Amongst The Mists

by M. L. Rayner

  *

  The land was deathly. So silent that they heard only the faint intermittent drops of rain which fell from the trees and into the swamp. Marcus and Bran watched on, expecting the beast to return to claim the old man’s offering. But there was nothing, only the flapping of the black book’s open pages as it rested innocently in the mud.

  An orange morning light filtered through the treetops, shining in patches on their bodies. The mist lifted, shying away like a monster slinking back to its lair. They sat, overwhelmed, conserving what little strength remained.

  “You did good, Marcus.” Bran smiled and nudged his mate with his elbow.

  Marcus returned a polite smirk, playfully returning the gesture. “You, too.”

  They paused, sighing loudly.

  “I guess we should get out of here?” asked Bran.

  A nod was all Marcus could muster.

  “Hey,” reassured Bran. “What’s done is done. We tried, didn’t we? I mean… we really tried.”

  Again, Marcus nodded. “We did.”

  “It won’t be for nothing. We’ll tell the whole world what happened here. Jack’s loss will not be for nothing, neither will all the others.”

  Marcus agreed, patting Bran, thankful.

  “Let’s go then,” sighed Marcus, strapping one pack over his shoulders.

  In single file they walked along the pool’s edge, envisioning Gregory’s final thoughts before he sank beneath the surface. Bran shuddered at the idea, still cautiously inspecting the muddy bank. He slipped once, twice, three times. The third sent him down the slope and closer to the water’s edge. His heart pounded like a hammer, bringing back events he hoped in time to forget.

  “You alright?” Marcus called, looking down from the ledge.

  “Uh huh, just help me up, will you?”

  As Bran waited, he looked at the water. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the eerie stillness.

  “Grab hold,” shouted Marcus, throwing down a branch for his friend to grasp. “Gotcha!”

  “Pull me up!”

  The climb was not that easy. The mud was slippery and felt like icy sludge under his feet.

  “Almost there,” groaned Bran, his hand clasping onto Marcus’s as they exchanged a friendly wink.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Bran sensed something moving. The earth itself seemed to churn and toss, rolling over in an attempt to grasp him. Bran thought about several things at once. He tried to shout at the top of his lungs, but only a feeble sound got past his lips. He stopped suddenly when he noticed the clump of earth.

  “Special?” Bran couldn’t believe his eyes.

  Jack lay face down on the slope, his entire body camouflaged in the thick mossy muck.

  “Jack!” Marcus cried ecstatically, clenching his collar and pulling him over the drop.

  The once missing boy was awake but obviously exhausted. His expression of relief was enough to put the boys in a tight embrace.

  “It’s great to see you, buddy.”

  “Yeah, we thought we’d lost you.”

  Jack sat up, astonished by everything around him.

  “It’s OK, buddy, it’s OK,” said Bran calmly, removing his torn shirt and wiping the dirt from Jack’s face. “We have so much to tell you.”

  Jack didn’t respond, didn’t hear the words being spoken. He was too content in a world of his own. A world where the sun rose to the call of a brand-new day. A world where the air was fresh and calm and where a soft breeze played gently as it brushed past his ears. A world where he was not alone. He had almost forgotten all of it.

  Amongst the Mists

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  B irds call from the safety of their nests, their song flowing over the forest floor. Olivia’s tired eyes slowly open and squint at the light of the sun. Its rays beam through the fullness of trees that appear brimming with fire. Drops of water trail from her pale wet skin. Her dripping hair swings from side to side. She feels her body travel weightlessly through the air, though her legs remain loose and idle. She lifts her weakened head, gazing up at the chest of a man who carries her. His arms are strong, but they are comforting as he walks. Although she cannot see his face, she can see the shadow of his mouth. It’s familiar, like she has seen it somewhere before. Olivia rests her head back, still watching him. The sun forms a halo around his head.

  “Where am I?” she is whispering softly, her voice shaking.

  The man glances down with a kind smile. His stride never slows as his feet tread carefully across the moss.

  “You’re exactly where you belong,” the stranger replies. A reassuring grin is cast down at her, his dimpled chin stretching as his eyes return to the path.

  Olivia begins to sob uncontrollably.

  “You alright, my dear?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” she says, smearing the tears from her face. “It’s just the sun. I had forgotten just how beautiful it really is.”

  They both look upward. The heat of the day warms their skin as geese glide gracefully overhead in an ocean of endless blue.

  “Aye, it is just that,” said the stranger.

  The sound of a flowing stream catches their attention. The water glistens with the reflection of that beautiful blue sky. The stream's soft splashes bounce in the light like twinkling crystals.

  Olivia tries to rest, but she dares not shut her eyes. She cannot face the dark. Not again.

  “I can’t go back there,” she cries, her arms wrapping tightly around the stranger’s torso. “I’m not strong enough.”

  The man stops, pressing his forehead gently to hers. “You are the strongest I have ever known. You are so brave, little one.”

  Olivia weeps and buries her face flat into his chest, thinking of her loving mother.

  “The horrors I’ve seen…” Olivia whimpers.

  A shadow flickers across the stranger’s eyes as he looks down at the girl’s distressed face. It is as though they have connected, sharing memories past without the use of a single word.

  “You know, don’t you?” asks Olivia. “You’ve seen it?”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  Amongst the Mists

  Chapter Fifty

  A giant boulder stuck out from a hillside, its grey surface flat and smooth. A narrow stream tumbled alongside. The water churned to each sudden drop, falling rapidly until it reached the bottom and smoothed to a calm and steady flow.

  Bran, Marcus, and Jack rested lazily on top of the rock. It was warm to the skin as they lay on their backs and allowed the sun to wash over them while they listened to the tranquil sound of the flowing water.

  The day was dry and hot. The call of hidden crickets cried out from around them, catching their attention as they pounced unexpectedly from the tall and sheltered grass. Jack sat up, surveying the vibrant colours of greens and blues. Removing his shoes, both feet dangled from the rock’s edge, feeling the cooling spray of moisture from the river that travelled swiftly below. Flexing his toes, the sensation consoled him, and for a moment he forgot his trouble and pain.

  Something twinkled from the fields. Its dance flickered to the reflection of the shining sun as the heat haze waved in a dreamy motion.

  Jack slid from the boulder, carefully following the stream and descending the hillside. The ground soon flattened, displaying large patches of wildflowers growing across the plain. He crept on through, the pleasing display of blue bells tickling his unprotected feet.

  The reflection he sought glistened, mirroring back at him, like the glint of a watch’s face under a beam of sunlight. Dangling in mid-air, the light spun like magic, twirling in the tender push of the breeze.

  Jack walked closer, while looking back to see Bran and Marcus hot on his trail.

  Jack reached out, grabbing the small object hooked to the claw of a branch. A piece of flat metal rested lightly in his palm. It appeared old at first glance, rusted around its curved edges. A thin chain looped its end, feeding through a punched hole to keep the p
late from falling.

  “What you got there?” asked Marcus.

  Jack turned around, holding out his find and delicately handed it over. “Some kind of jewellery perhaps?”

  Bran stood quietly beside the stream, happily watching bits of foliage float by.

  “It’s military, you plank!” said Bran.

  “Uh?” Marcus hung the chain from his thumb before throwing it back to Jack.

  “Yeah,” continued Bran. “Haven’t you watched any war movies? It’s one of those… what’s the word?” He thought for a second before snapping his fingers. “Dog tags!”

  “Take a look at the plate, they stamp them. It tells you who exactly it belongs to.”

  Attempting to wipe away the rust, Jack turned the plate, examining the surface of both sides.

  “Well, anything?” asked Bran, moving away from the stream.

  Jack threw it. The clink of the metal chimed through the air before Bran caught it one handed.

  He twirled the chain playfully until there was no chain left, mummifying his finger. Holding the plate to the light, the aged letters were hardly readable as he tilted it to decipher the grooves.

  “Well?” asked Marcus.

  Bran lowered his hands and turned to reply. They could see he was serious. The drumming inside his chest matched the rhythm of a vein twitching within his neck. The chain was flat in his hand as it began to slowly slide away, dropping to the ground like rotten garbage. He hesitated, whispering the words quietly at first, as though saying them aloud might risk bringing him back.

  “Pvt G. Degg.”

  Amongst the Mists

  Epilogue – July 2025

  Bad dreams again. It never fails. Every night like clockwork. There is no escape.

  The sounds of childhood fears slither into his defenceless mind, poisoning his subconscious with memories he has spent a lifetime longing to forget. The result is always the same. Lying there paralysed, his brain yearns to speak, to scream, but his body won’t respond. All he can do is wait. Wait and silently wail as he continues to fall through an endless black abyss. The pressure is immense. Spinning through darkness he notices gradually it is harder and harder to breathe. He extends his chest, drawing back… nothing. The air, too, has gone, leaving the pressure in his head to build until both ears viciously pop. The journey is ending, he remembers this part. Toppling deeper and deeper, faster and faster, the voices echo from a distant realm. There is no way to understand them. He has tried many times. Each voice blends into the next, finally combining into a distorted cacophony that bleeds into his eardrums.

  Branches slap across his body while he hears twigs snapping. Leaves strike him like whips on naked flesh. His body stops, lying still. Like a dream within a dream, he cannot move nor speak, only he must watch like all those times before.

  Flat on his back, the ground is absent beneath him. And above, not even the sky exists. Shadows of wide tree trunks stand tall nearby and far, their height never ending as they reach into the unknown. The voices stop and finally, yes finally, his facial muscles relax.

  There is nothing else to see. The space where he rests is cold and quiet. A beam of light begins to descend towards him. It is small at first but grows rapidly as it nears. Its colour is white, the strongest white he has ever seen. It wants him. No, it needs him as he wills his mind to awake. It falls like a meteor, destined to destroy everything in its wake. Willing himself to break the bonds, his body remains limp and numb. A roaring tremble approaches that shakes the space above and below, and now the white light is almost too bright to bear. He feels his pupils burn. Yet now he cannot blink. And just before his vision deteriorates, the single light separates into two. Glowing wildly, like eyes he recalls so well.

  Jack awakes with the noises still lingering in his head. He breathes in greedily, slinging the quilt from his bed. Sitting up, he goes through his morning ritual of endless grunts and groans. A mobile phone pings an irritating tone from his bedside table. Swiping the screen, he can’t help but notice the date. 21 July 2025.

  Thirty-nine years. He counts again to be sure, throwing his phone carelessly on the pillow. Two aging hands rub at sleep filled eyes, compressing the bridge of his nose. Playing children can be heard from beyond the crack of an open window. Childish banter whizzes down the street accompanied by the sound of squealing brakes. Their summer break is just barely beginning.

  Downstairs, Jack sits silently at the kitchen table and slurps whatever remains in his coffee mug, left over from the night before. The house is quiet, restful. The wall clock ticks therapeutically as the neighbour’s cat prowls along the windowsill, pointing its ginger arsehole at the glass.

  Bloody charming!

  Jack taps on the window with the rim of his mug, causing the cat to have some kind of fit before it vanishes into the nearest bush.

  The letterbox rattles with an irritating flap, as several envelopes and an attempted delivery card fall freely onto the doormat. Jack looks at the printed card. A parcel has been left in your safe place. After much searching, it is apparently now under a miniature garden gnome.

  Pissin’ Amazon drivers!

  Inside, the television powers up and he skips through channels while grumbling about how the BBC are a bunch of robbing tossers. There is rarely anything worth watching these days. Not unless you’re willing to suffer yet another holiday special of Mrs Brown’s Boys without being tempted to claw out your eyeballs.

  The date on the channel guide displays 21/07/2025. And now a hot flush of sweat waves over him.

  Must I be reminded!

  From the kitchen, the scent of burning toast drifts its way through the house. The radio’s on, playing its regular morning slot of guess the year. While the kettle comes to boil, the toast springs up in violent protest. Genesis belts out from the speaker, playing a hit where the lyrics draw a blank, but the tune is catchy. He chomps down on his incinerated breakfast as music fades gradually to the presenter’s overly joyful voice.

  “That was Invisible Touch by the one and only Genesis right there. If you managed to guess it right, well done to you, hitting the top of the charts on the 21st of July 1986. Doesn’t it make you feel old? Stay tuned for the –

  The cord is snagged from the socket. The half eaten toast now lies spread across the floor tiles. Jack stumbles through the house, losing his slippers in the process. A buzz is heard from the living room that draws his attention to the television screen that is intermittently starting to scramble, the date jittering as he reaches for the remote.

  21/07/1986.

  Jack blinks hard as the numbers jiggle left to right like jelly, sporadically returning to the present date. He rushes to the door, unlatches the chain, and steps out into the open air. The day is humid. As Jack wanders to the light, his hardened skin scrapes across the cracked council slabs. He feels dizzy and sick as his unkempt garden begins to shift under him.

  Ring, ring.

  A bell chimes on a bicycle zooming down the street. He doesn't see the bike but he hears the noise all the same. A child calls out to another, reminding Jack of thirty-nine years prior. Tracing his memory back to that year, that day, he hears the voices of the friends he once had. The friends he’d lost.

  It was never the same after what happened, not when they returned. The isolated landmark of Sleathton was pasted over every station in the United Kingdom. Bodies, many of them, had been found buried, scattered across the forest. In some cases, families managed to identify them as their own. The boys themselves spent the rest of their summer cooped up in a stuffy police interview room, having to explain their story time and time again. But the authorities didn’t buy it. There was always one problem. What does a series of murders need?

  “A killer,” Jack says to himself.

  The name Gregory Degg was meaningless, no matter how many times it was mentioned. He was a shadow. A name on nothing more than a few pieces of paper. They told the authorities about the swamp, the standing stones circling a dark bottomles
s pool. They spoke of the creature. The Sprit. The monster which haunted the lands. Yet, no sighting was ever proven by acceptable evidence. Not even the landmark of the standing stones could be located. By the time summer was over the case went cold, and the boys were left to their devices. Funny, it was never the same to be around each other after that. Jack just guessed it reminded them too much of that time they ventured to Sleathton. Of the time they witnessed… It. The Sprit.

  Jack’s head mellows and he slouches against the warm red bricks of his home.

  His neighbour, Mrs Prowes, or Helen if you wanted to be friendly, marches round her garden with hose in hand, speaking to her flower beds as she waters them.

  Sad old loon! thinks Jack, sidestepping back to the door.

  “Morning, Jackie,” she sings off key, followed by a posh upper-class wave. “Good morning.” Jack’s hand is almost on the door handle.

  “How do you think the garden’s coming along?”

  “Very nice, Helen.”

  “And the roses? Don’t they look lovely?”

  “They do, yes, Helen.”

  “And the fuchsias?”

  “Yes, Helen.”

  “And the bedding plants?

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, I just love this time of year, don’t you?

  “Well –

  “There is something special about it.”

  It would be more special if you wound your neck in!

  Jack clenches his fists and imagines all the things he could do with her garden hose.

  “Yes, Helen… its perfection.”

  Mrs Prowes leans over the fern that separates the property. Raising her eyebrows, she snobbishly ganders at the ground.

  “Why don’t you ever let me help you with your garden?” she asked.

  “Why? What’s wrong with it?” replies Jack, joining her nosey observation.