by Stephen Cole
Except now he knew. In the darkness, something was waiting for him …
He jolted fully awake, feeling an urge to scream – and glimpsed anxious faces he didn’t recognise, watching him.
Then the darkness reached out for him again.
Tom was dimly aware of time passing. Of the moon and the sun switching places in his view outside. Of hands that spooned a bitter-tasting liquid into his dry mouth and rubbed a pungent lotion into his stinging skin.
Maybe he was in a hospital. That must be it, he decided. He had a fever and he was in the hospital.
Eventually, Tom grew bold enough to open his eyes and look around him. An almost-full moon glowed in the dark square of a window opposite him. It seemed like an accusing eye, looking in at him. Unable to meet its gaze, Tom turned away.
Through the gloom, Tom saw he was lying in a narrow bed in a narrow room. An open door led to a tiny ensuite bathroom. The only other furniture was the dark bulk of a dressing table and mirror lurking in the shadows against the wall.
The rattle of a key turning in a lock made Tom look up. He blinked as three figures entered the room: a man, a woman and a boy of around Tom’s own age.
‘You’re awake!’ remarked the woman with satisfaction. ‘I mean, really awake!’
Tom took in her gaunt face, framed by straight, dark hair. He didn’t think he recognised her – or the others.
She came closer, out of the shadows. Her eyes were a cool blue, but her broad smile seemed warm. ‘We’ve been worried about you, young man. Very worried.’
‘Are you a nurse?’ Tom croaked.
‘Used to be,’ the woman said briskly, peering at Tom’s bandages. ‘Used to be a senior nurse, at that.’
‘So I’m not in a hospital?’ Tom asked nervously.
‘Better than that,’ the woman assured him. ‘You’re with friends.’ She fluffed up his pillow. ‘Hospitals are such unhealthy places, anyway. The bigger they are, the less they care. That’s not the kind of nursing I like.’ She smiled at him again. ‘Marcie Folan. How do you do.’ She held out a hand.
‘My name’s Tom.’ He tried to raise his own hand, but found it wrapped heavily in bandages. He stared at it in confusion.
‘Tom,’ echoed Marcie, as if she was trying the name on for size. Then she clicked her tongue sympathetically and lowered her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Tom. I was only fooling with you. No handshakes for you for a while. Not for a long while.’
Tom realised that his legs and face were also swathed in bandages and dressings. He groaned.
The man stepped forward now, a faint smile on his lips. He was about forty, with close-cropped greying hair and a well-groomed beard. ‘How’re you feeling, son?’
‘OK,’ Tom said, swallowing thickly.
‘Good,’ said the boy. He sat on the end of the bed and grinned, running a hand through his spiky red hair. ‘You’ve been out of it for ages.’
‘Oh … was it you who was calling to me?’ Tom asked.
The boy nodded. ‘I’m Wes,’ he informed Tom.
‘And I’m Henry, Wesley’s father,’ the man added. ‘You can call me Hal.’
‘So,’ asked Wes, still smiling. ‘Tom what?’
‘Anderson. Tom Anderson,’ Tom replied.
Marcie Folan unwrapped some fresh bandages. ‘Well, Tom Anderson, you must be some swimmer to get through those rapids.’
Tom winced as Marcie eased the stained dressings away from his sore knuckles. ‘What happened to me? How did I get here?’ He frowned. ‘Where is here?’
Hal was still watching him intently. ‘You’re on our island.’
Tom stared back, eyes wide. ‘You have your own island?’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Wes. ‘Great place to live – but it can be a drag when the causeway is flooded and you’re stuck here.’ He grinned, then shot a glance at his mother, as if wondering what to say next.
Marcie nodded encouragingly.
‘It was lucky I found you,’ Wes went on. ‘You were unconscious and bleeding on the bank.’
Everyone looked at Tom solemnly, as if this had somehow been his fault.
‘I think I remember … ’ Tom croaked. ‘There was a bear, or … ’
The creature rushed for him, jaws snapping—
Tom shuddered, unable to continue. He shook his head to try to clear it.
Wes’s pale grey eyes were wide. ‘We went out hunting for whatever it was,’ he said. ‘But there was no sign. Must have headed back to the mainland before the floods.’
‘Floods?’ Tom looked at him blankly.
‘It’s been raining heavily these past three days,’ Marcie told him as she wrapped clean dressings round his arms.
Tom shut his eyes, felt his head throb as he tried to process all this information. ‘I’ve been here three days?’ he asked incredulously. ‘What about my mom and dad? They must be freaking out.’
‘Sorry, honey.’ Marcie gave him a small, sympathetic smile. ‘As Wes said, the island’s cut off when the causeway is flooded. And we have no phone line here. We haven’t been able to get in touch with anyone.’
‘But … ’ Tom struggled up in bed. ‘Don’t you have a cellphone?’
Hal Folan shook his head. ‘Sorry, Tom. We chose this place as a retreat from the outside world. A total retreat.’
Marcie patted Tom’s arm reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, honey. As soon as those floods clear, we’ll get you right back to your family. Promise.’ She smiled again. ‘And in the meantime, I’m here to make sure you get well again.’
Tom looked at his bandaged hands and wrists. ‘Did an animal do this to me?’
‘No,’ Marcie replied. ‘That was just bad luck. You got tangled up in some Belladonna.’
Tom frowned. ‘I did what?’
‘Deadly Nightshade,’ Hal explained. ‘You must’ve hauled yourself out of the water, pulling on the roots. Pretty toxic stuff; got in through the cuts on your hands.’
Tom let his head sink back on the pillow. ‘I just don’t remember,’ he sighed.
Marcie placed a cool hand on his burning forehead. ‘Just relax, Tom. My herbal cures have been fixing you up. Better than any fancy drugs a hospital can give you.’ She nodded decisively. ‘And I should know, right?’
‘Right,’ Tom replied wearily. ‘Thanks,’ he added. ‘Really. Thank you for looking after me.’
‘The pleasure’s all ours,’ Marcie assured him. She looked at the others. ‘Right, boys?’
Hal and Wes both smiled at him.
Tom tried to smile back, but he felt his eyelids drooping. As he gave up and let the blackness come for him again, he could feel Marcie Folan still close by, a shifting shadow.
That night Tom had a nightmare.
He was running. The dark, barren landscape was flat under a sky that flickered like flames. The endless plain offered no shelter. No hiding place. And something was coming for him. Something that knew the darkness well, that loved it. Thrived on it.
Something evil and all-possessing, that wanted him.
Yellow eyes watched him run. They shone. Tom felt them on his back. Like a laser sight on a rifle, marking him for death. Long bony jaws snapped. A hiss of triumph sounded from behind him, just out of view. He felt hot breath on the back of his neck. A roaring, rushing noise began to close up over his ears.
Tom awoke just as the creature’s teeth were closing round his face. He sat upright in his bed, wide awake, drenched in sweat. The noise was his frantic breathing.
Through the window, the sun was heaving itself over the horizon. His bedsheets were coiled around him like fat white snakes.
The key rattled in the lock and Marcie glided into the room in a long nightdress, her dark hair mussed up from sleep. ‘We heard a noise,’ she said. ‘Bad dreams?’
Tom shuddered, his heart still racing wildly. ‘The worst,’ he whispered.
Marcie smiled. ‘Well, if that was the worst, your dreams can only get better from now on, right, honey?’ She poured thick syrup f
rom a large brown bottle into a glass, and handed it to Tom. ‘And they will. You’ll see. You tell yourself that before this sends you back to sleep, OK?’
Tom took the glass and drained it. It had an odd sweet yet burning taste, like aniseed.
Marcie busied herself rearranging the bedclothes.
As Tom started drifting back to sleep he heard raised voices from outside the room. A man shouting – Hal? – and what sounded like a girl’s voice yelling back at him. He tried to catch the angry words, but Marcie’s concoction was knocking him sideways. He couldn’t focus on anything. ‘Who’s that?’ he drawled, his vision beginning to blur. ‘The girl, I mean … ’
‘You’ll find out,’ Marcie promised him. ‘But not today,’ she added, as she faded from Tom’s view.
g
g
CHAPTER THREE
‘Wake up. Wake up.’
Tom woke to find Wesley Folan sitting on his bed. Thin, watery light filtered through the drawn curtains.
The boy grinned at him. ‘You sure were out of it, Tom. Did you sleep OK?’
‘I feel like I’ve been sleeping for days.’ Tom yawned, and realised with relief that he could hear no rain beating at the glass. ‘Floods drying up?’ he asked.
Wes shook his head. ‘Rained all night.’
Tom felt his heart sink. As the rest of him followed suit, slumping back into the mattress, he caught a whiff of how bad his sheets smelled. Small wonder if he hadn’t washed for the best part of a week. Or maybe Marcie had given him bed-baths.
Gross.
‘You must be bored out of your skull,’ Wes remarked. ‘Want to play cards or something?’
Tom raised his bandaged hands and grimaced.
Wes laughed, a little sheepishly. ‘I guess not! Shame though. I’m bored to death.’
‘Must be tough if you’re completely cut off each time it rains,’ Tom said.
‘Yeah,’ Wes agreed. ‘And my sister’s no fun to hang out with.’
‘Sister?’ Tom suddenly remembered the female voice he’d heard.
‘Katherine. Kate – she’s seventeen.’ Wes said this as if it explained all his problems.
‘She hasn’t been in to see me,’ Tom remarked.
Wes looked a little uncomfortable. ‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t want her to right now. She’s not in the … friendliest of moods.’
‘Everything OK?’ Tom asked.
Wes smiled again. ‘Sure.’ Then he shrugged. ‘Things were different back in Twin Falls.’
‘Twin Falls, Idaho?’
‘Hey, you heard of us!’ Wes joked. ‘I liked it there. But we had to leave three years ago.’
‘Why was that?’ Tom questioned.
‘Reasons,’ said Wes vaguely. ‘Mom had had it with nursing. And Dad’s writing was taking off, so … ’
‘Your dad’s a writer?’ Tom said, impressed.
‘Yeah. He’s pretty famous, too. Kids’ stuff.’ Wes grinned and mimed slitting his throat. ‘I’d tell you his pen name, but then we’d have to kill you.’
Tom smiled. ‘So that’s why he likes his privacy, I guess. I mean, cutting you all off in this place.’
Just then Tom heard a door slam somewhere in the house, and a girl’s voice bawling someone out. ‘Kate?’ he asked.
Wes looked away. ‘She just didn’t fit in, back in Twin Falls, you know? Bad stuff happened. Real bad.’
Tom frowned. ‘Stuff like what?’
Wes shook his head. ‘You want your nightmares to go away, right?’ He got off the bed and walked to the door. ‘I’d better let you rest up.’
‘One more thing, Wes,’ Tom added quickly. ‘The door.’ He paused. ‘Why am I being locked in?’
Wes shifted uncomfortably. ‘Mom’s idea. She doesn’t want you sleepwalking. You might get hurt.’
‘But I feel much better,’ Tom said. ‘Really.’
‘Good,’ Wes replied, though he looked doubtful as he opened the door. ‘I’ll tell Mom. She’ll be pleased to hear that.’
Tom watched the door shut behind Wes. But then he heard the quiet, definite click of the key turning.
The door remained locked after each visit. Marcie Folan was adamant that Tom was not yet strong enough to roam the house by himself.
What am I? Tom wondered uneasily. An invalid, or a prisoner? He wanted to insist on his freedom, but felt it would somehow come across as ungrateful. And in any case, he was still feeling pretty feeble.
But the locked door bothered him.
Day gradually shrivelled into night. The time passed slowly and feverishly for Tom. For the second time, he found himself sinking into that flat, barren nightmare landscape. The deep red sky burnt and toughened his skin as he ran in the darkness. But this time, something was different. He felt stronger – no longer so afraid. The fierce yellow eyes were no longer fixed on his back, pursuing him. Instead they belonged to the shadowy creature running alongside him, urging him on.
Together, the two of them were chasing after something. Something that was running for its life. They would kill it when they caught it, rip into its flesh and—
Tom jerked upright in his bed, wide-awake. His heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest. He forced himself to breathe deeply, wiping away the sweat that drenched his face. And then he noticed.
His door was open.
Tom stared at it for a few moments. Then he saw that a mug of black tea had been left for him on the bedside table. He touched it. Still warm. Whoever had left it had forgotten to lock up again.
This was his chance to see what lay beyond his little room.
Cautiously, Tom swung his bandaged legs off the bed and on to the floor. He felt woozy as he tried to stand, but managed to hobble over to the door. He winced as he grabbed the door handle – his hands were no longer bandaged but still swollen and sore. He pulled the door fully open and peered around it to view his surroundings.
Tom was standing at the end of a long corridor painted deep red. He felt strangely light-headed. The polished floorboards were cold under his bare feet as he set off to explore.
Turning the corner, Tom found himself on a landing. A flight of wooden steps to his left spiralled down to a gloomy hallway. To his right was a bathroom, unoccupied, and another door. Light was seeping from its edges.
Maybe this was Wes’s room. Tom could hear the murmur of talking downstairs. It sounded like Marcie and Hal. Knowing they weren’t nearby gave him confidence to knock on the door.
No answer.
Almost without thinking, Tom pushed the door open, and at least twenty candle flames danced madly in the resultant breeze.
Tom stared round, suddenly uneasy. No way was this Wes’s room.
The walls were a deep, dark blue, the colour of summer nights. By contrast, the bedspread and wardrobe were dazzling white. A full-length mirror stood in a corner beside a rack of clothes, most of them black. Masks, statues, weird bric-a-brac and flickering candles cluttered every surface.
Lying flanked by four scented tea-lights was a student card. Tom read the name: Mark Fisher. The photo showed a dark-haired boy, about eighteen. The boyfriend, Tom decided. Had to be pretty serious to get the candle treatment. It was like some kind of miniature shrine.
To his right was a small writing desk piled high with old books. He picked up one of them on impulse, sending specks of dust spiralling in the candlelight. The book was so heavy he had to hold it in both hands. The title was stamped into the leather cover in ruddy gold letters:
COVENANTS WITH THE LYCANTHROPE
Tom frowned. Lycanthrope. He was sure he knew that word from somewhere …
He opened it up. A bookmark slithered out towards him like a leathery tongue.
The page was filled with old pictures, woodcuts. One showed men dancing with arms outstretched around a large cauldron. Tom read the faded text.
… men would strip to the waist then rub pungent ointments upon their bodies. Then each would wear a girdle, cut from the
pelt of a wolf or the skin of a hanged murderer. Together they would spin and gyrate around the cauldron, inhaling vapours of hemlock, camphor and extract of Belladonna, and call upon evil spirits.
They would pray to Satan and the old gods that the wolf inside each man would be released to feed.
Tom swallowed hard, then turned the page. He stared transfixed at chilling pictures, things he could never have imagined. The artist had used only scratchy black ink, but the drawings seemed so real that Tom could almost hear the screams, smell the blood.
He turned the page again. A series of illustrations showed a screaming man being tortured. Tom focused on the description inscribed beneath the pictures.
Punishment of Peter Stubbe, the first man in Europe accused of being a werewolf, 1632.
At the bottom of the page were some dull red-brown splodges. Tom’s senses twitched. He knew in an instant that they were bloodstains.
Before he could stop himself, he bent his head and touched them with his tongue. The dusty paper stuck to his mouth. And something stirred deep within him.
Convulsing suddenly with horror and disgust, Tom threw the book against the wall. His insides squirmed. What had made him do that?
Suddenly, someone was standing in the doorway. A girl. In a black dress.
It could only be Wes’s sister, Katherine.
She was tall – almost as tall as Tom – with long, dark hair that fell to her slim waist. Her wide green eyes stared out from a pale striking face, and were fixed on him.
Flustered, Tom opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue was burning. He stood there sweating, silent and paralysed.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked sharply. ‘This is my room.’
‘Katherine?’ Tom began. ‘I’m sorry … ’
‘Get out of here,’ she hissed. The candle flames danced again as she swept past Tom, into the room. ‘Go on, leave.’
Tom felt the room spin around him. Wes was right. He should’ve stayed put, in bed. Safe in his little cell. ‘I didn’t know it was your room,’ he said groggily, holding up his chapped and swollen hands in apology.
‘I see your hands haven’t healed,’ she said, her voice a little softer, sadder.