Strange Tombs

by Syd Moore

  Another camera pointed at the landing upstairs where the bedrooms were, but we’d had to be careful with that because of privacy laws and new data collection policies or something that sounded like it had been invented by a bureaucrat who was frightened of being sued by someone, anyone. So this camera took in the landing and a few of the bedroom doors. Personally, if it was me and there was a killer on the loose, which it was looking increasingly likely that there could be, I would be prepared to give up a bit of privacy. But Sophia was emphatic that we could only direct the lens towards the carpet. Ours is not to reason why blah di blah.

  There was one camera on top of the porch outside and another on the roof of the orangery. This meant that most places were covered, though of course there were black spots.

  The thing was, nothing was happening. So the views were pretty uninteresting. Occasionally the trees on the perimeter of the grounds trembled and swayed. The moon was out so you could see the tops of them. The house became quiet and still.

  Sam’s breathing got deeper. There was REM activity going on under his lids – I could see them moving and flickering.

  It made my own eyes feel tired and, I don’t know whether it was because seeing someone else in the land of nod makes you sleepy, but really quickly, I started to yawn.

  I leant back into the chair and tasted the sour fuzz of the whisky on my tongue. Just for a second I closed my eyes so I could concentrate on identifying the area which tingled the most.

  It wasn’t the tip. No, that felt okay.

  Nor was it the left side of my tongue.

  It wasn’t the bit down the front on the right.

  It wasn’t the bit down the back where your wisdom teeth used to be.

  It wasn’t the bit behind the canines.

  It wasn’t …

  ‘Rosie! Rosie! Wake up! For god’s sake! You had one job …’

  I was being shaken out of a big reddy-pink cave which looked very much like a mouth.

  ‘Oh crap,’ I said, trying to prise open my eyes. ‘Sorry Sam. I think I just bored myself to sleep.’

  ‘Just?!’ he said. ‘Just? Look at the damn clock Rosie.’

  I didn’t because I was having trouble trying to shirk off the cloak of doziness. I was so tired, so tired. Even the touch of Sam’s hand on my shoulder did nothing to energise me, which was particularly unusual. I could usually cope with a quantity of spirits (both drink or other – if they existed). Plus, I was no stranger to Buttery Nipples. So, yeah, it was odd I felt so sluggish.

  When I did finally manage to open my eyes I realised my head had been face down on one of the laptops. My cheek had the imprint of the keys across it. Sam, I saw, was beside me, hoicking his jacket on over his shoulders.

  ‘Up there on the right-hand screen. Just in the corner,’ he was saying, pointing to the laptop which I hadn’t drooled all over. ‘It’s mostly off camera but I saw a movement.’

  As I rubbed my eyes we both heard a noise outside. One long note, thin and tinny. Or maybe it was a long way away. There was an echoey quality to it which did something to the air – made it quicken and sharpen.

  Sam froze.

  He had been doing up the zip on his coat but stopped and turned his face to the window.

  I too stopped mid-rub and held my breath.

  ‘Come on,’ he said and darted towards the door. ‘It’s right outside.’

  I struggled up, my limbs still irritatingly heavy, and grabbed my jacket.

  Once I started to increase my pace I found movement became easier, so I broke into a jog and followed Sam out into the hall. In his haste he was fumbling with the locks on the front door. I helped by drawing back the heavy bolt at the top.

  Once opened, Sam legged it, running round the corner of the house and disappearing into the night.

  I sped after him.

  The screen he had indicated in the study was one that connected to the camera on the orangery roof, which meant that whatever had moved there, and possibly made the horn noise, had been in the south-west corner of the garden where the trees bordered the woods. It was the same spot where Devlin had indicated the ‘commotioning’ was coming from yesterday morning.

  Visibility however was pretty bad. The garden was wreathed in mist. As I rounded the corner of the house I heard the sound come again. Louder now, I thought it more like a bell than a horn.

  Sam was running diagonally across the lawn, presumably to its source. As he did, the ringing seemed to increase the volume. The mist claimed him, and then, strangely all at once the noise stopped. I paused for a moment to catch my breath then heard an ‘ugh’ in the corner and swiftly made for it.

  As I got closer I realised the noise had come from within the trees. Sam must have gone into them. It looked exceedingly dark in there. The trunks, sturdy and black, stood like dark wooden crusaders. For a second, I hesitated.

  I thought about running back to the house for help but then realised that would take too long, so after a moment in which I urged myself to be ‘bold’, I too entered Witch Wood.

  Oh god – Witch Wood where the decapitated animals lay. Witch Wood from whence the commotioning came. Witch Wood where the witches danced.

  Witch Wood.

  Dried foliage and twigs split and rustled underfoot as I tramped into the darkness.

  It was pitch black. My eyes hadn’t adjusted to night vision.

  Ahead I could just make out a rift in the trees where weak moonlight was coming down. I did a quick calculation and concluded that whoever or whatever had made that noise, was probably in the same situation as me light-wise. They’d be stumbling around for ages in the blackness. So it was likely they too would head for that small glade to navigate themselves. Well, it was as good a guess as any.

  I orientated myself in that direction and now no longer running, because of all the obstacles on the forest floor, began to pick my way over fallen trunks, bushes and bracken.

  ‘Rosie!’ It was Sam, low down somewhere. Hiding maybe? ‘He’s up there.’

  ‘Who? What? Sam, where are you?’ I moved towards his voice and located him on the floor by a lump of rotten wood. ‘What are you doing down there? Did you trip?’

  ‘No. I nearly had them but they must have doubled back and hit me on the head. They’ve gone down there. Towards the stream.’ A dark limb pointed into the thickness of the trees. ‘Go after them. I’ll follow you. They dropped something. It clanged. I heard it. It’s here somewhere. Must find it.’

  That didn’t sound like a good idea at all to me. ‘Hang on. But you’ve been whacked on the head? I can’t leave you here if you’re injured. Let me help,’ I began to bend down but an arm stopped me.

  Sam’s voice was hoarse but commanding. ‘No, I’ll be fine. YOU mustn’t let them get away, Rosie! Go! Now!’

  Something loud cracked: wood, a large chunk of it, was splintering somewhere in the trees.

  ‘Quick!’ said Sam again.

  And so I went – hopping over the logs and undergrowth, moving deeper into the loops of mist twisting about trunks, weaving into hollows, circumventing branches, treading over twigs and leaves, brushing bushes.

  The air was moist and damp and smelt of dank vegetation and night and mystery.

  Another wood-like object snapped loudly in the dark, like a warning.

  I reduced my pace as the trees became dense and put out hands to feel my way through to the noise. My fingers touched crumbling leaves, withered petals, shrivelled berries, ridged bark, soft moss, something fleshy that might have been a fungus growing out the side of a dead tree, pale like a ghost.

  Another tight clap echoed across the wood. Whoever made it was approaching the clearing, for the sound ricocheted off nearby tree trunks.

  I could feel a change in the air, as if it was loaded with energy. My fingers and tongue started to tingle.

  There was a loud thud as something heavy like a large branch fell to the forest floor.

  Whoever was up ahead was strong and big. How else wer
e they snapping their way through the woods? It made me wonder if I would be able to take them on?

  I paused and swallowed. In other circumstances, maybe. But I wasn’t used to being in this kind of environment. The concrete jungle was my preferred habitat. There it was usually illuminated, even if only by a dull synthetic orange glow. But things rarely fell. Rigorous health and safety checks put paid to that sort of thing.

  This was rather different.

  And thus daunting.

  The ground was sloping quite a lot now as I descended deeper, deeper into the trees. Several times I slipped on the mud and skidded, only avoiding falling into it completely by wind-milling till I hit a nearby trunk or low hanging branch, whereby I would steady myself. It was inelegant and stupid-looking and I was very glad no one else was here.

  Apart from my prey.

  I went on.

  I hunted.

  Gradually I lost my bearings.

  At one point I stumbled into a hollow.

  I strengthened my resolve to apprehend the someone or something lurking in the wood ahead. If I could get to the moonlit glade I could tell them to give themselves up, bring them back to the house, then Sam and I could unmask the prowler, sort this mess out, satisfy Monty and we could toddle back to the Witch Museum and maybe do some frolicking.

  There was another snap and then a great and strange blast of air which seemed to resound through the whole wood.

  Woah, I thought, that was weird.

  The loudness made me pause, breathe in and duck down.

  It came again – a kind of crackling that roared like a sudden gale, as if someone had just opened the door on a furnace.

  As it continued, it seemed as if the noise was saturating the entire woods, encompassing everything around me so I couldn’t tell if it was up ahead or to my right or behind me.

  Disorientated I swung round, becoming aware that my heart had started beating hard. Possibly it was all this impromptu exercise, along with a massive bung of adrenaline wrought from alarm.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I called out.

  I took another step into the trees, now sweating all over.

  The blast began to diminish: someone was ‘shutting the furnace door’.

  For a moment there was quiet and stillness in the wooded glade. I stopped and felt my ears twitch, like mini radars, searching for noise, clues, direction.

  But the forest was holding its breath.

  I experienced the sudden sensation that I was being watched and became keenly aware of my solitude.

  A pang of nausea swooshed through my stomach.

  That prompted a rush of caution and I began to have second thoughts about continuing my hunt. In fact I was seriously thinking about giving up when there was a sudden and energetic rustling in amongst the dry leaves.

  Although it sounded like it was emanating from the bracken by my side, it also seemed to come in stereo from a place further down the incline. Or maybe that’s where it originated. I just couldn’t tell so stumbled lightlessly downhill until something hard cracked against my forehead. A branch, I think, for it went with the forward motion of my body for a moment as it stretched, then, when the plant fibres were extended as far as they could go, the wood pinged back. It was such a sharp return it toppled me over.

  On my way down I threw my hands out hoping to grab on to something to steady myself. But only air slipped between my fingers.

  Gravity won.

  The next thing I knew I was sprawled before a weird bush. More precisely I was lying on the dirt, my chin resting on a large moss-covered branch. I hadn’t lost consciousness, I knew that. But everything had happened so fast that I couldn’t work out for a minute how I had ended up in this strange prostrate position. I could not give it any further thought because a splashing had started up. No, not a splashing as such, more like the sound of running water diverting round an obstacle.

  I pulled myself up onto all fours and tried to sight my target, but my eyes were going in and out of focus. My chin brushed against splinters of wood. It took a gargantuan effort to zoom in on the stream five to ten metres away. The moon must have broken through the clouds because the further bank looked like a silvery shore.

  For a moment it resembled a thoroughly pastoral, almost romantic, scene – the gurgling brook, the sylvan trees beside it, the steep bank, fauna bathed in a shiny wash, fairy-tale twee. Then suddenly there was a movement within, like a piece of the scenery had detached itself and was beginning to move forward, wading through the stream.

  Although I couldn’t see in great detail, I had the sense of a gleaming coat, the coarse hair on it, sleek and sinewy flanks. There was a snort and a puff, and the air was filled with steamy mist, which smelled of goat and hoary freshness.

  I narrowed my eyes and saw, glistening in the moonlight, the back of a huge creature emerge from the stream: regal, immense and awe-inspiring. It stopped and straightened, then lengthened its spine. Water dripped off the hindquarters.

  The beast shook its shoulders, sending drops flying off in all directions. Then, as I watched, its head rose and stretched. Atop it I saw a set of spikey antlers glittering like a crown.

  It was such a heart-stopping scene that I could do nothing but gasp.

  And it was then that I felt it stir within me, as if I had breathed in something in this air that had made me hyper-aware. Something that had pushed a button and heightened my senses in response to the entity in the water. For its presence was remarkable, demanding both attention and respect.

  The beast bellowed, loud and clear. It began to stalk a couple of paces up the other side of the muddy bank. Cloven-hoofed feet struck at the earth and, just then, the notion of devotion became very real in my mind.

  In fact, the thought of the thing, standing just a few paces away, cowed me.

  Physically.

  I bowed my head, conscious I was in the presence of a creature that I could feel with more than my five human senses, conscious that I was in the presence of power.

  Then came a weak high-pitched whimper nearby: feral, though puny, as if its maker was surrendering, acknowledging a mightier beast.

  I took a breath and then heard the noise start again, weaker and yet still raw, pure mammal.

  It was a good few seconds before I realised that the creature making the whinnying noise, well, it was me.

  On the other side of the bank the stag halted.

  Its spine arched, the head rose up, the forelegs, which now looked like arms, pushed off from the ground. The beast’s back flattened and it moved the bulk of its weight to the rear quarters. Then, effortlessly as if it had been accustomed to doing so a thousand times over, the thing reared up on its hind legs.

  I could swear that it towered over everything. Its physicality, topped by those antlers dwarfed everything around it for I believe it stood at twelve or thirteen feet tall. Its muscles rippled with strength and energy.

  The head and horns dipped, then rose up again sharply to the moon and delivered the most unearthly howl. Or maybe it is more accurate to describe it as a roar, a ferocious response to my call.

  It was the howl of a hunter who had missed its prey.

  And slowly the antler crown began to turn.

  Towards me.

  I could not for all my will stand before this being that radiated such power.

  I could not …

  Then I was not there within the forest, supine on the floor, but standing in a dark dripping cavern, deep in some sacred subterranean hollow. There was an altar and on the altar sat a male form. I don’t know what he looked like, for the air was tingling, filled with black fluttering things and tiny spheres that glowed and darted about the weatherworn sepulchre.

  The feeling came over me that I was sitting in the stalls of a theatre, waiting for the curtain to go up so I could watch some amazing spectacle. I felt no fear, only a sense of the ancient, and something infinitely lovely nearby.

  Again my senses were strung high.

  Then
I felt it: a tickle as he touched my ear and whispered. Although the words went in, they were silent. But I saw in them an energy made visible, light, and this energy transmitted images of connection, of heritage, history, bloodlines, togetherness, duty, love. And all of this was magic. And I became conscious of a strange emotion: a kind of realisation of knowledge and the harmony that came with it. Then his hand left me and, released from this silent transmission, my head dropped.

  ‘Come out. Take my hand.’ My chin hit the log sharply, and flinching, was raised up again, so I could see the antler god, still turning, there on the other side of the bank.

  My fearless interlude now over, horror seized me.

  My internal organs contracted with terror and I vomited down on the sodden earth.

  A hoof slipped and clopped on a stone and made a scraping noise as it steadied itself again.

  This time when I looked up I squealed.

  The eyes of a man-beast locked on to my face.

  ‘Come out of the undergrowth. Here, take my hand.’

  The words leapt over each other, alien, loud, strange. I wasn’t sure if I was hearing them with my ears or if they were inside my head.

  ‘Rosie Strange. Are you okay?’

  There was a face stretching before me, shining and white. The eyes were reflecting dazzling orbs of light that made you blink and shut the moon out.

  I’d seen them somewhere before. ‘Wah,’ I said, barely able to control my tongue. ‘Wah. God. Antler man.’

  Strong hands pulled me up.

  ‘It’s Dorcus,’ the face said bobbing up and down like a balloon. It looked up to my temple. ‘Oh god. Is that blood?’

  ‘Grod. Tree-ping. Hand-head,’ I blurted – though gawd knows why. All my words were getting mixed up.

  ‘Blood,’ said the balloon face and licked its sharpened teeth. ‘Look,’ he said and spun me round. ‘I can’t explain this now but you need to run.’

  ‘Snakeling drip drop beer tray.’

  ‘Now,’ he yelled, then an animal screamed. I heard a kerfuffle of sounds and leaves and murmurs like the forest was transforming itself into human form, and was visited by the sudden sense that something was after me!