Gathering what presence of mind I could, I grasped Jacob by the wrist and dragged him from the field, back along the path. We retraced our steps, stumbling over exposed roots and rocks as we lurched back along the trail. The wind sliced through the trees, whipping at our feet as if trying to trip us; raindrops hurtled at our faces, stinging our exposed skin like tiny daggers. Still we pressed onward. I tightened my grip on Jacob’s wrist, pulling him along behind me. Something told me if I let go of him I might never see my cousin again.
When we had gone a hundred yards or so, Jacob suddenly stopped short, jerking me backward.
“What is it?” I said, terror fluttering in my breast.
“Dragen!” Jacob looked around frantically, his face wild with panic. “Where is he?”
“Is he not behind us?” I asked, but my sinking heart knew the answer.
My cousin wrested his hand from my grip and stumbled back along the trail. I took off after him. Tackling him around the knees, I brought him down hard on the uneven ground, branches and twigs tearing at our clothing.
“Leave me! I must go back!” he cried. Throwing me off, he scrambled along on his hands and knees in the direction of the clearing. I fell hard against the trunk of an oak, the breath knocked from my body.
“No!” I gasped. “Jacob, no—don’t go back!”
“I have to find Dragen!” he yelled. Sobbing, he stumbled back along the path. Sucking air into my burning lungs, I pulled myself to my feet and wobbled after him.
What we heard made us both stop short in our tracks. Long, low, and mournful, it was the unmistakable sound of a hound howling. It seemed to come from the edge of the open field, and it turned my legs to jelly. I looked at my cousin—he stood rigid and unmoving as the trees around us.
It had no sooner died out than it began again—a long, doleful wail ascending the scale until the surrounding hills seemed to ring with the sound. And then a second, even more terrifying noise—the frenzied yelping of a dog in mortal danger.
“Dragen!” Jacob rasped, his voice ragged. He lurched back along the path until he reached the clearing from whence we had come. I followed a few steps behind, pumping my legs to keep up with his long strides.
When we emerged from the woods we saw the dark form of a great hulking creature lurking at the far end of the open field. Standing in the shadows cast by surrounding trees, the animal had its head down—it seemed to be gnawing on something on the ground. Jacob stepped forward, and I followed behind, trembling. He raised his rifle and took aim. At that moment the creature raised its great head from the motionless form beneath it and turned its gaze upon us.
It was a gigantic hound—the biggest I had ever seen. It was nearly the size of a small horse, excessively lean and hungry looking. The beast took a step forward, out of the shadows. Its coat was gray as dusk, the gaunt eyes glinting yellow in the dim light cast by the feeble sun, hidden by the moody clouds that swept across the sky.
Jacob aimed his rifle and pulled the trigger. The shot echoed across the field, sending a shock up my spine. It was followed by a great flutter of wings, as birds from nearby trees took to the sky. The hound stood its ground for a moment, then, grasping its crumpled, lifeless prey in its fearsome jaws, bounded into the forest. Jacob started across the field in pursuit.
Summoning the last of my strength, I lunged at him. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I clung to him with all my might.
“N-o-o-o-o!” he bellowed, clawing at me in an attempt to loosen my hold. But terror tightened my grip. My arms felt made of iron, and I hugged him close, as though I wanted to squeeze the life from his body. I could feel my cousin’s resolve weaken as his attempts to free himself grew feebler, until he collapsed onto the ground, weeping.
“Dragen!” he cried, digging his fingers into the dirt dampened by his tears. “My poor Dragen!”
“We must go,” I hissed. “We must leave now!”
He turned his face to me. All the life had drained away from it. His vacant eyes gazed at me without really seeing, and his arms hung loosely at his sides. His body had no more life in it than a stuffed scarecrow impaled on a stake in the middle of a farm field.
“Come on,” I said, taking his hand in mine. He submitted, docile as a child, and I pulled him back along the path as the wind whistled in our ears. The howling of the great hound resumed in the distance. The sound cut through our bodies like a knife thrust, and I felt my cousin stiffen as a sob grabbed at his throat.
“Dragen,” he whimpered. “My poor, poor Dragen!”
Somehow we managed to stumble home, retracing our path to our little settlement of modest farmhouses. I saw Jacob enter his house before heading off toward my own. Pale and trembling, he had spoken hardly a word the entire way back, and I feared for his state of mind.
That night at dinner my mother noticed I was not myself.
“How did you fare on your hunting trip, Slade?” she asked, her sharp eyes fixed upon me as I stared at the untouched food in my bowl.
“Fine,” I replied, stirring the stew listlessly with my spoon. My mother had made waterzooi, my favorite dish—a rich Flanders stew with carrots, leeks, potatoes, herbs, butter, and cream. But I had no appetite, which caused her to regard me suspiciously, for a twelve-year-old boy is always hungry.
“Did you shoot anything?” my brother, Maarten, inquired, swinging his legs back and forth under his chair. He was only seven and took after my mother, with hair as blond as summer wheat, and blue eyes the color of a cloudless day. I was darker, like my father, and carried an English first name, whereas Maarten had been named after my mother’s father.
“We found no grouse,” I replied, anxious to have the conversation at an end. I was haunted by poor Dragen’s death, and confused by what my cousin had told me. I had no wish to share the information with my mother, who I feared had lied to me about my father’s fate.
I excused myself soon afterward and went up to bed, on the pretext that I was unwell. I could feel my mother’s eyes on me as I ascended the ladder to the loft bed I shared with my brother.
My sleep that night was restless and unquiet, haunted by the ungodly howls of the horrible creature. Its yellow eyes lingered in my mind’s eye as I awoke the next morning, glad for the sunlight streaming through my bedroom window.
I knew there was one person I could turn to in such a situation. My great-uncle, Frans van de Bogart, lived in a cramped, smoky farmhouse on the other side of Krumville. He still wore wooden shoes and could speak Dutch. It was said that no one knew more about local lore than Uncle Frans, and I had always felt a kinship with the old gentleman. After finishing my chores, I set out to visit him, hugging the farm fields along the side of the woods. The day was fair, with wispy clouds high in a deep blue sky, the sun warm upon my back as I hugged the low stone wall between properties. A chipmunk followed me for a while, chattering and flicking his tail boldly. I tossed the little fellow a bit of biscuit from my pack, which he grabbed up and scampered away with.
My uncle was seated in front of his cabin, mending a pair of old breeches. As I walked up the long dirt path to his door, a stick snapped beneath my feet, causing him to raise his aged head and peer in my direction.
“Who goes there?”
“It is I, Uncle—Slade Fletcher.”
He frowned at me. “What brings you out here today? Have you no duties to perform for your mother?”
“I have finished my chores. I came to ask your advice.”
“Did you indeed?” he remarked. “In my experience, advice may be freely given but is seldom heeded.”
As he spoke, he continued to sew without interrupting the smooth rhythm of his work. His gnarled hand dipped in sure, swift movements as he sewed the patch on the material with tidy, even stitches. His dexterity was impressive, since he was completely blind.
“Well, boy,” he said. “Don’t just stand there—give your uncle a kiss!”
I climbed onto the rickety front porch, the boards creaking underfoo
t, and bent obediently to plant my face in his thick, oily whiskers. He smelled of saddle polish and tobacco, his beard stiff and prickly as the bristles of a broom.
“That’s a good boy,” he said with a satisfied sigh. “Come—what do you say we have some tea and beschuit in honor of your visit?”
“Thank you,” I said eagerly. The long walk had caused my appetite to return, and I loved the crisp round Dutch breads, especially with honey or fresh-churned butter. I followed him into the dark interior of the cabin, the whitewashed walls streaked with soot from the single fireplace in the far corner of the main room. His heavy wooden shoes clattered across the floorboards as he poured water from an earthenware pitcher into the black iron kettle.
He hung the kettle over the hearth and threw another log on the fire, coaxing the flames higher with a leather bellows, then wiped his hands on his already stained trousers. Anyone meeting him for the first time would be astonished to hear that Uncle Frans was blind—he moved about more nimbly than many sighted men.
“What is your mother busying herself with these days?” he asked, settling his bulky frame into a sturdy oak-and-cane-backed “retiring chair.” His family had brought it over from the Netherlands; the back was set at an angle so the sitter could recline comfortably.
“She’s doing the spring cleaning,” I said, sitting across from him on a low stool.
“She never could abide stillness,” he remarked, stroking his beard and staring into the fire. It was hard to believe those clear blue eyes saw nothing, so keen was his expression. “I hope you are taking care of her, young Slade.”
“Yes, sir, and the neighbors are always stopping by to see that she wants for nothing.”
“That’s as it should be. We folks out here need to look after each other.” He grunted as he leaned over to toss on another log. “So, boy, what brings you over field and furrow to see your old uncle?” he said, wiping the ash from his hands. “What is it you wish to hide from your mother?”
I felt my cheeks burn from emotion as well as the blazing fire.
“I wish to hide nothing, sir—rather, I fear it is she who is dissembling.”
“Is she, now?” he said, turning that pale gaze upon me. “About what, pray tell?”
I hesitated. As I sat before my uncle’s cheerful crackling fire, the terrors of the previous day seemed the foolish fancy of an impressionable boy. But as I looked into those clear, kind blue eyes, the words came tumbling out. I omitted nothing—the sudden storm, the feeling of doom and despair that had seized my soul, and the tragic demise of poor Dragen in the jaws of the hideous hound.
When I had finished, my uncle sat back in his chair and regarded the fire—or rather, listened to it, as he could not see it. The logs popped and hissed, and the smell of green pine sap filled the room.
“There is an old verse I grew up hearing,” he said, pouring a steaming cup of tea into a cracked earthenware mug.
“The Vly, the Vly is dark inside,
Where strange and fearsome things may hide
Heed my warning, hear the cry—
Don’t go nigh the Vly, the Vly.”
“But why?” I said. “What is in the Vly that is so terrible?”
He handed me the steaming mug. “Is it not rather I who should be asking you?”
I shivered in spite of the heat cast off by the blazing fire. My uncle laid a hand upon my shoulder.
“I believe I can tell you what you saw,” he said softly.
“Wh-what?” I said, wanting and yet not wanting to know.
“The creature that devoured your cousin’s dog—”
“What was it, Uncle?” I cried. “What on earth could be so fearsome and terrible?”
“It was Walpurga’s Wind Hound.”
“Who is Walpurga, and what is a—a Wind Hound?”
“Walpurga is the queen of the Wild Hunt.”
“The Wild Hunt?”
“The last day of April is the spring equivalent of Midsummer’s Eve—the very center of springtime. On that night the spirits of the dead return to the earth once more to engage in a mad dash on horseback across the sky. It is a wild hunt of phantasms and specters, terrifying to behold. They are led by the goddess Walpurga and her Wind Hound. That is why we celebrate Walpurgisnacht with bonfires—to celebrate the coming of spring, but also to keep away the spirits.”
“What has this to do with my father?”
“Any mortal who chances upon the Wild Hunt may feel the irresistible urge to join the hunt. Or, if they refuse, they may be kidnapped and taken to the land of the dead. In either case they may not be able to rejoin the living.”
My uncle turned his sightless eyes to the fire. The flames licked and danced in the grate, casting long, twisting shadows on the wall behind, like the writhing forms of doomed souls.
“Perhaps I should not be repeating these tales,” he said. “But I fear you will return to the Vly, curious boy that you are. You have too much of your father in you. I knew when my niece Catharina married a Fletcher she was in for a hard time of it. But she loved him, and I should like to think he loved her.”
“He did—he does!” I cried, hot tears springing to my eyes.
“I believe you’re right,” said Uncle Frans. “But if he witnessed the Wild Hunt, I shudder to think what has become of him.”
“And the Wind Hound?” I asked in a voice barely above a whisper.
My uncle returned his gaze to the fire. “Walpurga’s Wind Hound is ravenous, and must be fed.”
“It feeds—”
“On the living flesh of beasts—or men.”
I nearly fainted from the thought that if the Hound had not gotten to poor Dragen first, Jacob or I could have been its victim.
“Surely these are merely superstitions!” I cried.
My uncle turned his sightless eyes toward me. “I would that they were.” A great sigh escaped his sturdy body. “I have never spoken of this to you, but I was your age when I lost the use of my eyes.”
I wanted to reply, but my mouth would not obey me. All I could do was stare at him dumbly.
“It was just this time of year. I remember the bonfires blazing in the village that night—the one and only time I ventured into the Vly.”
“Wh-what happened?” I said. My voice sounded very small and far away.
He shook his head. “I saw such things as mortal men should never see—nor would ever want to. Demons astride great black horses, hideous to behold, with glowing eyes—women, too, bare-breasted, their hair flowing out behind them. At the fore of the hunt was Walpurga herself, astride a great white mare with a flaming mane.”
“And the Hound? Did you see Walpurga’s Wind Hound?”
“Aye,” he said. “It was the last thing on this earth I ever did see. When its yellow eyes met mine, I fell into a dead faint, and when I awoke, I was as you see me—completely blind. And now you must ask me no more,” he said, rising suddenly from his chair. “I was lucky to escape Hugh Turner’s fate. Had I not been struck blind, I think I should have gone mad.”
“Just one more question, I beg you!” I pleaded.
“One more, and then we must talk of this no further.”
“My father—was he—was his body recovered?”
Uncle Frans shook his head. “I should not tell you this, young Slade.”
“Please—please!”
My uncle took a deep breath and let out a shuddering sigh.
“The coffin we buried in the churchyard that night was empty.”
His words shot terror into my heart, like the blast of a rifle. But with the terror came hope—perhaps my father was still alive! My head swam, and I found it difficult to swallow. At last I recovered myself and sprang to my feet.
“Thank you, Uncle—and now I must go.”
The sun was already low in the sky when I took my leave of Uncle Frans. As we stood on his tiny porch, he laid his strong, knotted hands upon my shoulders.
“Promise me one thing, young Slade,”
he implored, but even as he spoke the words I knew I would not. “Tell me you will return no more to the Vly.”
I planted my feet firmly and inhaled the scent of pine smoke curling up from his chimney. “I cannot,” said I.
“Then God help you,” said he, and planted a kiss upon my forehead.
I turned to look back when I was halfway down the long drive to his house. He was still standing on the porch, gazing after me, as if he could see into eternity itself.
I had no wish to tread the woods alone with darkness descending, so I took the longer route leading through the village. Across the fields, I could see the great bonfire blazing in the town square, the sparks shooting like a thousand glowing eyes into the night sky. People had gathered to eat and drink and celebrate Walpurgisnacht Eve; shouts of laughter and singing floated across the fields.
Drawn by the dancing flames, I approached the circle of people around the fire. Suddenly I felt a hand grasp my shoulder. I spun around and found myself face to face with Hugh Turner. He wore an old-fashioned cloth cap at a rakish angle, his fair hair protruding from it, stiff as straw. His eyes were the eyes of a madman. He stared at me for a moment before intoning in a singsong voice:
“The Vly, the Vly is dark inside,
Where strange and fearsome things may hide
Heed my warning, hear the cry—
Don’t go nigh the Vly, the Vly.”
I tore his hand from my shoulder and stumbled down the road, away from the village. When I stopped at my cousin’s house to see how he was faring, my aunt met me at the door to say he was in bed with a fever. I evaded her questions about what had transpired the previous day and set off for my own house. I kissed my mother good-night and went straight up to bed after dinner.
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling until my brother’s breathing deepened and became more regular. Around me, the house slept; I alone lay awake in the darkness. There is something in the night, something sly and mysterious and inviting. Even as a child lying in bed, gazing out at the bright summer moon, I felt its beckoning. It spoke to a force within me that was not about life, but something darker. Perhaps it was the allure of death and oblivion, but it called to me nonetheless, heating my blood and sending my head spinning.
Mystery Writers of America Presents the Mystery Box Page 8