Hydra

by Matt Wesolowski

  —That sounds awful.

  —It got worse. She was all over the place and they were round her like a pack of wolves. They were taking it in turns snogging her, they had their hands up under her clothes, all of them. I saw it, but somehow it was like it wasn’t real – like it wasn’t really happening. It was hard to see through the lights and the people but I saw them leading her off somewhere, off into a corner, and then through a door. There was this little voice inside me that was screaming – screaming – at me to say something, to tell someone she was in danger, that it looked all wrong, that it looked terrible. Yes, that she was in danger. I kept remembering Kyle and the rest of them in the swimming pool, ‘scouting out the talent’. It fucking chills me to my core even now.

  But then this other voice inside me started speaking. This was the voice that was watching Alice dancing; cos by then, it was just me and her and I couldn’t turn away from that, I just couldn’t. And if I told Alice what was happening to her sister, that would have spoiled everything. So that other voice just told me everything would be fine, that Kyle and them weren’t much older than me or Arla, so she would be OK – they would look after her. Oh God … what was I thinking?

  —Anthony, you were only a child. This doesn’t rest on your shoulders.

  —We both know that some of it does. We both know that.

  —Did you see Arla again after that?

  —Yes, thank Christ. It must have been about two or three in the morning. Kyle and Jack had found me and Alice and we were going to walk back to the hotel along the beach. I was tired, the high of the alcohol had worn off and those worries were back again tenfold. What if we got back and our parents were all there looking for us – police helicopters and stuff? Ironically, I heard that the party got raided after we left.

  —Was Arla with you by then?

  —Yeah. It’s hard to remember the details but she was with us, I’m sure of it. We were all flat, bedraggled, tired – probably all a little bit worried to be honest. Kyle and the others were still trying to sound cocky, confident. They were seventeen or eighteen – not much older than us, really – but they seemed a million miles away, like adults. It was so surreal walking along that beach, our feet sinking into the sand. I was walking on my own, and I remember the feeling – this confusion and guilt nestling like a fur ball in my belly. I couldn’t turn round and look at the others. It was horrible. I feel like I’ve blanked it all out until now.

  —What about the next day?

  —None of our parents realised what we’d done. It was amazing really if you think about it. I must have got back at about four am and just passed out. But I was still up in the morning for breakfast with my parents. I remember seeing Alice and Arla in the breakfast room too. Arla just kept her head down but Alice did look at me. This time, though, her gaze was like a laser across that room; I’ll never forget it.

  —Do you think Arla told Alice what had happened to her?

  —I reckon so. This is the thing as well: the next day, the Macleods left, they went home. Alice never even said goodbye. It was clear that she blamed me.

  —Did you ever find out exactly what happened to Arla that night?

  —I didn’t. Not at first. Alice just told me that she’d changed, that something had changed her.

  —You were still in touch with Alice after Cornwall?

  —Yeah … sorry, it’s complicated. Alice gave me her phone number at some point that night. I was just so overwhelmed that I totally forgot about Arla.

  —So did Alice ever mention what happened that night? She must have seen what happened too, right?

  —No. I could never bring it up. I didn’t have the words, not then. I never even had the balls to text her afterwards – it was her who got in touch with me! It must have been a fortnight or so after the holiday; I was back at college and I got a text out of the blue. Just, like, ‘What’s up?’ – something innocuous like that – and we just started chatting. We moved onto MSN messenger after that. Alice had her own computer in her bedroom by then.

  —And she told you about Arla?

  —Yeah, eventually. It was a few months after we’d started talking. We’d been telling each other about our lives and stuff. That awkwardness wasn’t there when we were online. We didn’t really mention Cornwall. Alice was telling me about things at home. It sounded pretty bad. Arla had gone off the rails a bit, was kicking off, going out and not coming back, coming home drunk. Their parents were losing their shit over it. Then Alice just came out with it, just said offhand something along the lines of, ‘Arla’s never been the same since she let those lads have their way with her in Cornwall.’

  I remember it hit me like a fist. I had no idea what to say back. I remember this guilt filling me like a balloon – it consumed me. I begged Alice to tell her parents, to tell the police, to tell anyone, she had to. But she was just so blasé about it. Whenever I mentioned it, she would just go offline, vanish.

  I didn’t sleep after she told me that. I was just obsessed with it, constantly messaging and texting Alice to get her to tell her parents – to make sure someone knew. That’s when she just broke off contact with me. Just stopped replying to my texts, blocked me online. I guess it made sense. But you know what the last thing she said to me was? After I’d begged her again and again to tell her family? All she wrote was, ‘They know.’

  A few things link up here: Arla’s wayward behaviour; Alice’s ‘boyfriend’ who Paulette mentioned, sending the ‘zillion’ messages – presumably Anthony urging Alice to tell her family about what happened to Arla. This final message from Alice is what chills me, though, and finally suggests a shred of a motive for Arla’s acts against her family in 2014. Did Lucy and Stan Macleod find out what had happened to Arla and do nothing? Was Arla even blamed? From what I know of the way Lucy Macleod treated her daughters, the latter doesn’t seem too farfetched. Also, we must note that this traumatic event in Arla’s life could have been the trigger, or even perhaps the cause, of her alleged psychosis. I’m no psychologist, I cannot make these judgements, I don’t know enough about the mind to do anything but speculate.

  I have two questions – one for us and one for Anthony. The first is why, if Arla wanted to exact revenge on her family for knowing about what had happened to her and doing nothing about it, did it take until 2014 for her to act? Why not earlier? Is there some significance to be found in this lapse of time, or was it just that Arla’s psychosis had become all-consuming by then? We may never know the answer. The Macleods are all dead, save for Arla, and my interview with her has taken place. I won’t be allowed to speak to her again.

  The second question I ask Anthony.

  —Why did you not say anything? Why did you not tell the police?

  For a long time Anthony will not meet my eye. He shakes his head a couple of times and finally looks up.

  —I’m presuming something.

  —What?

  —I’m presuming they’ve made contact with you by now.

  —What? Who?

  —Yeah. They have then.

  —You can tell me, Anthony.

  —I’m not saying. There’s no way. I’m not risking my safety, my parents’ safety. You saw the video of that old guy, Marsh, right? That wasn’t them but they arranged it. It was them who hacked him, doxxed him – sent that hunter group after him.

  —What do you know about him?

  —All I know is that the guy was linked to Arla Macleod somehow, and I know that you’ll be next. So will I. The difference is, I deserve it. You, perhaps, don’t.

  —Who are they, Anthony?

  —I’m going now, Scott. I’ve done the right thing – I’ve said what I needed to say. Now I’m going to let them come. They’ll find me. They’ll find you.

  —We can shut this down. You can tell me who they are and I won’t broadcast it, I promise. All I need is a name. I can work from there.

  —OK, no. I want to do it in the open. I want to show them I’m not scared anymore. Show him
I’m not scared. Broadcast what you like. I’ll give you his name.

  He does. The reason I’m not broadcasting it in this episode is my choice, not Anthony’s. It’s for a good reason. I will reveal in the next episode who has been pursuing me for the last few months.

  And why.

  You see, during the interviews and editing process of this series, ever since episode one was released, I have been under attack. I am lucky in that I have always kept my identity quiet, my online presence minimal – because Six Stories has never been about me; it is always about the cases. Listeners of the show, though, will have seen the flurry of negative traffic that has now more or less consumed the Six Stories social-media platforms. There are posts calling for my head. I am described as a ghoul, among other, less eloquent, things. I can handle this, though; it’s not pleasant but it’s bearable. What has been unnerving me is the barrage of text messages and emails that have been arriving. They have all been from burner phones and public IP addresses. However, these are just the foot soldiers, the grunts. I am looking for the general. Thanks to Anthony, I have found him.

  So here it is, the gauntlet, officially laid down.

  You have my number, you have my email address, you probably know everything about me, just like you know everything about everyone you’ve destroyed online before.

  But this is different because I also know who you are.

  And I also know why you do what you do.

  So get in touch and let’s make episode six.

  This has been our fifth.

  Until next time…

  TorrentWraith – Audio (Music & Sounds)

  Type Name

  Audio Arla Macleod Rec006 [320KBPS]

  Uploaded 1 week ago, Size 60.2 MiB. ULed by JBazzzzz666

  I’m sorry.

  This isn’t proper. It’s not, like, a report. It’s just … I don’t know what else to do.

  They just won’t stop. Nothing makes them stop. It’s like pain, hearing them. Have you ever had a toothache? It’s worse than that.

  Has your eardrum ever burst? That’s pain. That’s the worst pain ever. It doesn’t stop. It’s in your head, just this never-ending throbbing. You can hear it, you can hear the infection. It’s this terrible heartbeat – beating and beating and pouring pain into you with every beat.

  I turned off the radio and went to get one of my CDs, but I forgot they didn’t let me have them here – you don’t let me have them; you said they would trigger too many memories. But that’s what I wanted them for. He was my only escape and you took him away. Why? I can’t listen to the radio. Their crying and their begging to come in, it’s louder than anything on the radio.

  I wanted my CDs so I could show them that I understood, that I knew a way back into their world.

  But now all I’ve got is a screaming black emptiness.

  That’s what it’s like.

  That’s why I have to do this.

  Tonight I’m going to let them in.

  Again.

  You told me what you used to say to your son when he was little: you used to tell him that, whatever happened, whatever he’d done in his life, you would protect him.

  I can’t take it. I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t fight it anymore. It can’t be done. No one can protect me.

  I’m sorry, I know you’ve tried. I know that this therapy – this recording – should have found the triggers. It should have given some ideas about what’s made me this way, and how to help me.

  I know you’ve tried to protect me.

  I feel like I’ve let you down.

  I feel like I’ve let everyone down.

  I should have been more careful. I opened doors I should never have opened. I let ghosts in – ghosts that follow, ghosts that never leave. All I wanted to do was vanish. I only ever wanted to disappear.

  We never closed the ritual, you know. We were supposed to burn the rope; we were supposed to dial a number and say, ‘Thank you for the ride.’

  But we didn’t.

  Then they came.

  I keep hearing them. I can’t stop hearing them – their crying, over and over and over, wailing and wailing to come in.

  Shadows and eyes all over, all around me, pushing me, begging me to let them in. And I’m all on my own. I know … I know you’ve said that I’m not, but I am … I am. And I can’t do this anymore.

  I can hear them now. You said to make a recording whenever I saw and heard things, well I hear them now, I can hear them now. I can hear their hands on my windows. I hear those hands every night – that pale, faultless skin squeaking against the windows, the shape of them behind the curtains.

  I’ll tell you about my dream, last night.

  Cos I had a dream, right, a dream that confirmed it, that let me know what I have to do.

  It were a sign or whatever – a metaphor or something.

  I’ll tell you about it.

  I was back at the house – the house in the field. The house on the cliff. It were dark this time, like it were night, and I had a feeling in my belly. It was like a rock, like I’d swallowed a big black rock. There were loads of movements in the grass – it were swishing back and forth, back and forth, and I just wanted to scream. I were screaming but my mouth were all dry, my teeth all sticky and no noise was coming out. I were the crow but I couldn’t fly no more. I were caught on something. I kept trying to flap my wings and they just … I could feel the feathers just falling out. I could feel the roots of them just pulling out of my skin, like I were a dead thing.

  I tried to call again and this sort of ragged sound came out, ripped my throat. I could feel it all the way down, harsh and nasty, a dead-cry. Then I were laying in the grass again, all curled up, me again.

  But they heard me, cos the grass round the house went suddenly still. Then there was this sound, this hissing sound. And all at once, they began to rise up. There were loads of them, all rising up like snakes – kids, all turned to face me. It should have been funny, like one of those whack-a-mole machines. I remember feeling like I’d pissed myself – I could feel it warm, running down my legs as they rose up, heads and shoulders – little boys and girls with, like, old-fashioned haircuts, and shirts, like formal dress and that. They had pale skin, like them porcelain dolls Mam used to keep on the windowsill, with that sort of blueish skin. These had black hair, though, and … and they … they all looked at me at once with their black eyes. Like bullet holes in their faces.

  I should … I should say something to me mam, me dad, me sister, but what? What do I say? How do I put it into words? It just sounds … It’s not like they can even hear me. But I want to tell them it was what I had to do.

  I’m feeling that same feeling now. All the hairs on my arms go up. It’s warm but I’m freezing.

  I can’t go on. I can’t keep feeling so scared like this all the time. It’s like torture. I can’t sleep. They’re crying and I’m so scared…

  They all started coming towards me in the dream, but at the same time, all moving in, getting closer like a swarm and behind them I could see the lights in the windows of the house have all gone out. I’m back at Redstart Road. I’m back in the garden.

  The kids with the black eyes, they’re close and they’re silent, still moving … and, you know how dreams are. My crow body’s fallen away, bones all skittering like kindling, and I’m me again. I’m me and I’m twenty-one again. I can feel this … this ball of anger inside me. You know like you do when you’re young, when you don’t fit nowhere, when no one wants you?

  I can hear their feet, crunching and crackling up the path in the back garden. I can see them creeping, and I can hear them giggling.

  I can hear Dad shouting, waving with that big wooden cross that leaves you black and bruised like a banana. He’s screaming words from the Bible and I can hear them giggling.

  I’ve got something in my hand. I can’t see it but I know it’s a hammer. I can … I can still feel it in my hand … the wood. They get closer, the kids. They’re sp
illing into the garden, slithering like snakes. Dad’s screaming and I’m still screaming and I swing the hammer, and I … I can feel that still too, all the way through my body. I hear the snap of bone and a sort of squish and one of the heads come off. It’s too easy. Bones and skin too brittle and soft like rotten fruit. And then I’m stood there watching it. All the other kids they’re just still, like statues, poking out of that long grass stuff. Then they all turn their heads at the same time and look at the one I chopped down. It’s just a little boy and … oh God, there’s this slippery sound as something starts to rise up out of the place where the kid’s head has been. I’m frozen still, I can’t breathe – hands in my lungs, two cold, stone hands squeezing them tight.

  I’m looking at this kid, this headless kid. I can’t look away and this white thing starts flowering from the mess of red, rising up all slick and bloody from its neck. It’s like this two-pronged wishbone shape, and it starts swelling. Two pale prongs that start blowing up and … Oh my God I can see faces swimming in the swellings, two little faces with black eyes and they’re making a tiny screaming noise. The other kids they all turn back to me and I swear … I swear they’re grinning. When I look back, there’s two heads now … two heads with faces straining from that whiteness, their hair all slick. And they’ve stopped screaming now and they’re just looking at me. I can feel my brain slide, like something’s come loose. It’s like I can feel my sanity coming undone.

  So I just start swinging that hammer, swinging it at anything, at all of them, and I can hear bones cracking and feel the blows going through my arms. It’s a blur – you know, like dreams are? I can feel liquid spattering my face. I can feel it running down my arms, over my hands, flecks of rotten bone spattering my clothes. I can hear more of that squealing as more of those heads start rising through the bodies. Like that monster – that snake thing – what’s it called? A hydra? And, like, even when I chopped off the two heads, two more came out of each … each branch…