Trapped Within

by Bradshaw, Duncan P.

  It was the height of summer, though it always seemed to be so whenever I recall a happy childhood memory. Logic dictates that we spend most of our time as children, holed up in the classroom, bored and restless, our attention wandering from the topic of the day, to thoughts of how best to spend the evening or weekend. It is the time spent free of authority that I recall most fondly, as I suspect, do you.

  The summer holidays then; six weeks of unbridled freedom, surely the best times of our young lives! Father was at work (Father was always at work, and even when he came home, he shut himself away in the backroom occupying himself with yet more work), and Mother, well her domain was the kitchen, meaning I was free to pass the days however I saw fit. That is by no means meant as a sexist remark; my mother seemed to live her life in that cramped kitchen. If she wasn’t cooking, she was cleaning, and if she wasn’t cleaning she was sharing a pot of tea with Mrs Flannwell from next door. My activities were the least of my parents’ concern, and I admit that I preferred it that way: I didn’t want to end up like Miles Wolloughy.

  Miles Wolloughy was a boy from my class, and his parents interfered in every aspect of his life. Every morning he’d present our teacher with a fresh note, detailing the how’s and why’s of something or other that he wasn’t allowed to do that day. The poor lad had to observe childhood from the sidelines. He wanted to play, and we asked him to join us several times, but the one and only time he did, his parents found out, and he received such a beating that he never dared risk a game with us again.

  It’s a strange way to parent; that’s for sure. I’m almost certain they did him more harm than any of our childhood japes may have.

  I digress. It was a Tuesday, and the holidays were drawing to a close. September was on the horizon and with it the dread of a return to school. We’d exhausted most of our favourite pastimes, having partaken in numerous games of football, manhunt, and British Bulldog. Boredom threatened, and this was something I was adamant I would not allow; holidays were for holidaying. There was enough time for boredom when we returned to the monotony of the classroom.

  There’d been a murder-suicide on our estate, the previous weekend. A middle-aged couple, long-time married, polite and unassuming, had been found dead, their throats slashed. The town had pointed the finger at him when it ought to have pointed at her. Again, these sorts of events happened frequently in Chellton, and while we weren’t in any way shocked by what had happened, we were all too aware, having gone to see the house for ourselves. Expecting to see police tape stretched over the doors and windows, we had left disappointed; the house appeared ordinary in every way. The only thing that might have hinted at anything untoward was that the curtains remained closed during the day. (Marcus later accused me several times of leading them to the wrong house).

  We were sat, Joel, Marcus and I, in a semi-circle on a patch of wasteland at the bottom of my street that we had named The Green. It was here we played most our games, and though it was little more than a snatch of uneven, mismatched turf, it was (or so we liked to think) ours.

  It was I who suggested the idea: “How about we go into the woods?”

  Joel’s face immediately displayed his distaste. “I’m not allowed into the woods,” he lied.

  Marcus: “Why do you wanna go in there anyway?”

  At least I had Marcus hooked. I knew it would be easy to get Joel onside, should Marcus swallow my story. If Marcus and I went, then Joel would surely follow.

  “I wanna go hunting tree sprites,” I replied.

  Joel groaned.

  “What the hell are tree sprites?” asked Marcus, his face twisting in confusion.

  Now, I can’t lay claim as to the origins of the tree sprite story; this is yet another of those tales heard in passing. The identity of the storyteller whom I heard it from is long forgotten, only the details of the tale remain.

  From their reactions to my suggestion, it was clear that Joel knew what was coming (having heard me discuss tree sprites before), but Marcus did not.

  “Tree sprites! You mean to say you never heard of tree sprites?” I toyed.

  “No!” shouted Marcus, his patience wearing thin. “So are you gonna stop dicking about and tell me?”

  I leant inwards, Marcus and Joel did likewise, and with my voice barely a whisper, I began to recite the tale as once told to me.

  ‘There were once three children; two brothers and one sister, who lived in a farmhouse on the land that Chellton would later be built upon. The brothers were aged twelve and ten; the sister much younger at four years of age. It might seem cruel now, but with their parents barely able to feed their children, never mind themselves, they were all set to work in the fields.

  ‘One year, they encountered an unseasonably hot summer, and their crops withered and died. Then, in mocking contrast, came a winter like no other; cold beyond cold, with snowfall several feet deep, making travel impossible, isolating the family from the nearest village.

  ‘Supplies soon ran out, and with both food and money scarce, the father (at the mother’s bequest, might I add) led their three children into the woods, with promises of rabbit broth that night, still ringing in their ears. When the eldest boy questioned as to why his father carried an axe and an empty sack, the father merely replied: “So that I may slay, and eat.”

  ‘Four figures entered the forest that day.

  ‘Only one returned.

  ‘The father, with his axe slung over one shoulder, crying tears of remorse that froze upon his wind-beat cheeks, dragged behind him the sack, no longer empty, leaving a bloodied trail that enticed all manner of woodland creatures from their burrows, with its warm, coppery scent.

  ‘It is said that the spirits of the slain children haunt the woods and that, if you listen carefully, you can sometimes catch the laughter of the little girl, carrying on the breeze.’

  “It’s not true,” said Joel, his voice hoarse, his throat tight with fear. “My mum said it’s all just a load of bull-crap.”

  “I never said it was true,” I replied. “I’m just telling you what I heard.”

  Now, Joel might have appeared dismissive, but I knew that he feared the forest, and not only because of the story I had just shared. Truth is, a couple of kids older than us had gone missing a few years ago; one of them was Joel’s cousin.

  “The forest is dangerous; it’s riddled with caves and potholes. There’s no such thing as tree sprites.” He said, desperately trying to convince us that we ought to share his fear.

  “What else do they do then?” asked Marcus, his interest piqued. “I mean apart from laugh? Laughing isn’t scary; not to me, anyway.”

  “Ah, there’s more,” I began, my confidence growing as I began to relish in my role as storyteller. “You know that feeling when you are being watched in the woods, but there’s no one else around?”

  “Yeah?” nodded Marcus, his eyes wide, his attention, mine.

  “That’s them watching you. Deciding whether they want to play with you,” I whispered.

  “No way?” gasped Marcus.

  “He’s making it up!” shouted Joel, pulling his knees into his chest. “It’s all bull-crap, my mum said so.”

  “And then what?” asked Marcus.

  I knew then that I had him, hook, line and sinker. I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t help myself, I kept on with the story, creating fiction and passing it off as truth.

  Perhaps I ought to have left it be.

  Perhaps then we wouldn’t have gone so gamely into the woods.

  But I didn’t leave it be.

  “And then… well, if they want to play with you, they do. But you can’t ever leave them. Not ever. Because they are trapped in the woods, and so are you. For all eternity.”

  “Bull-crap,” mumbled Joel, from behind his knees. “Stop it, now.”

  “How do you know if they want to play with you?” asked Marcus, intrigued.

  “They call your name,” I replied, my imagination working overtime. “But only you can
hear it, nobody else. They’ll look at you like you are mad if you tell them what you can hear. They’ll call you a liar, but to you, it’s as clear as day.”

  “Can you see them?”

  Joel is sobbing. His shoulders heave. His face is buried in his knees. We both ignore him.

  “No, no one ever has. They can disguise themselves as tree bark, or leaves, or sticks and mud.” I’m excited now, talking fast and gesticulating with my hands. “You could be right next to one, and you’d never even know. One could be leaning against a tree right next to you; you’d not even see him. And he’d reach out and yank on your hood, or cause you to trip, and you’d never know what happened, but you’d hear them laughing.”

  “Really?” asked Marcus, blinking profusely.

  “Really,” I replied, satisfied with my performance. Marcus had believed every detail, even the ones I’d added on the fly. I’d sold him an adventure for the day, and even if we went into the forest and found nothing (which, of course, is precisely what we would find), the day would still be charged with anticipation. That, to me, was a day well spent.

  “Right. We’re going then,” began Marcus, standing as he spoke. “And we’re going to make a night of it.”

  I stood, excited at the possibilities ahead, and then paused, a sudden lump in my throat. “What do you mean by ‘make a night of it’?”

  “Exactly that! I’ve a tent I’ve been dying to try out. I used it in the garden a couple of times, but it’s not the same as a real camp out. It’ll fit us all in, no problem. I’ll go and fetch it, along with a few supplies: water, chocolate, a torch, things like that.” He pointed at Joel and I. “You two go and get what you need: crisps, something to drink, sleeping bags or a blanket. Oh, and bring a couple of comics in case we get bored.”

  I stared at him, my mouth agog.

  “Now, please. I wanna get up there as soon as possible. The sooner we start looking for the tree sprites, the sooner we’ll find them!”

  He turned away and headed towards his house; his parting words carried on the breeze: “Man, can you just imagine what the others at school will say when we tell them that we saw tree sprites?”

  I looked at Joel, who was sat on the ground with his face still hidden behind his knees. Now, I’ll be the first to admit that I was desperate to go into the woods that day, just for something to do, and when my mind was set on something, it was set for good. What I hadn’t considered during my fantastical rendition of the tale of the tree sprites, was that Marcus would want to stay the night. Nobody ever stayed the night in those woods, at least I’d never heard of such a feat, and I was reluctant to do so. However, if I voiced my concern to Marcus, it was highly probable he’d never take on board any idea of mine, ever again, and I was beginning to grow sick and tired of his army games. I admit that it felt good to wield a degree of influence over our group, and I didn’t wish to undermine my position by admitting how afraid I was over spending the night camped in the forest.

  So, what did I do?

  It shames me to admit, but I turned to Joel, ignored his pleas, and projected my cowardice onto him, just like all weak-minded boys do.

  You know by now that Joel accompanied us into the woods. Reluctant though he was, I privately assured him that there was nothing to fear, even going so far as to admit to adding my own dose of fiction to the story and that I’d look after him, never letting him out of my sight.

  It’ll be fun, I said. An adventure to tell the other kids at school about. Just think, they’ll think you are cool and brave, staying out here for the night. Maybe they’ll go easy on you at playtime?

  Of course, to keep up the pretence with Marcus, I hammered home the truth of my fiction at every given opportunity, cruelly shooting down Joel whenever he’d try to convince Marcus that I was lying—belittling him, just like all the other children did to him at school.

  Each of us had fed our parents a lie as to where we would be spending the night. I said I’d be camping at Marcus’s, and Marcus said he’d be watching videos at my house. Joel didn’t say anything; he didn’t need too: his mother barely noticed his absence as it was.

  And so later that afternoon, the three of us hiked into the heart of the woods with the intention of staying until the following morning, hoping to capture the sight of a fictional tree sprite or two.

  We’d made camp. How deep into the woods were we? I couldn’t possibly say. It was the first clearing we’d found after a gruelling thirty minutes’ walk—here was as good a place as any. Though there existed a few, well-worn tracks used by ramblers and dog walkers, Marcus opted to steer clear of them, citing that ‘tree sprites would no doubt lurk deeper in the forest, away from noise and dog shit’.

  The tent was eventually pitched after much arguing. We even had a fire, started courtesy of Marcus having stolen a bottle of lighter fluid and a half-empty box of England’s Glory matches. It was up to me to collect the twigs for the fire, a task that I delegated to Joel, hoping it would tire him enough to forget about his complaining.

  “Well, would you rather be here, or home with your mother?” I’d asked, having pulled him to one side, spite lacing my words. I’ll never forget the look on his face; one of complete surrender. He didn’t want to admit to me that he didn’t want to go home. How awful must it have been for him, that the forest was the lesser of two evils?

  I felt for him at that moment, as I do now, but, young and foolish that I was, I refused to act on my instinct to pack up camp, and head back to my house. I genuinely would have preferred us all to stay there, safe in my back garden, safe to make up more bull-crap ghost stories without fear of reprisal, but I was a stubborn so ‘n so, and I didn’t want to seem weak in front of Marcus.

  Now I’m not saying that I ever believed the stories of the tree sprites to be true, but being in the forest where they were set after dark—that puts a whole new perspective on your beliefs, and things that appear ludicrous in the light of day, seem entirely plausible in the dark of night.

  It was late. Darkness weighed upon us; the air chilled us to our cores as we sat huddled around the fire, each lost in thought, our minds wandering from one deliberation to the next.

  Marcus, buoyed by my earlier attempt at storytelling, had endeavoured to recite a ghost story of his own making. Joel had pleaded with him to stop, before retreating deep into his sleeping bag, pulling the drawstrings tight, thereby sealing him into his polyester tomb, save for a tiny air hole where the string would tighten no further.

  Marcus, fuelled by Joel’s reaction, continued unabated.

  I yelled at him to stop.

  Whether it was the shock of my outburst that silenced him, or the glint of fear in my eyes, I’ll likely never know. Marcus never did finish his story.

  And so, we sat, absorbed by the dance of the flames, neither boy speaking to the other, wishing for the break of dawn.

  The sound of snapping branches was enough to rouse us from our thoughts. We exchanged furtive glances, before standing, and turning our attention to the shadows that haunted the perimeter of our camp.

  For a time, there was no sound; no rustle of trees, nor moan of the wind, and all was still.

  Then, a cacophony of yells, sudden and angry; followed by the sounds of more branches snapping, and Craig Humphries and Darren Worthing, thundered from the shadows and into our camp, frightening the life out of us.

  Craig and Darren were teenagers. They attended one of the out of town high schools; I wasn’t sure which, but both were known locally as troublemakers and bullies. Craig was the only black kid in Chellton, and he’d had it tough growing up, suffering regular beatings until he grew big and confident enough to start handing them out himself. Darren was his constant companion. At nearly six feet tall (and almost as wide, at least to my eyes) he was an imposing sight. Together, the two of them were near-on untouchable. Having them gate-crash our camp meant that we were to become the target of their amusement for however long they deemed fit, and there was absolutely nothin
g we could say or do to change that.

  In the chaos, Marcus had fled into the woods (a reaction that took me by surprise) with Craig giving chase half-heartedly, disappearing into the murk, only to return empty-handed seconds later.

  “Let the fucker run,” spat Craig, picking his way back through the tangle of tree roots and grasses. “He’ll not get far. Likely piss his pants and come back here, begging for us to go easy on him.” His eyes narrowed on Joel and I. “Besides, we’ve these two pussies to play with.”

  Darren snorted, and shoved me hard in the back. I fell to my knees, my face inches from the fire.

  Craig laughed.

  Darren did likewise.

  Joel began to cry.

  “Aww. Does the lil’ babby want his mommy?” cooed Craig. “Do you want your dum-dums?”

  Darren laughed again.

  From my place in the dirt, I watched Joel ball his fists. His breath came quicker, and his torso stiffened. He became larger somehow, his physique disregarding the malnourished form it was supposed to represent. He reached past me, reached into the fire and grabbed hold of one of the thicker logs we’d thrown onto the pile. In one fluid motion (and with a scream of rage that I’d never heard uttered by a person before, nor since), Joel withdrew the log from the fire and brought it crashing down onto Craig’s right arm.

  The SNAP was almost deafening. To this day, I’m not sure whether it was the sound of the branch breaking, Craig’s shattered Radius, or both.

  Craig cried out in surprise and pain, clutching his arm instinctively, withdrawing it to his body, as Joel drew back and prepared to strike his other arm. Darren, though slow to react at first, took a step towards Joel, just as Marcus dove from the bushes, his war cry lost among the furore, and tackled Darren mid-step, forcing him to the ground.