The Wolfstone Curse

by Justin Richards

  The steps seemed to go down for ever, arriving at last in a huge vaulted chamber that was more like a crypt than a cellar. There was light – flickering lamps stood on tall iron stands in the alcoves. Candles, fixed with their own wax to stone shelves, gave off a smoky light. Some were burned almost right down, others snuffed out.

  Moonlight streamed in through small windows high on the outside walls – windows that were no more than narrow, curved holes cut into the stone roof. Crescents of moonlight, shining down on a line of carved tombs down the centre of the vault. Like crusader knights lying on stone caskets…

  But Peter barely registered any of this.

  His attention was on the girl.

  She lay sprawled on the floor, her long, fair hair spilling round her hands as she wept into them. His fear was washed away by the sight of her. Peter wanted to run to her, to hold her, to tell her everything would be all right. He’d make sure everything was all right.

  But he couldn’t get close. Because she was lying inside a huge cage, its bars gleaming in the moonlight like polished silver.

  The cage was locked, like a prison cell. Peter shook the door, but there was no way it was going to open. The girl shuffled away, across the stone floor, pushing herself backwards on scratched, bare feet, watching him through red-rimmed eyes.

  “Annabelle?”

  She didn’t react.

  “You’re Annabelle, aren’t you?” Peter said gently. “Who put you in here?” The question made him suddenly aware of how much danger they must be in. He looked round, listening for the slightest sound. As far as he could tell, they were alone. But that didn’t stop the cold prickle of sweat between his shoulder blades, or the lump of fear in his throat.

  She didn’t answer, but watched Peter warily. Her face was grimy and tear-stained. Her hair matted and her plain white dress torn and discoloured. Her eyes were wide with fear – and just possibly hope.

  He reached through the bars. She didn’t react, but she didn’t back away again either. She was crying quietly, whimpering like a wounded animal.

  “It’s all right,” Peter assured her. “I’ll get you out of there, I promise. Is there a key somewhere? We have to hurry.”

  She had her face buried in her hands again. Was she even listening?

  “Annabelle!”

  She looked up, startled by the urgency in his voice.

  “I said, I’ll get you out of there, all right?” He took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. But his heart was racing and he was sweating, despite the cold. Angry as well as afraid. Who the hell had put her in here? “My name’s Peter. I saw you in the tower, do you remember?”

  He checked his phone. The signal bars had been replaced with ‘Searching…’

  Her hair had fallen forward but he could see her eyes watching him closely from between lank strands. She leaned forward, and crawled slowly towards him on hands and knees. Peter reached through the bars again, and this time she took his hand. Her body was trembling. Her long fingernails dug into Peter’s hand as she held it tight.

  He put his other hand through, and patted her shoulder. Stroked her hair. He didn’t know what to do really. She flinched at his touch, but then seemed to accept it. It was like comforting a frightened cat.

  “I’ll find something to open this cage,” he said. “Something I can use as a lever, maybe.”

  He made to withdraw his hand, but she gripped him even tighter, pulling him close. Her other arm thrust through the bars, and round his neck. He thought she wanted to whisper something, and let her pull his head close. Instead, she pressed her own face to the bars on the other side, and kissed him.

  He was so shocked, he didn’t move. All he could think of was that despite the dirt and the dust, the tears and the smoking candles, she smelled of rose petals.

  He slowly withdrew his arms from the cage. She kept hold of his hand for as far as she could reach. She was holding on so tight it hurt. A ring on her finger dug into Peter’s flesh – a large, silver ring. He gently eased her finger open with his other hand. The ring caught the flickering candlelight and he saw that it was engraved with the head of a wolf.

  She pulled her arm back into the cage, and sat with her knees pulled up tight to her chest, watching Peter as he backed away.

  “There has to be something,” he said out loud. “A crowbar, maybe?”

  The metal stand on which one of the oil lamps stood was too large and unwieldy to fit between the bars of the cage. The nearest tomb offered no help either, just the effigy of a knight lying impassive and useless, his features worn away by age. The sword he clasped to his chest was carved stone. The cracked and worn remains of an animal lay curled at the knight’s feet. A hunting dog… or a wolf.

  The edges of the chamber disappeared into darkness and shadow. Peter shone his torch into the gloom. He took a step backwards as the torchlight revealed another shape. It glittered as the torch picked it out, as if hungry for the light. A standing stone – just like the ones in the Wolfstone Circle. But this one was built into the wall of the chamber, so that it seemed to jut out from the stone like a rocky pustule about to burst.

  “I’ll have to go for help,” Peter decided. He ran back to the cage, pressing his face to the bars. “Sorry – I’ll be as quick as I can.” He thought for a moment she was going to grab and kiss him again. His heart leaped at the thought. But she just stood on the other side of the bars, looking back at him. Afraid. Alone.

  There was noise from above. The unmistakable sound of footsteps on the stone steps down to the chamber. Someone was coming.

  Annabelle looked up, then back at Peter. Her eyes were wide open with terror. She knew who it was – and they weren’t coming to help.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, hoping she would understand. “I’ll be here. I’ll do what I can.” He switched off the torch and pressed back into the gloom, hiding behind the protruding stone.

  She continued to stare across the chamber, even though Peter was sure she couldn’t see him. He was desperate to help her, to do something – anything. Whoever it was, Peter would charge at them – knock them to the ground and find the keys to the cage. But any hope that he could free Annabelle was dispelled as soon as the figures emerged into the guttering light.

  There were four of them. Their dark cloaks seemed to absorb the light. Hoods shadowed their faces. Two of the figures stood either side of the entrance – sinister sentinels framing the steps behind. The other two approached the silver cage.

  Annabelle scuttled back, as far away from them as she could get, pressed against the bars at the back of the cage. One of the cloaked figures unlocked the door and swung it open.

  Immediately, the girl hurled herself at him, snarling and scratching, punching and biting. Peter forced himself to stay still. The two men grabbed Annabelle. One held her wrists, the other caught her round the waist. Peter forced himself to stay still, his hands bunched into tight, frustrated fists. If there had just been the two of them he might have been able to help her escape. But the other two figures watched impassively as their fellows dragged Annabelle towards the stairway.

  Peter had surprise on his side. They couldn’t know he was here, watching. Maybe he’d get his chance. He had to follow, see where they took Annabelle. As she struggled, she twisted and turned, looking back over her shoulder, her expression pleading and terrified.

  The fight seemed to go out of her. A sudden acceptance of the inevitable, or perhaps she was saving her strength for whatever was to come. For a moment, the chamber was silent. Then she yelled out, and kicked and struggled again.

  One of the figures slapped Annabelle hard across the face. Her head snapped round under the force of the blow. Her screams and shouts became a wail of pain. Peter took a step forward. It was all he could do to stop himself rushing at them there and then – yelling and screaming. But it wouldn’t help.

  The man who had slapped Annabelle reached out for her again. He took hold of her chin, and turned her face gently back
towards his. Her whimpering died away as she stared into the blackness under his hood.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “But the sooner we get you to the circle, the sooner we can finish this.”

  Peter watched in surprise as the man stroked Annabelle’s cheek. She closed her eyes, did not resist as they led her away.

  As soon as they were gone, Peter checked his phone. There was a signal. Here beside the standing stone, the phone had two bars. Should he call someone or follow the men who had taken Annabelle? If he moved, he might lose the signal. They were going to the circle – the man had said so. Call, then follow.

  But call who? Dad was miles away. Whose number did he know? He scrolled down his list of stored numbers. He paused at Carys’s name. But in his mind’s eye, Peter could see the silver manacles and chain – it had to be connected somehow with the eerie silver cage across the chamber from him. He scrolled on…

  A tired voice answered on the third ring.

  “Peter? What time is it? I was asleep. What do you want?”

  “Just listen, David,” Peter hissed.

  David Forrest sounded more awake now. He could probably hear the urgency in Peter’s voice. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m at Wolfstone Manor.”

  “Where?!”

  “There’s some sort of crypt or vault underneath that tower at the back.”

  “What the hell are you— “

  “Just listen, will you?” Peter demanded. “I tried to help her, really I did. But I couldn’t get the cage open. And now they”ve taken her away. They’re taking her to the circle.”

  “What are you talking about?” David said. “Have you had a nightmare or something? Who couldn’t you help? Who have they taken?”

  “Annabelle!” Peter almost shouted into the phone. “Don’t you understand? She was here. I saw her at the window, and now they”ve taken her away. They”ve got your sister!”

  There was silence at the other end of the phone.

  “David – are you still there? Did you hear what I said?”

  But the signal had gone, and the phone was dead.

  The journey through the manor grounds was a nightmare. Peter didn’t dare use the torch. Although the sky was clear and the moon was almost full, he tripped and stumbled more times than he could remember. With every step, every stumble, he thought the men in cloaks would materialise out of the shadows to grab him.

  Even before he reached the Wolfstone Circle, he saw that the whole area was lit by the headlights of vehicles parked close by.

  His phone signal was still intermittent. Should he call the police? But what would he tell them – he had no idea what was going on. Hooded figures stood inside the circle – more of them now, maybe a dozen.

  Right in the middle, two of the cloaked figures held Annabelle by the arms, stretched out between them. She stared defiantly into the night, the breeze tugging at her dress. The other figures stood at the edge of the circle, mirroring the stones.

  Peter dropped to the ground, as close to the circle as he dared. Any closer and he’d be picked out by the headlights. But what now? If they saw him, if they caught him, that wouldn’t help Annabelle.

  The closest of the cloaked figures turned towards where Peter was lying on his stomach. Peter pressed himself down into the cold grass. He could feel the damp ground give under his weight. Tufts of grass pressed uncomfortably into him. After a moment he dared to raise his head, ready to leap to his feet and run for it.

  Mercifully, the figure was moving back towards Annabelle and the circle. As he turned, moonlight filtered through the darkness beneath the hood. For a moment, Peter thought he saw a grotesque, misshapen face – an elongated snout, massive jaws, yellowed eyes…

  Carys. If there was anyone Peter wanted with him now, it was Carys. He didn’t care what he’d found in the cellar. He just wanted her there. He had to move to tease his phone out of his pocket. Every movement was a risk. Every breath an effort.

  His phone had a weak signal. He didn’t dare call – his voice might carry to the circle. He’d text her. But – would she come? Would she believe he needed her help?

  He held the phone as steady as he could, making sure the flash was turned off . The click of the camera seemed incredibly loud. The image was blurred – distant and indistinct.

  Peter texted the image and a short message to Carys. As soon as he sent it, he wished he hadn’t. What if she and her mother were actually here, at the circle, right now? He strained to hear if anyone received a text. Stared at each of the cloaked figures to see if any of them checked their phone. The cold of the ground was seeping right through his body, chilling his blood.

  Noise and confusion now. Just one of the robed figures remained at the edge of the circle, close to one of the stones, reaching down under its edge. The others closed in on Annabelle. Her screams split the night.

  At the sound, Peter leaped to his feet, all thoughts of his own safety gone. She needed help, and she needed it now.

  He charged forward, shouting at them to stop – to leave her alone. Annabelle’s screams had changed to snarls of anger. He couldn’t see her – the figures were so close round her. A blur of movement between them. Somewhere a dog barked.

  Peter charged into Annabelle’s captors. One staggered away. Another snatched at Peter’s arm, pulling him almost off balance. As they turned towards Peter, a grey shape hurled itself at the cloaked figures from inside the circle, from behind them. Peter had no chance to see what it was. Hands grabbed at him. He struggled, fought, yelled, punched, kicked…

  Then he was on the ground, his arm yanked up his back so far he thought it would be torn from the socket. A cloaked figure dropped to its knees beside Peter.

  Hot, rancid breath reeked out from beneath the hood.

  He was hauled to his feet. The figure in front of him threw off its hood and stared angrily at Peter.

  He could only stare back in astonishment. “You?!”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Sebastian Forrest demanded. “You almost ruined everything.”

  “Me?” Peter was aghast. “What about you? What are you doing? You keep your own daughter caged up then bring her here for this…” He didn’t know what the word was.

  Forrest was taken aback. For a second, Peter thought the man was going to hit him. He seemed to be struggling to keep control.

  “You know nothing,” Forrest snarled eventually. His head was swaying slowly, like a dog scenting the air. “Get him out of here.”

  “Where shall we take him?” one of the men holding Peter asked. His voice was a guttural bark.

  “I don’t care… Just away from here. Now! Then we’ll try again.”

  As the two men holding Peter dragged him out of the circle, someone was running towards Forrest and the others – a silhouette in the headlights of the parked cars. As the figure grew closer, Peter recognised it. He didn’t know whether he should be surprised or relieved to see David.

  Forrest was clearly shaken by his son’s arrival however, and though Peter was too far away now to hear what they said, the body language between them was tense and confrontational. David pointed angrily into the circle, past the cloaked and hooded figures that stood within it.

  Sebastian Forrest jabbed his finger – as if emphasising a point he had made in previous arguments. He shook his head, turned away. But David grabbed his arm and pulled him back round.

  Forrest shook off his son’s hand and pushed him away.

  This time Peter caught the words. “I’ve told you,” Forrest shouted. “It’s too late. Do you think I’d lie about it? About something like that?”

  “But you kept Annabelle locked up and didn’t think to even mention it?” David yelled back. “You’ll try for her, but—”

  The rest of his words were lost in the sudden noise. Searchlights raked down from above. Peter’s hair was blown back. The whole place was a maelstrom of sound and wind and light.

  The helicopter was com
ing down on the side of the circle where the men were holding Peter. They stared up in surprise at the dark shape hidden in the glare of its own searchlights, which now illuminated the scene. Peter wrenched himself free and sprinted for cover. The men who’d held him ran the other way, towards the circle.

  “It’s him!” one of them yelled. “It’s the Old One!”

  The figures in the circle all turned to watch the helicopter settle heavily on the ground, its searchlights angled towards the Wolfstone Circle. A dark shape charged through the ring of figures and bounded off into the darkness. Forrest started to run after it, but his son grabbed him and pulled him back.

  The dark shape charged straight at Peter as he crouched in the long grass. It was a large dog – like the one he had seen at the churchyard, but sleeker. A streak of lighter fur ran from the top of the animal’s head down its back. It grazed past Peter, knocking him sideways, then it was gone – bounding off towards the woods.

  What the hell was going on? He dropped down so that he was lying in a slight hollow, concealed in the longer grass, and watched as the side door of the helicopter slid open.

  Half a dozen uniformed figures jumped down from the helicopter and approached the circle. They carried guns, and moved together with the practised ease of soldiers. Or a pack of animals hunting their prey.

  One of the soldiers paused, caught full in the beam of the searchlight. Instinctively, Peter shuffled backwards as the soldier glanced his way. Even so, he had a clear view. He saw the dark grey uniform with its high collar and double-breasted tunic. The black boots. The dark frame of what looked like a machine pistol, which the man held in black-gloved hands.

  If it was a man.

  There was something about him – the slight hunch when he walked; the shape of the face…

  The soldiers formed a double line, like an honour guard. Peter held his breath. A root or branch was pressing painfully into his side, but he didn’t dare move. What now?