by M. L. Rayner
“For her, of course. It’s always been for her.”
“Your granddaughter?”
The old man nodded in agreement, his eyes focused on the distances.
“I don’t understand?” asked Bran.
“What does it matter, boy! You won’t be around much longer anyway. Neither will your friend here. Not that he’ll be aware. Best way to go I say, wouldn’t you agree?”
Bran gulped, sensing his skin turn pale. “What are you going to do?”
“Me? Nothing… I’ve done my part.”
“Part?”
“Bringing you here. That’s all I’ve ever needed to do.”
“Just to kill us!”
“It must be done.”
Bran hid his face with both hands trying to mask the terror as Marcus twitched at his side.
“I have no choice,” explained Gregory. “This thing, all of it, is far beyond my control.”
“But you can change,” pleaded Bran. “Do not become the very thing you despised all them years ago. You were good once. Do you remember? You tried to stop all of this!”
Gregory’s head hung low. “I never.”
A pause hung in the air, as though time itself had stopped. The trees stood still; the soft breeze broke, leaving only a lingering coldness.
“What are you saying?” mumbled Bran. “That you lied… about all of it?”
“Oh, come off it, boy.” The old man scowled. “Don’t be so damn gullible.”
Gregory stood, going back to his markings on the ground, the gun swinging carelessly up and down.
“Those missing youngsters… it was me. All of it! Don’t you see, boy? I took them from their beds, from their play. I swiped them from their families, marching them through the deepest, darkest wood. It was me. They all screamed. They all cried when they disappeared from this life.”
Bran didn’t realise it, but his muscles were as tense as steel.
“But why?”
“Because it asked me to. It calls to me, always has. Ever since I can remember.”
Anger raged within Bran, though he knew he must stay calm. He sat still, waiting for the right moment.
“You’re nothing but a monster.”
“How so? I did only what needed to be done.”
“Luring your own flesh and blood? Your own grandchild!”
Gregory stopped abruptly, slamming the gun’s stock to the ground.
“No! Never her!” shouted Gregory. “I confess, yes, I took those children. And many more throughout the years. Leading their tiny legs to this very spot like innocent lambs to slaughter. I gave that demon everything. Everything it ever asked of me… but it took my darling anyway!”
“Then why do this? Why bring us here?”
“Because…” Gregory hesitated. “As long as I obey its demands, her beautiful soul will remain a part of this world forever. Maybe one day she will even return to my arms.”
Gregory stomped over to Bran, settling himself against the same stump, their shoulders almost touching.
“I still see her. I see her all the time, you know? As clear as I see you now. She appears in the shadows when I least expect it. It’s not much, but as long as I sense her, I have no choice. Many more must perish.”
Bran sat back, for the first time allowing his eyes to rest.
“We don’t deserve this.”
“None of them did,” said Gregory. “But I already told you,” whispered his gravelly voice. “Our kind took from the Sprit without reason. Perhaps now, all it desires of us is what purely matters most.”
*
“Wake up!”
The sound of the old man’s command rang through Bran’s dreamless sleep like a living nightmare.
“Up! On your feet!” Gregory grabbed the back of the young boy's shirt and pulled him upright. The old man pushed him forcibly, making him trip and fall. Bran could taste blood as he grasped loose dirt in his hand.
“Up!” Gregory yelled again, laying a kick to Bran’s side.
Somehow, Bran found a way to stand and walk. The tip of Gregory’s gun dug sharply into his spine.
“Hold it there,” said Gregory.
Bran stopped, looking down at what appeared to be a murky pool and a crumbling ring of stones that marked its boundaries. He wasn’t sure what he was looking at, but dreaded what may be its only purpose.
“Now what?” asked Bran, tilting his head to the old man.
Gregory did not speak: he only looked down at the gloom.
Glowing eyes shone out from the water’s surface and watched them from the edge. The mist grew blinding, like steam from a boiling pot, clouding their senses where they stood.
“It’s time,” said Gregory.
“Time for what?”
“Get in the water.”
Bran turned to face the gun head on. “No!”
“Don’t be foolish, boy. Get in the water, and make sure young Marcus there gets a respectable end.”
They both looked at Marcus whose body disappeared in the fog.
“Why should I believe a word you say? You’re a liar, Mr Degg. A good for nothing snake! I trusted you. We all did. Even Jack!”
Gregory’s aim faltered. “Ah, I was never dishonest about Jack. I rather liked the lad. He is exactly where I promised you. And closer than you’d imagine, too. You’ll be reunited with him soon enough.”
The trickle of disturbed water found its way through the fog, playing hauntingly on their ears.
The rifle was lifted through the waves of air, resting delicately below Bran’s blood-stained chin.
“In the water with you… please, boy. I shan’t ask you again.”
Bran frowned hard. “I won’t do it.”
Gregory sighed, pressing the rifle into his shoulder.
“Have it your way then.”
Bran closed his eyes and accepted his fate, awaiting the scream of gunfire to pierce and shatter his body. He always thought life would flash before him under such circumstances, just like in the movies. Instead, there was nothing. Not even a memory.
This is it, he thought, counting down the space between seconds.
“Hey!” A voice weak and confused, shouted out from the distance.
Marcus!
Distracted, Gregory glanced over his shoulder, allowing Bran the opportunity to hurl the gathered dirt from his hand.
“Take that, you psychopath!”
Gregory screamed in agony as Bran made a run for it, using his last ounce of strength to escape. Fighting the blindness, the old man swung his rifle frantically, swiping through the air and striking his prey. He felt the impact rebounding up the length of his arm with a judder, as his body fell down with a thud.
“Play games with me, will you!” screeched Gregory. “I’ll show ya.”
Squinting past the dust he swept the ground with his boots. He found his trophy, nudging the body with a cruel, sturdy kick.
Rubbing at his eyelids, Gregory let out a sinister laugh and estimated his aim to the victim.
“It’s just you and me now, young Marcus.”
But no reply was returned.
“Step out from hiding. The mist is not your ally here.”
He watched and waited, the hovering fog slithering over his face and eyelashes with its dampened touch.
Marcus emerged from the dreariness; the crunch of his footsteps intensifying with every step. The boy held something. What exactly wasn’t clear as Gregory’s weakened eyes bulged like a night owl.
“What have you got there, my friend?” asked Gregory.
“You’re no friend of mine,” replied Marcus coldly.
“Ah, sure we are. We’ve been through so much, you and I.”
Gregory glanced down. His rifle’s barrel was gradually disappearing into a blanket of soft flowing cloud that concealed the body below.
“Come closer, young man. I have something to tell you,” Gregory whispered, enticing Marcus with the curl of his bony finger.
“I’ve heard enough from y
ou!”
“Is that so?”
“Yes…” said Marcus holding his object with a shaky grip. “But I know something you need to hear.”
The old man smirked, his round shoulders jumping with humour. “This should be interesting.”
Marcus edged forward. Not too close, far enough for safety, thankful he was only a single step away from concealing himself.
“The girl. The child you love most. I’ve seen her,” shouted Marcus. “She speaks to me.”
“Hold your tongue! How –
“She is unhappy, Gregory. She has always been unhappy. Her existence is one of pure misery. An existence that you have forged by these horrendous acts.”
Gregory’s finger tensed, constricting around the trigger, his teeth gritting.
“How dare you stand there and speak of her!”
“She says she is tired and wretched, that she is never permitted to sleep. That she wanders an unknown world, praying for only death to take her.”
“Preposterous!” screamed the old man with a fisted hand.
“She speaks of you, also, Gregory.”
The elderly man’s shoulders eased. His mind yearned for the words he’d waited a lifetime to hear. “And… what does she speak?” Gregory mumbled.
“That you are not the man you once were. The man who kissed her nose goodnight. The man who comforted her in front of a blazing fire on the coldest winter’s night. She says you are lost, Gregory. Just as lost as she is.”
The gun shook violently in his hands.
“I am no lost man! All I have done… Everything! It was all for her.”
“And in doing so, you have brought misery to so many. All those children, Gregory. They all had families, they all had names.”
Worry radiated from the blackness of the man’s eyes.
“Yes,” whispered Marcus. “She knows about everything.”
“Everything?”
“Yes. Everything. Every child you’ve taken, luring them into the darkness. Every lie you have shamefully told to the people who trusted you most.”
The tip of the rifle barrel moved, indicating Bran would soon wake.
“Enough!” spat Gregory.
“You have waited all this time and now you wish to silence her?” questioned Marcus confusingly.
The old man hesitated, his tongue delaying his speech. “Will… will she come back to me?”
Marcus shook his head. “No… Never.”
Marcus closed his eyes, feeling the mist flow past his face.
“She is close,” continued Marcus. “Closer than she has ever been. Yet, the love she treasured has gone.”
Sadness clutched at Gregory’s thumping heart. He heard crying, as his head shifted left to right.
“Convince her.” The old man pleaded. “Tell her to come with me. I swear I can change.”
Marcus paused to listen. “She says it is too late for such things. She says that she would rather die!”
A tear fell from the saggy skin which hung below Gregory’s eyes. Grief consumed him that soon evolved into anger at the boy who tested him.
“It’s over, Gregory. Stop all of this.”
The old man twisted his gun, gently pushing down on the body he pinned to the ground. He looked to Marcus; his eyes alive with madness. “If that’s the case, I truly have nothing left to lose, do I?”
Marcus’s chest froze as he began to bravely charge. He would wrestle the man if need be; he would do whatever it took to disarm him.
But it was too late. A gunshot echoed like cannon fire throughout the swamp, throwing back Gregory’s wrist with a kick, sending a reddish cloud of fresh blood into the air. The sound of shallow breathing was heard faintly from the ground as Gregory stared blankly at Marcus. They both exchanged a look, though Marcus couldn’t find any words. He was frozen where he stood, mesmerised by the fool who stared back at him.
“That’s one down.” Gregory grinned from ear to ear.
He watched Marcus closely, expecting him to run. To do something! Yet, the boy remained unmoved. Instead, Marcus acted out a sympathetic smile, the mist curling around his limbs.
Confusion baffled the old man’s mind, but his vision was improving by the second. He attempted to speak, then stopped and watched as something appeared behind Marcus.
A smudge-like form neared, the identifiable shape of moving legs and arms grew through the haze. Gregory was stunned, hypnotized, as the shadow walked forward, opening the curtain of fog. He stepped back, his mouth ajar, and deepening lines furrowed his brow.
Bran stood beside Marcus and placed a reassuring hand on his arm. They both did nothing but simply observe the old man.
Gregory was stunned. The cogs in his mind spun in overdrive until they seized. He slowly knelt, wafting away the white blanket that spread thick like cotton wool across the ground. Gregory gasped as the mists momentarily parted.
A small girl lay scrunched on her side, her hands clenching fiercely at her stomach. She breathed rapidly, her eyes staring only at nothingness. Gregory screamed in heartache, placing his hands gently upon his granddaughter. She shivered wildly at his touch, as though feeling the harshest cold. The old man tried to move her, though she was rigid, her legs stiff up to her chest, as blood began to soak and stain her muddy gown.
“No!” screamed Gregory, looking to the boys for guidance “Help me!”
As the girl coughed and spluttered, a fine line of blood seeped slowly from the corner of her mouth.
“Stay with me, please,” whispered Gregory in despair. “What have I done to you!”
The sound of breathing slowed to short agonising gasps, accompanied by the faintest murmur slipping past dry flaking lips. Her widened eyes glared up into the night before, at long last, focusing on his. He attempted to smile through his shame and guilt, stroking the clumps of hair from her face.
“All will be fine. You’ll see. I won’t lose you again.”
Grasping her red painted hands from her wound, he held them both tightly and watched her drift away. Gregory’s head rested upon the girl’s chest, feeling it rise for the very last time.
The boys stood by quietly, listening to the smothered sobs that were muffled by the lifeless body. Gregory pulled desperately at his granddaughter’s clothing, his body trembling from the shock.
The old man looked up, his eyes filled with loathing.
“You!” he cried past gritted teeth, pulling himself to his feet. “You’ll pay! Both of you. You’ll both pay!”
The rifle rose effortlessly as it was firmly tucked into position. It pointed directly at Bran as the young boy scampered. But there was no escape. Not this time. No matter how much Bran ducked and dived.
Gregory squeezed the trigger, his head low to the barrel.
It all happened so fast. Bran heard Marcus scream from behind him, his voice merging with his very last thought.
The trigger was pulled.
Click.
Click? Thought Bran, half expecting the delayed bang to follow. It did not. He turned to observe Gregory, who by now was examining the rifle in puzzlement.
“Blasted thing!” The old man muttered as he quickly checked over the weapon.
Marcus could hear Bran in the distance.
“Run, you idiot!”
He heard it again.
Run… yes, run, he repeated the words several times over, willing his legs to move. He looked down to the object he held.
The black book weighed heavy in his hands. His sweating thumbs rubbed across its leather surface with anticipation, leaving a moist print on its binding.
Gregory leaned on the rifle, rattling it vigorously in anger, struggling to open the chamber.
“You stay right where you are!” Gregory warned Marcus.
Click, click, click, went the trigger before the chamber was forcibly closed.
The voice returned again from afar. Run, you idiot!
It was now or never. Marcus released the book and sent it flying through the
space between them, creating a worm tunnel of fog in its path. It landed true enough, catching Gregory’s hand on the trigger Bang!
The old man was forced backwards but remained standing. Dazed, he looked at Marcus and then turned his attention to the girl. His knees buckled before slowly dropping to the ground.
A dark dot on his shoulder began to spread, covering his shirt in the matching colour to his loved one.
“I…” He struggled to speak. “I…”
He pressed firmly, tending the wound with a painful shriek: the shriek of a child, scared and alone.
Marcus approached, standing over the man who now appeared weak and frail.
“Now you know, don’t you?” asked Marcus. “That feeling you sense. They all felt it.”
The old man whispered, “I… I was good once.” His face turned a ghostly colour.
The rifle was kicked across the ground, spiralling until it hit the water’s surface. It would soon be lost forever. Bran stood beside Marcus, as the old man stared into his eyes.
“Forgive me,” moaned Gregory. weeping like a child as his vision began to spin.
“Our forgiveness won’t give you what you need,” replied Bran as the boys turned to walk away.
They stopped to look back one final time, knowing they shouldn't. The old man remained rested on his knees, whimpering weakly alongside his most regrettable error.
Movement lingered behind him, slow and sinister. From nowhere known, shadow arms crept around Gregory. He shrieked, letting out a terrified scream as the black mass held him in a deathly grip. The shadow emerged from the misty swamp. It was gigantic. Its glowing eyes towered over the old man, looking down on him like he was nothing but a bug caught in a spider’s web.
“Take them!” Gregory’s voice venerably cracked. “I offered you them!”
The mass looked to the boys, its eyes glowing like the strongest torchlight. It did not sway, but tightened its grip on Gregory and began to edge away. The old man cried in desperation, knowing exactly where he was headed. He reached out, his nails digging into the soil.
“Please!” Gregory screamed as he heard the wave of water part behind him. The shadow descended. The old man clawed wildly and scratched the leg of his granddaughter, dragging her unceremoniously across the ground. Her long blonde hair was the last to be seen; fog concealed them all. And the final sound of tortured echoes drifted through the woodland. The screams were sickening before they came to an eerie halt.