by Various
“Get down on the ground!” the voice commanded. Army discipline almost made him hit the dirt, but the sight of the Nothing slamming Alice against the wall kept him on his feet. When she started to sink into the wall he shrugged Jack off and ran towards her.
At the same time, dozens of police were smashing their way through the boarded up windows in the walls and piling inside. Some were armed; others carved the darkness with erratic sweeps of torchlight as they tried to lock on to everyone inside. Rabbit’s hands were unbearably hot, his breath caught in his throat, his heart pounded.
He stopped running and willed everything to stop. The world slowed. The beams of light froze, but it was too late. Alice was gone.
Jack walked over to him, untouched by Rabbit’s magic. Everyone else; Baldy and his crew, the police had all become flickering shadow people, superimposed on Rabbit’s world, where only he and Jack were real.
“Found your wyrd have you, Action Man? Here.” Jack slapped the pocket watch into his hand and gave him a can of black spray paint.
Rabbit looked at the watch. “What’s this for?”
“So you can keep an eye on when it is. Trust me; it’ll be useful.”
“And this?” He shook the can.
“I told you; we’re like bin men; we clean up the mess.” Jack nodded towards the wall.
A cute-style caricature of Alice frowned down at him.
“No,” he breathed.
“Boo-hoo, everyone cried,” Jack snarled. “Now cover her the fuck up, and move things along. They’ll catch up soon enough and then all hell’s gonna break loose, and you don’t want to be here when that happens. I’ll see you later.” Jack tugged his hats down over his ears and walked away, leaving Rabbit staring at the girl on the wall.
Numb, he shook the can and flipped the lid. The shadow people flickered. Time was catching up. He dropped the watch in his pocket and raised the can.
“It’s Wonderland, Matt.” He heard himself say. “It’s not real, none of this is… She isn’t…”Anger welled inside him. It flowed through his body, burned the blood in his veins and erupted in an angry shout.
He threw the can aside and put both hands on the Pixnit-style Alice and pushed until he felt the molecules dance beneath his fingers. Rabbit searched through the patterns and symbols scribed in paint, through the many layers until he found Alice—alive, but snared within the web of graffiti. When he was sure he had hold of every particle of her being, he pushed her through the wall, one molecule at a time until…
Rabbit fell.
He fell for what felt like forever, anxiety keeping him company as he plummeted. Had it worked, or was he too late to save her? He’d been too late back in Helmand, too late to stop Jonesy—too late to save the woman. He was always too fucking late…
Except this time.
Rabbit landed on something warm, someone warm, someone who smelled of patchouli oil and cigarettes. He wrapped his arms around her just before the wall fell on them.
When the dust settled and he stopped seeing stars, Rabbit looked down to see Alice, smiling up at him, her baby blues shining in the torchlight. They both laughed as time caught up and the police crashed into their present.
“Put your hands behind your head!” a distorted voice ordered. Rabbit carefully climbed off Alice and laced his fingers behind his head. He was at peace; with himself, with the world—with Wonderland.
Alice kissed him. “You’re in such deep shit,” she said. Lights danced around them as the cops closed in.
Rabbit grinned, felt the watch ticking in his pocket. “Just give me a minute, I’ll work something out.”
The End
The Witch House
Mark West
Gaffney, 1985
You couldn’t get into the Witch House from the front. The yard had been untended for years and nature had taken hold, clogging the space between pavement and house with thorns, bristles and nettles.
Witch House was actually number Nine, New Street and whilst some locals said that the overgrowth was to prevent unwary folk getting inside, as if the nettles themselves were concerned for peoples wellbeing, neighbours argued that it was a disgrace, that the space should be cleared and reclaimed.
As it was, New Street was scheduled for urban regeneration. The council had discovered ring-fenced funds and were keen to spend it, especially since by-elections were coming soon. Locals were consulted, expensive architects were drafted in, hours of public meetings were endured. Where once the street had been full of solid, brick-built, turn of the century terraces—with almost every fourth house abandoned—now it would become a street of the future, plastic and wood and everything identical.
Timmy McBride stopped outside of number Nine and looked up at it. The front window, what could be seen of it beneath the encroachment of nettle and ivy, was filthy but intact. The front door was a blue trace behind a large bush that appeared to have sprouted up through the middle of the path and the first floor windows, though caked in dirt, were also in one piece. The rendering was a deep grey-brown colour, with darker streaks running down where rain had burst through the gutters.
“The windows aren’t smashed,” said Andrew Paine and Timmy turned to look at his friend. “You see them? It’s almost like vandals daren’t touch it, as if they were scared.”
“Of what?” scoffed Jon Paine, hitting his younger brother on the top of his right arm. “Scared of the Witch House?”
“Hey,” said Andrew, rubbing his arm. He was a slight boy, skinny and short with a pinched face and brown hair that did what it wanted. He looked at his older brother, frowning. “There must be something to it, enough people say it.”
Jon shook his head. He hadn’t ever wondered about the Witch House, it had never entered his train of thought but then he wasn’t an oddball like his brother who liked this kind of thing. At sixteen, Jon was two years older than the other boys and had only agreed to come along on their investigation because he’d got a date on Friday and wanted to be able to brag that he’d managed to get into the Witch House. He was tall for his age and played on the school rugby team and his mass was building nicely-or so Mr Haydock, the PE teacher, said. He was wearing the team shirt, blue jeans and high-top trainers, his hair was gelled just so and the sea-shell necklace that Laura had given him during the summer sat nicely on his clavicles. He looked the dogs, and he knew it.
“Andy, you spaz, that doesn’t mean anything.”
“So why are you here?” asked Timmy, without bothering to turn around and face Jon. Best friends with Andrew since the start of junior school, Timmy had once been in awe of the older Paine boy but that had paled over the last year. He wasn’t even afraid of the dead arms any more, because he’d realised that if he didn’t react, Jon wouldn’t bother.
“Because I’m seeing Laura. This place’ll be gone soon and I wanted to be able to say that I’d gone in and touched the window.”
Timmy shook his head. Even at fourteen, he could see that girls would hardly be impressed by doing something like this. But then Jon had changed, especially around girls and Timmy assumed it was something he’d got to come.
The Witch House was a minor local legend, the kind of place whose tawdry history was passed down from older kid to younger kid, growing more exotic and outlandish with each re-telling. The way Timmy had heard it, from a breathless Andrew who’d raced into youth club one night, it was the home of Natalie Williams and she guarded it well, even from beyond the grave. Nobody knew much about her any more—she was older even than their headmaster, which seemed ancient to them —but she’d been an astrologer, quick with premonitions and able to read tea leaves and sticks.
She’d become a bit of a sensation in the Gaffney area, with some of her readings specific enough that she could predict women becoming pregnant, find missing children or foretell the odd accident. She soon came to the attention of Anglia Television, who would sometimes close out a news report with a reading from her.
It all came crashing do
wn sometime in the early Seventies. Andrew didn’t know what had happened on TV to end her career, except that it had happened live and was bad enough that it had caused no end of complaints. He also didn’t know why her house got its name and when Timmy had asked him, his Dad dismissed it, saying “it was faked and all that stars stuff is a load of bollocks anyway”. Whatever it was, Williams never went on TV again, nor did she practise her readings. Instead she holed herself up in Witch House until about ten years ago, when she simply disappeared. There were rumours of course - that she had died and rotted in the place, that she’d been taken away by the spirits she conjured up, that she’d been murdered - but nothing was ever disclosed.
The house stood empty for a while, until it was occupied by local tramps who were, in turn, turfed out by the council to place low-income families. Nobody managed to live in the house for long and, after a while, it was allowed to fester and rot. And whilst it appeared to have done just that, at least on the outside, it was never targeted by vandals.
“How are you going to be able to prove it?” Timmy asked.
“Like everyone else ever has, you wingnut,” said Jon. He pointed at the front window. Vaguely, through the grime, Timmy could see the pale shapes of handprints. “You go upstairs, wet your hand and press your print against the glass. Easy.”
“So how do we get in?” asked Andrew, “there’s no way we’re going to make it through the front yard.”
“We’ll go in round the back, of course.”
New Street was part of a series of blocks, with back-to-back gardens, though the lower end of Tresham Street—directly behind it—was occupied by a fire station.
The station was bookended by houses, its entrance open to allow the tenders in and out quickly. The boys walked up Tresham Street and stopped beside the house next to the entrance. The station apron was packed with cars and the main doors were open, showing an empty space.
“Out on a shout,” nodded Jon.
Timmy and Andrew looked at each other and Andrew rolled his eyes. Timmy grinned.
They followed Jon as he stepped around the side of the house. The apron narrowed between the house and the station and then opened up into a wide area, where the training tower was and the shattered remains of cars used for exercises. Steel drums and a pile of rags were against the back of the station building. The yard was sealed off on the three sides by high, chain-link fences with barbed wire looped around the tops.
“The Witch House is behind there,” said Jon, pointing to the far right corner. “Come on.”
Keeping close to the wall, just in case anyone saw them, they made their way into the yard passing the huge, ‘KEEP OUT!’ sign. As they passed the oil drums, the rags seemed to shift and Andrew let out a surprised cry. Jon stopped, turning on his brother and frowning. “Keep quiet, you idiot, otherwise everyone’ll know we’re in here!”
“I know, sorry, but I thought I saw the rags moved.”
They all looked at the pile and it did shift. A leg appeared and Andrew jumped, grabbing Timmy’s arm.
“It’s a person,” said Timmy, leaning forward to get a better look. He could see both legs now, the trousers ending at mid-shin, revealing skin that was dark and scabby. Moth-eaten socks disappeared into shoes that were bound with string.
“‘Course I’m a person, you fucking idiots.”
“Leave him,” said Jon, turning back towards the yard, “it’s just a tramp, come on.”
“Where you going?” muttered the tramp. Even standing a few feet away from him, the smell was making Timmy’s eyes water.
“None of your business,” said Jon.
“You going to the Witch House?”
“No,” said Jon, but he turned to look at the tramp.
“Yes, you be.”
“So what if we were?” The tramp had remained on the floor, half hidden in his rags and it was obvious that Jon was starting to feel brave against him. “Are you going to stop us?”
The tramp laughed, which brought on a coughing fit. Something rattled deep in his chest and Andrew groaned at the sound, taking another step back. “Stop you? Ha, no, I ain’t going to stop you, why would I want to do that? I’ll just stay awake so I can see the three of you running across this here yard screaming for your mummies.”
“Like that’s going to happen,” said Jon, but Timmy noticed a change in his voice.
“It’ll happen, it always does. People go in, some smaller’n you and some bigger and if they come out at all, they come out screaming.”
“What do you mean, come out at all?”
The tramp winked at him. “That’s the Witch House boy; some folk don’t come out—like old Mrs Williams.”
“They go out the front, don’t be so stupid.”
“Have y’seen the front?” asked the tramp. “Mark my words, boys: you’ll be screaming across this yard in ten minutes time.”
“You’re a smelly old idiot,” said Jon, “we won’t be running screaming anywhere.”
“We’ll see,” said the tramp and he raised his right hand, as if holding a glass, the way Timmy’s dad made a toast at Christmas.
“Come on,” said Jon, punching Andrew in the arm, “let’s get going.”
Leaving the tramp muttering at their backs, the three boys crossed the yard. In the corner, the fence had been repaired several times over, with chains and thick ties joining the links where people had managed to cut through them. Jon ignored these and knelt down. A knotted piece of rope connected the two fences and he tugged at it, getting it loose enough that he could slip his finger into the centre of it. When he had, he wiggled it backwards and forwards until the knot was loose enough to untie.
“Here we go,” he said and pulled one side of the chain link up. Timmy went under, followed by Andrew and when Jon was through, he loosely tied the rope ends together.
Timmy stood with his back to the Witch House—he really didn’t want to turn and look at it. He knew it was his imagination, he knew Jon would scoff at him if he said anything, but he felt colder now. Beyond the fence, it was a typically warm early July evening but standing here, between the chain link and the low brick wall that formed the border for New Street, it felt more like a November evening. It wasn’t cold so much as chilly, a nip in the air that he could feel on the tip of his nose and in his breath. He watched Jon tie up the rope, then the teenager stood up and grinned and rubbed his hands together.
“Let’s go,” he said and went to slap Andrew on the back, but his brother got out of the way.
“Are you sure about this, Jon?”
“Of course I’m sure, it’s an old house, we’ll go upstairs, touch the window and come out. We can even make fun of that smelly old tramp on the way back, if you want.”
“Is the house safe?” asked Timmy. He still didn’t want to turn around and face the building.
“Safe? I’m not your stupid teacher, how do I know?”
“What if we fall through the floor or something?” asked Timmy. He could suddenly think of a load of questions to slow this part of the adventure down.
“Fall through the floor?” repeated Andrew, staring at Timmy. He looked at Jon. “Is that possible, you didn’t say that was going to happen.”
Jon glared at Timmy. “Of course it’s not going to happen,” he said, without looking at Andrew, “it’s not that old a house. We’ll go in, be careful and be out again in five minutes. No sweat.” He glanced at Andrew, as if daring him to say something, but the younger boy stayed silent. “Timmy? Got anything else you’d like to scare my brother with?”
Timmy looked down at his trainers. “No.”
“Come on then, over the wall.”
Timmy turned around. The wall was low, about knee height on this side, dropping into the back garden of New Street which was sunk another two or three feet down. The back of the house had aged badly, some of the slates were missing from the sagging roof, the gutters were hanging down and bits of the brickwork were flaking away. Again, as with the front,
the windows were intact, though the back door was open slightly.
The garden looked as though someone had attacked it with a digger. There were three big holes that had been dug down several feet, with piles of earth around them. Stones were littered across the crabby, overgrown grass and the garden path was cracked and pitted.
“What are those holes for?” asked Andrew.
“That’s where the bodies were buried,” said Jon quietly.
“Bodies?” said Timmy and Andrew together.
“Nah, just kidding. Come on.”
Jon sat on the edge of the wall and then slid over. Timmy looked at Andrew, then at the holes in the garden.
“He was only kidding, wasn’t he?” he said.
“Yeah, of course,” said Andrew, without looking at all convinced.
Timmy sat on the wall and dropped into the garden and he and Jon stood and waited until Andrew did the same. Together, they walked down the broken path, unconsciously trying to keep from stepping on the cracks.
As they got closer to the house, Timmy looked up at the first floor windows. They were both streaked with dirt and covered with handprints from the inside, but as he glanced at the one on the right, he thought he saw movement. He was going to say something, but the words died in his throat and he had a peculiar sensation that someone with cold hands was running them up and down his back.
“Andrew,” he managed to hiss, “look.”
Andrew turned to him. “What?”
Timmy pointed at the window but when he looked again there was nothing there, just the dirty glass and the smudged handprints.
“What?” said Andrew again.
“Nothing.” Had he seen anything? Could there be somebody else in the house, somebody else doing the Witch House challenge or another tramp? What else could it be?