The Night Weaver

by Monique Snyman

  Dougal gives her a curt nod.

  “Good—”

  “Doesn’t mean I’m gonna ditch ye th’ first chance I get,” Dougal says. “Yer mah ride home, after all.”

  Rachel smiles as she parks in the first available spot, a brief walk from the entrance. She grabs her purse and climbs out, wondering why she isn’t greeted by seductive vibrations. Barn bashes are notoriously loud; the night air is usually full of rhythmic beats and electronic screeches. Not tonight, though.

  Dougal slams the passenger door shut, and Rachel presses the key fob to lock the doors.

  “Seems quiet fer a pairtie,” Dougal says, walking up to Rachel’s side.

  Rachel doesn’t respond, although the sentiment is mutual. Together, they head toward the barn entrance. No colorful, flashing lights sweep around inside to set the mood. Instead, the barn is brightly lit. Somberness in place of juvenile joviality.

  “We simply can’t sit by and do nothing.” Greg Pearson’s booming voice escapes the barn, shattering the night’s uneasy silence.

  When Rachel reaches the door, she sees him standing on a makeshift stage, addressing almost the entire Ridge Crest High student body. His hair is styled perfectly, blazer sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and his politician-in-training face is severe as he looks his peers in the eyes. They sit on bales of hay, positioned in rows in a half circle around the stage.

  Rachel grabs Dougal’s arm and leads him to an empty space in the back of the barn, beside a redheaded girl whose name she can’t recall.

  “What’s going on?” Rachel whispers to the girl as she takes a seat on the hay.

  The girl stretches her neck to reach Rachel’s ear and says, “Astraea Hayward literally vanished into thin air this evening, in front of witnesses.”

  “The girl who works at Alice’s Vintage Emporium?”

  “Yuh huh,” she whispers back.

  “These are our brothers and sisters, our friends, who’re at risk.” Greg’s voice reverberates through the silent barn. “We are at risk. It isn’t our responsibility to keep ourselves—and each other—safe, but it’s obvious the adults aren’t worried about our safety or wellbeing any longer.”

  Whispered conversations break out as each person talks to those beside them. On the other side of the barn, Francine Gilligan, a brunette with bright green spectacles, raises her hand, but quickly pulls it down again. After glancing around the barn, she frowns, then sits ramrod straight and raises her hand high. Greg points to her and she stands, but trembles.

  “My sister says all the children can hear whoever it is outside at night, calling to them, beckoning them to follow.” Dark crimson blossoms on the apples of her cheeks. “I don’t let her sleep in her own room anymore because my parents brushed off her concerns, and I’m not willing to lose her because some freak’s going around town kidnapping kids.”

  “Keith said the same thing to me,” Ronald Stevens, the Ridge Crest Devils’ quarterback, adds. “My kid brother doesn’t have an imagination, man. He’s not making this up.”

  “Maybe the kids are just scared because they don’t understand where their friends are?” Jolene Chambers says. She looks around the barn, searching for supporters of her theory.

  A few nod in agreement.

  “It’s paranoia, nothing else.”

  “Tell that to my cousin,” Bianca Novak stands up, looking straight at Jolene. “Jasper told me there was something out there targeting little kids.”

  Whoa. Eleven-year-old Jasper Novak is a bona fide genius.

  “He’s scared out of his mind.”

  “Jasper’s scared of his own shadow,” someone shouts.

  A few kids snicker in response.

  Bianca sneers as she searches the barn for the heckler. “His anxiety doesn’t invalidate his fears.”

  “Maybe the kids are simply coping with the prospect of being snatched by turning this whole thing into a local legend,” Jolene says, shrugging. “It wouldn’t be the first time a legend was born from fear.”

  “So, what? You think we should stand back and do nothing?” Bianca says in a high-pitched tone. “Or maybe you’d like us to wrap the little kids and hand them off to this—”

  “That’s not what I said!”

  “Bianca, I think what Jolene was trying to say was that we need to consider all the options,” Greg interjects. He turns his attention to the entire assembly, and says, “While I’m sure we’re all vigilant these days, we do need to start looking for the already-missing children. The sheriff’s department did a half-assed job the first time around, so I propose we form search parties and do the job properly.”

  “While we’re at it, we should come up with a kidnapping prevention plan or something,” Bianca says.

  Greg nods, flashes one of his diplomatic smiles, and says, “This is the type of proactive thinking we need right now. Yes, good!”

  Ideas are thrown around the gathering, opinions are voiced, and it’s all very civilized.

  Too civilized.

  The anger inside Rachel builds. This nasty business has forced teenagers into adult roles. Barn bashes aren’t supposed to be town meetings. Teenagers aren’t supposed to be talking about instigating an unofficial curfew and finding lost children.

  “Our purpose in life, at this age, is to get into trouble and enjoy our youth,” Greg says.

  “Did anyone search fer th’ weans in th’ forest?” Dougal asks.

  The low-level conversations stop and everyone stares at Dougal. Their eyes narrow in judgment at the stranger who’s invaded a semi-private meeting.

  He reluctantly stands.

  “Who are you?” Greg asks.

  “Dougal Charles Mackay,” Dougal answers, unperturbed, fearless.

  Curious gazes move to Rachel, asking for an explanation. It’s almost as if everyone knows she’s dragged him here, like she’s the one responsible for the interruption. Technically she is responsible, but this jumping-to-conclusions thing sucks.

  Rachel groans as she stands beside Dougal, and says, “Dougal is Mrs. Crenshaw’s grandson. He’s originally from Scotland and will be attending Ridge Crest in the fall.”

  “In that case, nobody goes into the—”

  “Aye, nobody goes intae th’ forest, I’ve heard, but what if they’re in there?” Dougal interrupts Greg’s sorry excuse. “Rachel and I heard somethin’ in there today which sounded an awful lot lik’ weans playin’.”

  Greg shakes his head. “Outsiders aren’t usually familiar with the forest and locals won’t be caught dead on Fraser and MacCleary lands. It’s not possible. If anything, the kidnapper has the children stashed somewhere on the other side of Shadow Grove. My money’s on them being held captive in, or nearby, the junkyard.”

  “I need more clarification on your reasoning, Greg,” Rachel says. “Come to think of it, I’ve asked you before why nobody’s searched the forest and you gave me the same runaround.”

  Greg shrugs. “That’s your families’ lands. You search them if you suspect there’s someone hiding in there.”

  “Ye cannae possibly mean ye want a wee girl tae search th’ forest by herself. How big is that area, anyhow?”

  “The land area has an approximate radius of fifteen miles,” Rachel’s automated response is accompanied by a deadpan tone. It won’t make any difference, though. When it comes to the forest, Shadow Grove’s residents don’t want to believe it’s part of their town.

  Dougal gestures to her as she makes his point for him. “What if Rachel actually comes across someone in there? Never try tae save a drownin’ man if ye cannae swim, eh?”

  “I didn’t suggest Rachel search it by herself,” Greg says, brow furrowing as if he’s still figuring out where Dougal’s accent is from. “The forest is on your family’s land, too.”

  Dougal’s amicability dissipates as he stares Greg down from across the barn. Greg, who is much shorter and less muscular than the Scotsman, doesn’t budge. The tension builds between the two. Dougal’s fis
ts clenching by his sides, his teeth grinding. The cords in his neck become more prominent as anger changes the color of his face to bright red. If Dougal decides to beat some sense into Greg, nobody’s going to be able to stop him.

  “I’ll wait fer ye by th’ car,” Dougal says to Rachel, already turning his back on Greg.

  “No need,” she says, glancing in Greg’s direction. “I’m in no mood to argue with a hypocrite tonight.”

  “I’m not a hypocrite, Rachel.”

  “Oh, but you are. You’re talking about saving missing children, which is admirable, but you have no issue with sending me and Dougal into the forest by ourselves,” Rachel snaps back. “Why is that, huh?”

  She doesn’t wait for one of his lame answers. Rachel motions for Dougal to walk around the bale of hay, following him closely. Inquisitive gazes sear into her back as she exits the barn.

  Typical Greg. He’s always preaching about how we can be better, how we should be stronger, how Ridge Crest High’s students should be unified. He’s always charming the masses with his diplomatic smile and oh-so-important vote-winning causes, but when the time comes for him to get his hands dirty, he’s always got some stupid excuse. Worst of all, people actually believe those excuses.

  “Idiot,” she grumbles, directing her key fob toward the car to unlock the doors. The lights flick on and off, and the beep sounds.

  They walk in silence to the vehicle, both seething at the same person. For Rachel it’s more than just Greg’s inability to be logical—it’s their history.

  “That guy’s beggin’ fer a beatin’,” Dougal says over the rooftop, opening the passenger door.

  “You’re telling me.” Rachel climbs inside, closes the door, and pulls the seatbelt across her body. “Greg wouldn’t have listened to anything we said about the forest, because he’s been brainwashed into believing it’s out of the town’s jurisdiction. My advice to you is to make peace with the fact that Shadow Grove is a cesspool of ignorance before it drives you insane.”

  Rachel turns the key in the ignition and reverses onto the gravel road, turns the steering wheel, and slowly moves back to the Roberts’ farm entrance.

  “We heard them, Rachel. They’re in there ... somewhere.”

  “Yes, but ordinary kidnappers don’t go around advertising their hiding places with creepy recordings of children.” Rachel keeps her gaze fixed on the gravelly road. “We can’t go in there until we’ve figured out what we’re up against.”

  Dougal grumbles an affirmative.

  On the surface, he might be a hot-tempered delinquent, but Rachel isn’t blind or dumb.

  Dougal Mackay is a kindred spirit. He’s the hot to her cold, the yin to her yang.

  Possibly a real friend?

  The night seems to fold in on itself, growing darker and more claustrophobic the farther they move from the barn. The headlights struggle to illuminate the road ahead, fighting and losing its battle against the encompassing night. Time seems to pass slower than usual, too. It’s as if the car wades through thick, black ink, inching forward into the unending void. Only when she spots the two stout brick pillars, situated on either side of the farm road, does reality dare to intrude in this surreal darkness.

  She flips on the indicator, grateful to be leaving the Roberts’ farm, and makes a slow turn back onto Griswold Road.

  “Tonight feels wrong,” she whispers more to herself than her companion. “It makes me wonder if the sun will ever shine again.”

  “It’s as black as th’ Earl o’ Hell’s waistcoat.” Dougal’s voice is low, contemplative.

  Rachel fails to swallow the bitter taste of fear coating her tongue. She grips the steering wheel tightly, her knuckles turning white from the force. If she lets go, will she float away into oblivion? Anxious to get somewhere safe, she accelerates gently—not so much as to go over the speed limit, but not so little as to offend the foreboding night searching for its next victim.

  “Noo jist haud on, Rachel,” he says. “Yer goin’ a wee bit fast.”

  “I’m under the limit,” she counters, unnecessarily impatient with his backseat driving.

  He shakes his head. “I cannae see a thing, and I doubt ye can see much better. Slow down, ‘fore ye dunt intae somethin’.”

  “What?” she snaps, her attention leaving the road.

  Dougal’s eyes widen. Annoyance and anxiety dance across his pale facial features as he stares ahead. “Slow. Down,” he repeats each word individually. Rachel opens her mouth to argue. Horror suddenly chases away whatever other emotions he’d harbored two seconds earlier. “Stop!”

  Rachel slams down on the brake before her eyes return to the road. The wheels lock. Rubber and asphalt battle it out. Tires screech as she tries to gain control of the situation, fighting the steering wheel to keep from slamming into either the cliff on one side of the road or going over into the Eerie Creek on the other side. The back of the car proves too heavy for the sudden stop and swerves clockwise.

  A moment turns into a lifetime as the headlights swoop across a hunched-over figure in the road. A blue-faced hag peers out from beneath a filthy, torn cloak, which seems to both absorb and dispel the darkness surrounding her. Thick, chapped lips pull into a snarl and reveal rusty nails where teeth should be. A warning or a threat? Rachel can’t tell. Those gleaming eyes, on the other hand, are filled with menace—promising a painful end if ever their paths cross again.

  The dark world around her disappears in a flash.

  A deathly pale arm takes over her entire line of sight, lying limply on a gritty floor. Scarlet splotches surround the limb, black in the grim lighting, and rotting pieces of flesh rest in coagulating pools of blood. Rachel’s gut twists further as her view broadens. It’s as if the camera’s zoomed out, giving her the full, gory picture of the arm—a child’s arm, torn off at the shoulder—and surrounding it are other putrefying body parts, ripped to shreds, gnawed on in places by rats and ...

  Oh my God!

  The glazed-over eyes of a young boy, no older than five, stare back at her. He wears an ugly, unnatural sneer because half his face is missing. Entire patches of his hair are gone, specifically around the cracks in his skull. Worst of all, there’s no body attached to his scrawny neck anymore.

  Rachel wants to look away, but her eyelids can’t shut, and her body is frozen in place. She wants to scream, but her vocal cords don’t work either.

  As quickly as she was thrust into the nightmarish hallucination, she returns to reality.

  The car’s nose moves sideways from the momentum, and the hag disappears. Only then does Rachel realize Dougal’s arm is stretched out in front of her, holding her in place against the seat, and his other is braced against the dashboard in the event of impact.

  Impact doesn’t come.

  When the car comes to a complete stop, they’re facing the Eerie Creek Bridge and the vehicle stands horizontally across both lanes of Griswold Road. Rachel’s labored breathing and stinging eyes are the first signs of shock. The fear of almost running someone over because she wasn’t paying attention is going to give her a few sleepless nights. That hallucination may take years to process.

  Dougal’s voice intrudes as he pulls his arm away. Rachel turns to him, watches his lips as they move. The words are muddled and nonsensical, but the exotic sounds roll off his tongue, captivating her even if she can’t make head or tails of what he’s saying. He undoes his seatbelt and climbs out of the car, shouting into the night as he walks to the same area where they had seen that thing.

  She somehow composes herself enough to reach a shaky hand to roll down the window.

  “Get in the car,” she manages to say without breaking into tears. “Dougal, please get back here.”

  He spins around and continues his incoherent ramblings, gesturing behind him as he makes his way to her door.

  Rachel wipes a strand of hair away from her forehead and hooks it behind her ear. “I don’t understand you when you go full Scots,” she says, her voi
ce sounding calmer already. Her mind’s a mess, though. She could’ve killed someone!

  “Move over,” he says, waving her off with one hand and opens the driver’s door.

  She stares at him, surprised.

  “Och, away ye go already!”

  She unclicks her seatbelt and shifts across the space to take the vacant passenger seat for herself, still shaking, unable to calm her racing pulse.

  “Seatbelt,” he grumbles, shifting the seat back to make enough space for his legs, and fixes the mirrors to his liking. Rachel pulls the seatbelt across her body, whispering an apology he doesn’t seem to hear as he rights the vehicle on the road.

  She notices his rapid breathing, the lines of concern etched into his forehead, the penetrative glare constantly searching the jet-black night outside the windshield. It’s not anger nibbling away at his mood but rather fear. Dougal, she decides, wears fear the same way her mother wears her new shapeless dresses—it just looks so horribly unnatural.

  “Ye wanna ken whit yer dealin’ with in this town, eh? Why the weans are gettin’ nicked and th’ nicht is so mirk?” Dougal asks without taking his eyes off the road ahead, without waiting for an answer. “This business isnae th’ doin’ o’ no psychopath, Rachel. Shadow Grove’s got itself a Black Annis lurkin’ aboot.”

  Four

  The Forest With No Name

  “Black Annis,” Rachel says loudly to rouse the sleeping figure sprawled across the single bed.

  Dougal jerks to awareness, his snoring cut short.

  “Black Annis, an English variation of the bogeyman figure, is said to be a blue-faced crone with white teeth and iron claws,” she continues. He props himself onto his elbows and groans from the effort. “If folklore is to be believed, Black Annis is prone to stealing children through open windows and then she eats them, because why not traumatize your kids with threats of being cannibalized when they don’t want to take a bath, right?”

  “Whit’s th’ time?” Dougal reaches up to wipe the sleep from his eyes.