through the tangled shrubs. She stopped when she stumbled against something far too soft, turning in terror to be face to face with another. Olivia screamed again, staring up into eyes that looked down at her. It was a boy, slightly older than the others. His skin was pale and chalky. The clothes he wore were far too large, hanging loosely from his lanky physique. His hair was pasted down to his scalp, and water dripped continually from his forehead and seeped into his eyes. It was his eyes that caught Olivia’s attention. They were not like the others, lost and ghostly. His eyes still bore a soul, shining vibrantly and filling the night with colour even though they were sad and desperate. They reflected a fight she knew he’d lost. Is this what would become of her? Destined to suffer these haunted grounds, wandering endlessly until her existence faded from memory?
No, she would not allow it. Not now. Not after all she had been through. The boy’s bright eyes looked down at her, his expression dull and vacant, as she struggled to find her feet. The shadowed figures shrieked violently. The noise invaded her ears and shook the forest ground. She looked back at the boy whose dripping hand reached out for her to hold. But Olivia would not take it. Instead, she kept her distance and did the only thing she knew. She ran. Her feet smacking the ground as she fled, never looking back into those bright eyes.
Amongst the Mists
Chapter Forty-Four
T he afternoon heat evaporated into the damp and eerie evening. A chill enveloped them, and the unpleasantness of the day's scorching heat somehow escaped their minds as they tensed their muscles and harshly rubbed their flesh for warmth. Hours had passed while they trudged relentlessly through the deep and dark jungle. It was otherworldly to them. Vines hung down from the trees like thickened ropes. The ground was thick with vegetation that wrapped around limbs and cut their path in every direction.
“Are you sure this is right?” said Bran, looking back at the old man.
“Yes.” The reply was sharp.
“Well, I don’t like it. Not one bit.”
“Me, neither,” said Marcus, holding back to wait for the others.
“I feel the same every time, boys,” replied Gregory.
“Every time?”
A squelching noise drew Bran’s attention. A wet and mucky sensation seeped through the leather of his trainers, soaking the soles of his feet. He stepped forward and his other foot sank deep in the mud. It was like quicksand that fed on his limbs and pulled him deeper into the muck.
It was a fight to break free, as Marcus soon learned, following the footprints left behind by Bran.
“What the hell is this place?” Bran asked in frustration while he tried desperately to stay upright. He fell in spite of his efforts and coated his clothes in a greenish brown sludge.
“It’s exactly where we needed to be.” Gregory pulled Bran up with the barrel of the gun.
“And that is?”
“This, my boy, is the outskirts of Brocton Swamp.
*
There was no telling how far they had come. Nevertheless, the three marched onwards. The swamp became deeper and trickier to navigate. Mud covered their clothing, weighing them down and numbing their legs. A thin mist crept across the stagnant surface, obscuring their footing and slowing their pace all the more. The old man stopped, his knees visibly buckled from under him as he sucked in humid air.
“Sorry boys, I’m no spring chicken anymore. This didn’t seem so difficult the last time.”
He coughed violently, spitting out mucus while thumping harshly at his chest.
Marcus didn’t speak but looked all around. He considered how the height of the trees blocked out the reality of the normal world and buried him beneath. It was an unbearable thought. Now he understood why the locals avoided this place and why Gregory had suggested they stay behind.
Pull yourself together, thought Marcus. We still have a job to do. Besides, what good would the old man be on his own? He looked back, watching as Gregory hunched over and fought to catch his breath. No good, that’s what!
It was then Marcus notic
ed the mist around his feet begin to thicken, slowly rising to envelope the bottom half of his body. A fog sank down from the sky and merged with the mists into one thick blanket. It had come out of nowhere, encircling them while all they could do was watch.
“You gotta be kidding me, right?” Bran fanned his hands in front of his face. “I’ve never seen a fog like it.”
“What does it mean?” Marcus could barely see Gregory standing beside him.
“It means we’re near,” Gregory's voice was hoarse as he continued to choke on the fog.
“Near to Jack?”
“Aye,” he coughed, placing a hand on the boys’ shoulders. “But don’t relax yourselves just yet. If Jack’s still here, evil will be close at hand. It always is. Please remember, your friend will be trapped in its claws now, boys. Hidden away in a world unlike our own.”
“How do you mean?” asked Bran.
“The mists, boy. I have come to understand it is the opening between two worlds. While the mists lie thick, its domain will not close. Beyond this door I have no answers. Only that there is more than death.”
“Is there suffering?”
“I don’t know,” said Gregory. He hid his teary eyes from the stares that searched his face.
“We need to keep moving. Staying put will only weaken us.”
Something brushed Marcus's arm. The movement was followed by the sound of heavy footsteps slopping behind the wall of mist.
“Listen out for my steps, lads. And please, keep close.”
It was harder than expected. The mist became impenetrably dense. Time and time again they fell to the water’s stinking slime. With each fall the footsteps halted while the others waited patiently for the fallen to re-join the march. It was exhausting work. The boys were so fatigued that their steps began to drag. They desperately held on to the hope that the end of their ordeal was near. Bran muttered to himself, frustrated by his constant stumbling. Up in front, Marcus struggled to breathe, the damp air drowning his lungs as he let out a deathly wheeze. He was concentrating so completely on the task at hand that he didn't notice his breathing. Their surroundings suddenly turned silent.
“Why we stopping?” asked Marcus, finally fishing out the inhaler from his pocket. He gave three solid puffs, exhaling, and his symptoms were relieved in seconds.
Gregory didn’t reply. And with the fog blinding Marcus’s senses, the old man appeared to have vanished.
“Old man! What’s the hold up?” shouted Bran, bumping clumsily into the back of Marcus.
“Quiet!” whispered Gregory. His voice was soft and wary as the mist concealed him.
“Quiet? Why?” asked Bran.
“Can’t you hear it?”
“Hear what?”
Goosebumps marched up Marcus’s arms, spreading wildly until his entire body was covered. A faint hum pervaded the air. It was faint at first then grew gradually when the three stopped to listen.
“What is that?” Marcus reached out to tug the old man’s shirt.
“Stay… still.” Gregory’s tone was stern. “Don’t… move.”
The sound of humming distorted to a static-like crackle, pitching high and low before finally syncing in time. A thunderous noise trembled through the darkness, forcing the swamp’s floor to rise and shake. The boys gasped sharply. Shadows weaved from either side. Black forms twined through the mist like hovering ghosts. The three made no sound, watching intently as the dark sinister forms floated gracefully into the distance. It all happened so fast. From behind them, a voice called out. The boys pulled and scrambled, climbing over each other to take the lead. Marcus had no recollection of what was said. Panic overtook his body, and adrenaline gave him the energy to race through the fog, smacking into several trees along the way. Bran kept driving forward and managed to keep his pace.
Gregory shouted from far behind them. “Don’t run, boys. Don’t –”
A single shot fired from a distance letting a single spark spread through the thick grey cloud.
Marcus stopped and listened to Bran’s feet charging through the murk. There was silence behind him. Water rippled around his knees. Fear took hold, followed by guilt as he got closer to Bran. The old man was gone.
Amongst the Mists
Chapter Forty-Five
No matter how hard she screams, or how fast she runs, the forms of children are near her. They do not grab or chase, but remain still, simply watching from beyond the treeline as Olivia’s legs merge to a blur across the forest floor.
The pain is now tearing at the soles of her feet. She doesn’t care. She clenches her teeth and bears the pain that she knows so well.
“Who are they?” Olivia asks breathlessly. Where do they come from?
One by one the figures seem to emerge from nothingness; the sadness and trauma on their faces are far too intense for Olivia to handle. She sees a straight, narrow path in the distance, giving her the impetus to move faster, using all the concentration she has left to focus on the dangers ahead. Her body tenses with each advancing step, the colour drains from her face and changes her complexion to a clammy shade of grey. Her heartbeat pounds in her ears as she struggles to guide her steps.
Don’t stop.
The same two words repeat in her mind over and over again, pushing her forward and convincing her that rest is not an option. Olivia’s impetus starts falling short as weariness takes its toll. Her legs begin to feel like jelly as she tries for a few more strides. She stumbles to her side and hits the ground with a violent thud. Her head lifts but her body is too numb and weak.
Gunfire erupts in the distance. Havoc rolls through the forest as voices call in despair. Olivia’s mind begins to wander, her fragile body too exhausted to acknowledge the distant haze of screams. Her hair falls in clumps around her neck. She clenches her fists and pounds the earth. It’s the only way she knows to display her hatred.
The gun fire shortly dies. Again, the screams for help and the sound of stomping boots travel across the land. Bodies collide in panic. Then the steps of many turn into the steps of only one. Olivia begins to shake in anticipation as the sound draws closer. It takes all the strength she can muster to rise to a kneeling position. She brushes her hair from her face and looks up.
A man stumbles before her, his boots grind as he runs. He looks troubled, scared, as sweat flies freely down his temples. He wears a uniform. An old uniform with epaulettes drooping from its shoulders hangs on a boyish frame. He wears no cap, perhaps fallen behind him in the panic, though Olivia can tell he owned one; his hair squashed flatly to his head, spiking up only around the curves of his ears. He displays no badges or medals on his chest, only the look of horror painted across his face. Olivia calls out, already accepting the cause will do her no good. The man doesn’t see her, doesn’t acknowledge her. He looks her way as though she is nothing more than a ghost. Maybe that is exactly what she has become?
She looks out across the woodland to the children still standing there and watching. They look directly at him.
Can they see him? Can he see them?
It is an impossible question to answer. She is struck by the revelation that maybe her soul has passed to the afterlife. Maybe what she sees is the living.
Olivia pleads silently for a different outcome. She wishes hard. But the one certain thing is this place, This Hell, is not a part of the world she knew, the real world. No, this place is part of something far more wicked. This is a world where innocence is feasted on, where strength is drained, where a life is left to rot and a soul yearns for freedom. There is more. She knows something else thrives here. Olivia can feel it. Always has. Whatever it is exactly isn’t clear to her. But its presence always lingers, feeding on the sorrow of suffering victims involuntarily trapped here and forced to roam for eternity.
*
The young soldier circles the ground again and again, his hands grip wildly at his slicked back hair, pulling it out by the roots. He mutters words through tightly clenched teeth, though Olivia fails
to hear them. There is something in the air now. She feels it. A thick, unsettled atmosphere encircles them both, ready to be sliced with a knife. The man jolts back, gasping silently and almost trips on his own two feet. He knows where to look: back in the direction from where he came. Back to the sound of voices.
“Lost!”
The man hears it too, and whimpers aloud like a lost child. The haunting sound sends a shiver up her back and makes her bottom lip quiver uncontrollably. Somehow, she finds her feet. That same voice taunts her, reminding her of how little she’s managed to achieve since that day. Sickness overwhelms her, and she realises there will be no escape. Olivia turns back to the soldier, who for the first time appears to gaze fearfully into her eyes.
He sees me! She wonders why the man looks so troubled as he sprints towards her.
The sound of the man’s footfalls grows nearer and rapid, forcing her to try to protect her small body. Olivia tries the only way she knows how; she reaches out her arms to stop the impending collision. Though no impact ever comes. Instead, a bitter chill flows through her, a sensation she can only describe as walking headlong into an icy blizzard. She lowers her hands and looks at her surroundings. But the man has vanished. Even his boots failed to leave their marks.
She looks down at her ragged clothes and pale, bruised skin, feeling like she is wrapped in an icy blanket. The eyes are still watching. Behind her, the shadow of the man still runs and soon disappears into the wilderness.
“Wait!” Olivia yells desperately.
She turns to follow, somehow managing to keep him in her sights. His arms move frantically while a limp slows his pace on challenging ground, giving Olivia an opportunity to close the distance between them.
She is hot on his trail by now. The sound of his panicked breath becomes louder and louder. Still, he doesn’t look back, doesn’t acknowledge the fearful child who follows. Suddenly, the ground becomes boggy and slick, forcing Olivia's heart to sink as she surveys the mushy land ahead. Within a matter of seconds her progress is slowed by the ground itself. Every step feels like twenty. The sucking sludge holds her feet in an attempt to make her stay.