by George Mann
“That’s exactly the problem,” said the barman, quietly. “They have.”
“And she’s missing?” asked Black.
“No. They are.” He looked from Newbury to Black, as if judging their reactions. “No one who’s gone into those woods in the last four months has come out again. God knows what’s become of them. Whatever fate has befallen Old Mab has befallen them, too. There’s something in there. Something unnatural.”
“The ‘haunted woods’ that Sir Geoffrey spoke of,” said Newbury. “That’s why you warned Mr Blakemore against searching for Mab.”
“Precisely,” said the barman. “No matter how desperate he was, he should never have gone near that wood.”
“How many people are unaccounted for?” asked Black.
“Half a dozen, including Mab,” said the barman. “And the local bobby, too. He went in looking for some of the missing village folk. Never returned.”
Newbury pulled his pocket watch from his jacket and popped open the cover. He consulted the dial. “We still have a couple of hours of light,” he said to Black.
“You can’t be serious!” exclaimed the barman, clearly taken aback. “After everything I’ve just said, you’re considering going in there?”
Newbury shrugged. “Someone has to get to the bottom of what’s going on,” he said. “And I do enjoy some old-fashioned haunted woods.”
“You’re mad!” said the barman, shaking his head.
“Quite possibly,” said Newbury. “Are you with me, Templeton?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” replied Black, clapping Newbury on the shoulder.
“Then God help you both,” muttered the barman, dramatically. “God help you both.”
VII
The woods were as sinister up close as they had appeared from the terrace at the manor that morning. Towering trees, divested of their foliage for the season, stood like stoop-backed sentries, guardians protecting some impregnable realm. Their branches were spiky and gnarled, and to Black seemed like the jagged limbs of an ancient, tentacled beast, poised and waiting to strike. A dark path, shrouded in shadow, led deeper into the heart of the wood.
“It does seem rather... unwelcoming,” said Newbury. “I can understand why the villagers have come to believe there’s something supernatural going on. There’s a definite atmosphere about the place.”
“You can say that again,” said Black. “Are you sure you want to go in there?” He paused, and then decided to say what was on his mind. “We could come back tomorrow, when there’s more light. We could be better prepared.”
“For what?” said Newbury. “How can we prepare for something that may not even exist? We don’t know what we’re going up against, if, indeed, we’re going up against anything at all. There may be a perfectly reasonable explanation for the missing people.”
“Like a wild animal with a big appetite,” muttered Black, knowing all too well that Newbury was not to be dissuaded from his current plan.
“You have your revolver?” asked Newbury, as if that would be an end to the matter.
Black looked surprised. “What revolver? I never carry a revolver.”
“You don’t?” said Newbury, frowning. “Then what about last week, when I went charging into the midst of all those oriental gangsters? You were covering me with a revolver then, weren’t you?”
“I was not,” replied Black.
Newbury swallowed. “But... I told you to cover me. What if I hadn’t been able to fend them off?”
“You bellowed ‘cover me’ as you went barging in,” said Black. “You didn’t give me chance to ask what with!”
Newbury raised both eyebrows, and then shook his head. “Remind me to buy you a revolver,” he said. He clapped his hands abruptly. “Right, come on. No time like the present.” He trudged off in the direction of the tree line.
Sighing, Black hurried to keep up.
VIII
The path through the woods was flanked on either side by an avenue of ancient oaks, and had obviously been cleared many years earlier to form a bridle path. Now, the fingers of the old trees were beginning to encroach, feeling their way out tentatively into the human world, reclaiming the habitat that was once theirs. Black found himself twisting and weaving to avoid them where the path became narrow.
Underfoot, the dirt track had given way to a spongy carpet of moss that was slowly consuming everything, including the fallen branches of long-dead trees, and the trunks of those still living. He wondered how many people had come this way in recent years—he suspected very few. With a shudder, he considered whether the missing villagers might be under that mossy carpet somewhere, their corpses slowly succumbing to its cloying embrace. There was certainly no sign of them or their recent passing, and the place had an air of desolation about it; wild and untamed.
The light was beginning to fade and the setting sun cast long, eerie shadows all about them. Black couldn’t help feeling hemmed in by the looming trees. He had the ridiculous notion that their progress was being observed. He pressed on regardless, however, trying to keep up with Newbury, who seemed intent on pushing ever deeper into the woods in search of answers. He’d noticed this tendency in Newbury before—an unrelenting need to get to the truth, no matter the consequences or personal risk. It was an admirable trait, but also a deeply infuriating one. Black considered suggesting they turn back for the day, try again the following morning, but there would be no stopping Newbury, not now his mind was made up. Black trudged on, his feet sinking in the bracken.
Presently, the trees on either side of the path began to thin and open out, and the path itself became wider, eventually giving way to a large copse. From here the path wound away deeper into the heart of the wood, but it was the presence of an old, tumbledown cottage that drew Black’s immediate attention.
The building was small and constructed from local stone, and was in a terrible state of disrepair. It had about it the sense of somewhere that had been abandoned for years; trees had forced their way inside the structure, their branches poking through the shattered windows and splintered stonework, or growing up and out through large holes in the thatched roof. Moss and lichen clung to the lintels; vines and creepers dripped from the guttering. No lights burned in the windows, and Black suspected they had not for some time. If this was the house belonging to Old Mab, then she had clearly quit the place a good while ago—far longer than the handful of months implied by the barman at The Saracen’s Head. Everything about the cottage suggested it was returning to nature, left to spoil and degenerate, given over to the trees and the moss.
“I think this must be the place Mr Blackstone was searching for,” said Newbury, approaching the building and peering in through one of the windows. What remained of the glass was smeared with mossy spores, and a thick bundle of ropey branches erupted from the hole, obscuring the interior from view. The door, however, was hanging open on one damaged hinge, hinting at a shadowy room beyond.
“Well, there’s clearly no one living here,” said Black, glad for the brief respite from their forced march through the trees. He reached into his jacket and withdrew his silver cigarette tin, popping it open and extracting a Guinea Gold. He rested it between his lips while he sought out his box of Lucifers. “Perhaps Old Mab has moved on, and when the valet discovered the house, he abandoned his search.”
The light was thin and pale now, peeking through the treetops in narrow shafts and pooling on the mulch by their feet.
“Then why didn’t he return to the manor?” asked Newbury as he circled the decrepit building, searching for any signs of life. The wind whistled loudly through the overhead branches. Pools of dead leaves stirred near Black’s boots. “Surely even the most stubborn of men would want to be surrounded by familiar faces as he faced death?”
Black shrugged, blowing smoke from his nostrils. “Perhaps,” he said, noncommittally. “Or perhaps he wasn’t ready to give up yet. Either way, it doesn’t appear that he found what he was looking for here.”
<
br /> “Hmm,” said Newbury, unsure. “I’m going to take a quick look inside. You wait here.”
Black watched as Newbury picked his way around a twisted knot of tree roots that had erupted from the soil by the threshold, and pushed at the door. The rusted hinge creaked in protest and the door broke free, clattering noisily to the ground. The sudden sound was like a thunderclap in the clearing, and startled birds burst out of the surrounding trees, cawing as they took flight. Startled, Newbury stepped back, glancing over his shoulder at Black. Then, with a shrug, he turned and disappeared inside.
Black took another long draw on his cigarette, kicking idly at the dry leaves. Newbury would return in a few moments to report the house was empty, and then hopefully he’d relent, allowing them to make the long trek back to the manor before night set in. They’d have to resume their search for the missing valet in the morning.
“That was qui—” Black sensed movement and glanced up at the cottage expecting to see Newbury in the doorway, but everything was still and the words died on his lips. He paused, listening intently, tuning out the background sounds of the wood. There it was again: a noise like the rustling of dry leaves. This time it was followed by something that sounded very much like a strangled gasp.
“Sir Maurice?” Without hesitation Black rushed to the door of the cottage, ducking his head beneath the lintel and scrabbling in to look for Newbury. It was gloomy inside, and the first thing that struck him was the thick, mouldy stench of the place. The second was that Newbury appeared to be grappling with a writhing tree root that had snaked around his neck and was attempting to lift him off his feet.
“Get... it... off... me!” gurgled Newbury, when he caught sight of Black in the doorway, cigarette still drooping from his lips. Newbury’s arms flailed dramatically, beating ineffectually at his wooden attacker.
In the dim light of the building it was difficult to ascertain exactly what was happening, how best to help. The single room that comprised the ground floor of the building was festooned with hanging roots and branches, curling down from the ceiling, sprouting up through the broken floor, or worming in through cracks in the dry stone walls. They curled and writhed like the tentacles of some dreadful sea monster, alive and full of malicious intent.
Dead leaves covered the floor like a shifting carpet, and the detritus of a former, inhabited home created bizarre juxtapositions: a framed tapestry of two herons nestled amongst sinewy vines; a mahogany tea trolley clutched in the embrace of two claw-like branches; the contents of a bookcase blooming open like paper flowers, speared on the ends of new shoots.
Most disturbingly, at the heart of all this, a figure sat in the ruins of an armchair, nestled amongst the rustling branches. She had once been human—most likely the old witch whom Newbury, Black and the valet before them had sought—but now she was something else entirely, a twisted amalgam of a human being and a tree. Five or six supple branches erupted through the front of her chest, curling about her like probing tentacles; vines snaked around her throat; a thick, translucent root burst from the back of her skull. Her eyes had taken on a dead, milky aspect, and her flesh was dry and smooth, as if it were slowly transforming into the pliable bark of the parasite that had infested her body.
All around her, discarded amongst the dry, brown leaves, lay the desiccated husks of the dead, their hollow bodies ensnared in the web-like roots. One of them was attired in the remnants of a police constable’s uniform. Others were less discernible, left for too long to degrade amongst the mulch. These, then, were the missing villagers, the people who had come to Old Mab in search of her help. Black felt bile rising in his gullet.
At her feet lay the recently dead corpse of a man—the valet, Black presumed. More of the translucent roots pierced his chest, slowly draining the fluid from inside of him. Black could see it being drawn into the root system as if it were being sucked through a straw.
“Temple... ton!” bellowed Newbury, and Black fell back just in time to avoid the lash of one of Old Mab’s branches as it whipped out toward his head. He stumbled and caught hold of the doorframe, and the witch-thing cackled loudly, dead leaves tumbling from her open mouth as she turned to glower at him with her dead eyes.
Black fought rising panic. They had to get out of there before they ended up like the valet, like the dead villagers.
Black rushed to Newbury’s side, leaping over a trailing branch and grasping hold of the limb that held him. Black wrenched sharply but the branch simply flexed in his grip, and Newbury spluttered and hacked as it constricted around his throat.
Black cast around for something he could use as a weapon, but the branches were all around him now, curling around to ensnare him. He felt something close around his calf and glanced down to see roots snaking up from the ground, weaving around his boots and left leg. All the while, the witch-thing continued her hollow laugh.
Newbury’s breathing was constricted, his face swelling, his cheeks flushed. Black had moments to act.
He reached for the cigarette that still dangled from his bottom lip. Steadying himself, he took one last, long draw, and then twisted in the grip of the roots that were now clawing at his waist and flicked the butt towards the old woman. It landed amongst the dry leaves on her lap, disappearing from view.
Newbury kicked out as the branch lifted him wholly off the ground, and his thrashing uncovered the remnants of a shattered mirror amongst the fallen leaves. Jagged teeth of glass were scattered around a gilded oval frame.
Straining against his bonds, Black stooped low and snatched up a fragment of broken glass, curling his fingers around it as the roots that clutched his legs constricted more tightly, twisting him about. He thrashed, lashing out, jabbing the sharp edge into the sinewy branch that held Newbury, slicing deep into the thick, pulpy flesh. The witch-thing screamed, and Black struck again and again, worrying away at the limb that held his friend. Its grip loosened fractionally, and Newbury frantically dragged air into his starving lungs.
By this time the leaves in the woman’s lap had begun to smoulder. Black could smell them burning, and he twisted, watching as the smoke thickened and intensified until sprightly flames began to lick at the edges of the chair. He felt the grip on his ankles loosen and began to pull free, but was forced to watch in horror as Newbury was flung bodily across the room. He crashed into an old sideboard and dropped heavily to the ground. Empty tumblers and shards of broken glass rained down upon his back as he lay still and silent, face down in the dirt.
Old Mab threw her head back and screamed—a shrill, guttural shriek that caused the hair on the nape of Black’s neck to stand on end—and one of her branches flicked out, striking him painfully in the chest and sending him sprawling to the floor.
He bashed the side of his head against an overturned lamp stand and rolled, fighting a wave of nausea. He scrambled to his knees, dodging a flailing appendage as she took another swipe at him, this time narrowly missing his face.
His right palm was bleeding where he’d caught it on something in the fall, but he had no time to worry about it. He had to get to Newbury.
He could feel the heat of the fire on the side of his face as he dragged himself to his feet, and a quick glance at the witch-thing told him the Guinea Gold had done its job. The flames had spread to Old Mab herself, hungrily consuming her ancient, tattered clothes and her strange wooden flesh. As she squirmed, her flaming limbs served to spread the fire, dripping incendiary puddles around the room and igniting more of the brittle leaves and dry twigs.
Black staggered across to where Newbury was lying, dropping to his knees and rolling the other man over. Newbury’s head lolled, his complexion pale. His eyes were closed, and blood streamed from a deep laceration in his left cheek.
Black felt his heart race, panicked that he was too late, that the witch had already squeezed the life out of Newbury, or that the sudden blow that had tossed him across the room had caused his heart to give out. He put a hand on Newbury’s chest, and felt a flood o
f relief when he realised the man was still drawing shallow, but regular, breath.
“Sir Maurice?” he said, his voice an urgent croak. “Newbury?”
Newbury stirred, his face creasing in a deep frown as his head turned slowly towards Black. He didn’t open his eyes. “Templeton?” he said, quietly.
The crackling of the flames had now become a desperate roar as the fire crept up the walls, licking at the ceiling. Oily smoke stung Black’s eyes, causing him to hack and splutter. All the while, the screaming, violent death throes of the witch-thing continued behind him.
“Get up!” bellowed Black, grabbing Newbury beneath the shoulders and hauling him up to a sitting position. “Now!”
Newbury opened his eyes and looked woozily at Black, struggling to focus.
“My apologies, Sir Maurice,” said Black, drawing back his hand, “but please don’t consider this my resignation.” He brought his palm back round with a sharp swing, striking Newbury hard across the right cheek.
Newbury howled in shock, lurching back, pushing at Black. For a moment he glowered at Black accusingly, but then his eyes appeared to regain their focus and he shook his head as if clearing the fog. He glanced from side to side, getting his bearings.
“I... I...” he stammered, searching for words.
“Can you walk?” asked Black, getting to his feet. He kept his back stooped to avoid the thick pall of smoke that was settling over the room.
“I think so,” replied Newbury. Black grabbed him by the forearms and pulled him up, taking care to steady him as he tottered.
It was difficult now to discern the opening of the door from the walls of angry flame that surrounded it; difficult even to be clear about which direction they were facing. Black decided he would have to trust his instinct. Any longer at the heart of the inferno and the two of them would be asphyxiated or roasted alive.
“This way,” he said, grabbing Newbury’s upper arm and leading him carefully—but swiftly—towards where he thought the door to be. The interior of the cottage now resembled a Hellish inferno, and the two men were forced to run a gauntlet around blazing stumps, flaming coffee tables and collapsing timbers from above.