The Revenants

by Alec Dunn

  The park was large, an overgrown, patchy field of grass that stretched away from the black tarmac path into the distance of the evening. Strong gusts of wind pulled at the grass and sent waves rippling over the field. Tall trees, old trees, stood sentinel in the approaching gloom of night. Their branches shook. A storm was coming.

  A frail figure, wrapped in thick winter coat and huddled against the wind took small, careful steps on thin brittle legs along the smooth tarmac, an elderly woman alone in the twilight of the evening. She pulled behind her a tartan shopping basket on large white plastic wheels – too frail to carry her shopping anymore. She walked under the branches of the tall trees lining the path and could hear their suspicious whispers in the breeze. Her shoulders were hunched and her head was bowed. She muttered to herself from within her protective headscarf. Her speech was disconnected and confused.

  “Peter, Peter. Where is Peter? I was watching him play.

  He’ll be wanting his supper soon; tired and hungry and ready for bed.

  No bath tonight, Peter. Just a kiss for your mother and then I’ll be off to work.”

  It was too late for an old woman to be walking in the park.

  “Hark at the little one! Stay up all night! Tis past bedtime and no mistake.”

  It was too late for a confused, frail old woman to be walking alone.

  “Tch,” she clucked. “Midnight is the witching hour, Peter, and all good little boys and girls should be fast asleep by then. The witching hour, Peter.”

  The distant church bells tolled ten.

  “What was that, dearie? Supper will need to be laid. Peter will be getting hungry… Where is Peter?”

  The night was approaching.

  Other sounds came from somewhere behind her, unclear, but shrill, abrasive, selfish. And the sounds were getting louder. The old woman didn’t seem to notice them and continued muttering to herself, seemingly completely wrapped up in her winter coat and memories, in her own little world.

  A tightly gathered gang of teenagers walked some distance behind the slowly shuffling steps of the old woman. They were like a pack, moving as one and they were moving swiftly towards her. They were laughing and they were swearing and they were getting quickly louder.

  “Nah, nah. What’s that shit you rub on your chest to help you breathe and that?”

  “You’re a bloody pervert.”

  “It’s well good. It tingles an’ that. I love it.”

  “You’re such a wanker!”

  Loud, shrill laughter, getting louder.

  “My mum’s got this little pot of hand-cream. It’s well expensive, like twenty quid for a tiny bottle.”

  The large plastic wheels of the shopping trolley stood out in the night, drawing attention to the old woman. A dull drone of plastic against path and intermittent squeal of wheel against axle became noticeable. She seemed to be trying to walk faster, trying to get away. Her face was burrowed down into her clothes, hidden by the tartan headscarf, but she glanced behind her. She shook her head, whether in nervousness or worry was unclear.

  “Peter?” she called the name softly. “It’s supper time, time for supper. Are you there, Peter? Are you hungry?”

  The gang was still too far away to hear her tremulous words. The confused old woman stood, looking for the face of Peter in the approaching gang. Her agitation and weakness couldn’t have been more obvious, dithering alone on the path, talking to people who were only present in her memories.

  A girl in the middle of the group screamed, a piercing sound, cutting through the still evening, and the shrill noise was followed by an explosion of baying laughter.

  The noise was intimidating.

  They were so confident and loud. There was no confusion in their minds. They were clear and clean. They had no memories to fill them with sorrow, no memories that weighed them down. They had lost no children and didn’t think about people who had. For the gang everything was black and white, so clear. There was only the now and the sensations and life.

  The girls screaming laughter continued mixed with shouted words, “Gerroff, you twat! Stop touchin’ my arse.”

  “Hussy!” muttered the old woman, “Jezebel! Peter wouldn’t like to be seen with the like of them. Not Peter, my boy, my good boy.”

  The bent form turned in her disgust and staggered quickly on, trying to outpace the approaching gang. The spreading stain of nights shadow merged the path with the surrounding grass into a single dark mass. The encroaching trees at the side of the path became an enveloping wall of waving branches and wavering blackness.

  The old woman struggled to walk faster and stumbled, weak and upset: prey. The gang of teenagers were level with her now, swearing and laughing and talking, they moved as a single group, a unified pack, tight and organised, raucous and animalistic. And whether she had stumbled and that made her shopping trolley tip over or whether one of them knocked it or kicked it was unclear, but it overturned and she fell to her knees, crying out a loud and desperate cry. She was ripe for the taking, a victim ready to be victimised. But they moved past her. They seemed completely unaware of her, stepping around her as though she was a post or a tree stump in their way. She was invisible to them. And as they went past her, they laughed, shouted, swore.

  But not at her.

  She was not important to them.

  The fragile, lone figure knelt on the cold tarmac of the night, staring after the group. After a moment, letting the distance between them grow, she slowly and wearily tottered to her feet all the while muttering her nonsense within her tartan scarf. “Worms will wriggle, fish will bite, will we eat, we might, we might. Time to come in, Peter, no more playing for now.”

  She carried on walking, dragging her droning shopping basket after her with its squeak, squeak, squeaking wheels. Her stumbling walk was still quicker than might be expected, driven perhaps by fear or adrenaline. Her rambling speech was gathering pace also.

  “Peter’s gone to the church? The church you say? The church? Why? What’s to become of me, say I? Not gone to the church. We have supped enough and do not need the bread and wine. Not for us. Nay, nay. Use your eye and tell me it’s not so, old mother.”

  The teenagers made a sudden turn off the path and walked toward the black shadows of the waving, shifting trees. Their chatter and laughter slowly settled in the gloom as they disappeared, though their progress could be charted by the couple of glowing cigarettes held in their hands.

  The lonely figure paused again, the tartan headscarf turned after them, watching them disappear into the darkness before the bird thin legs with their sensible solid black shoes started moving again, shuffling slowly on. Her mumbled speech was slower now, but no more ordered, “I set a snare to catch a bird and we will eat upon my word.” She was surrounded by the night now, alone in the blackness. “The first I caught was but a wren, so I will set the snare again.”

  The woman seemed safer in her isolation than surrounded by a gang. She was too old and confused to be wandering the park at night. Her sing song muttering burbled on, “Then I caught a great fat swan, we shall eat all week anon.”

  She seemed safe, until something moved behind her.

  “Peter? Is that you?”

  Across the dark fields, against the silhouette of ancient trees, a smaller silhouette swiftly moved. A springy shape, moving fast, chin down in the rising wind, stood out stark against the evening sky. It was cutting across the grass, heading towards the low railings surrounding the children’s play area. The playground where earlier today children had laughed and squealed and their mothers had smiled or scolded was silent now; the swings where the older children came in the night-time to drink and smoke were still, moved only by the wind.

  “Tch.” The tartan headscarf shook, no, no, no. “There be no time to play, Peter. The playground is all closed. Time for bed, dearie, time for bed. Supper’s on the table, it will soon be cold, if you leave it there all week, you’ll be eating mold.” She stood, frail and worried, “Peter?�
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  The play area was empty; nobody was there. The noises from the gang of teenagers were far in the distance and carried only faintly, on the breeze.

  The feeble crooked form watched the silhouette walking to the playground. Even though the hunched back had to twist awkwardly so the tartan scarf could trace the silhouette, she followed its progress across the waving grass. The old woman stood frozen, caught, watching. The silhouette was lithe but bulky, not quite large enough to be a man. Her muttering grew slightly louder, given focus, “Peter? Whither are you bound? For the kirk-yard, child?” Her headscarf looked carefully about, scanning the night to see if anything else was near. “Peter? Is it you?” The silhouette was on its own, disappearing across the field, moving away from her, leaving her alone, leaving her in peace. Her aged call carried louder across the night, “Stay Peter, stay, we shall sup well tonight. Old mother has promised us some meat.” The night wind blew her words back to her, “Wist, child, wist, come away. Turning to the priests, by my troth! Shame on you. Come away. Come to supper, I say.”

  Strangely agitated, the huddled and forlorn shape of the old woman also turned off the path and in quick shuffling steps followed the silhouette. Her deranged muttering continued constantly under her breath as she walked, “Bird and fowl, beast and man, catch and kill, eat what you can.” The tartan headscarf was briefly gripped with a palsied, shaking motion. The old woman stopped as though having a fit. The scarf shook like a snuffling animal and then it was over, and she carried on her hurried way. Behind her the shopping trolley made much less noise on the grass and mud of the field and, but for the squeak, squeak, squeak of the wheels, she might have been lost in the darkness.

  Across the ocean of swaying grass, the children’s play area waited. The silhouette of a young man had let himself in through the squealing safety gate which screeched twice as it swung closed again by itself. It was designed to keep the young children safe, designed to trap them in. He crossed the playground and sat in the middle of a cold bench where only hours before mothers had sat watching their children play in the sunlight.

  He sat alone, hands pressed together as though praying. His eyes stared down at the ground. He was the very image of tortured youth, a young man with troubles who wanted to be alone.

  When the safety gate of the play area opened again a constant, low muttering could just be heard accompanying it. The individual words were too low to hear and they were quickly covered by the shrill, piercing sound of metal grating painfully upon metal. And again the gate screamed as it closed by itself, trapping them in the play area.

  The young man looked up and revealed a younger face than might have been expected from his broad shoulders. Wide, clouded grey eyes stared out from beneath the dark curtain of a fringe.

  The shadowy outline of the old woman hobbled into the play area and stood opposite the bench, separated by swings, a roundabout and a rusting slide. “Peter?” The gate banged closed behind her. The tartan headscarf pointed at him but the no face could be seen in its shadow. “Peter? Is that you?” the frail old woman asked.

  “No.” His reply was terse, brief.

  “I thought you were my Peter. He used to play here. But that was, ah, a long time ago.” Her voice was delicate and she seemed to be drawing on memories, talking to herself rather than the boy in front of her.

  The boy stared at her.

  “Of course,” she continued, “this all used to be fields, but the playground was part of the kirk-yard, dearie. Can you imagine that?” she giggled to herself. “The graves were all around here, bodies mouldering in the ground, row after row of ‘em in their consecrated earth, and my Peter used to play here!” She stopped at the wonder of it. The tartan headscarf shook, no, in disbelief. “All gone, now, all gone. Spire and steeple all toppled long ago. Fire, it was, fire that burnt it down. Lightning struck the spire six times six and you should have seen it crumble.” She giggled again in her reminiscing. “Priests took my Peter, playing in the graves and read him books and verses to put his mind in chains. Took him from me, from the old ways. Look up to the heavens, quoth he. Look to the heavens, sooth, said I! The lightning fell like rain. They knew then who rules in this place. Stone of wall and stone of grave all dug up by farmers, sons of the soil, dearie, serving the old ways. Drove horse and plough through their consecrated earth, through the bones of the dead.” She seemed to pause, relishing the memory.

  “Where is Peter, now?” the boy asked, but his words were cold and flat.

  The tartan scarf cringed to the side as though he was going to beat her and her muttering was rapid, “Knife in heart, blood on stone, you must not ask where love has flown.” Her thin legs staggered forward. She left her wheeled shopping basket behind her and both arms raised imploringly. “It is a sad tale for a mother to tell, too sad, too sad. The priests took him from me, aye, tis truth, but I took him back.” She was standing by the swings where she paused. A thin bird claw of a hand grasped the frame of the swings. The nails were long and dirty. “But it is late, dearie. It’s time for bed and bath and supper. Why is a young morsel like you still out at this hour? The time for sitting in playgrounds is past. You should be home, safe with your mother.”

  “I’m waiting for someone,” the boy said, still fixedly gazing at the old woman.

  The disembodied voice fell out of the blackness of the tartan headscarf. “Who be you waiting for, dearie? There’s no one else near us. There’s no mother coming for you, dearie, and it be supper time. We’re late for our supper; I know, for I feel the hunger.”

  The storm cloud grey eyes stared levelly at her. “For you, old woman. For you.”

  Like snakes her arms drew back and she took a step back. The movement was like watching a film in fast forward, sudden and jerky. “Me, dearie?” The tartan scarf looked off at an angle to the side as though talking to an invisible companion, “Why would you be waiting for an old grandmother like me? You reminded me of my Peter, is all.” Her voice cringed and whined. “I just came to see that you were at peace. I was worried, dearie. I beg ye, don’t hurt a poor old woman.” She was almost throwing herself to the ground so he could attack her.

  The boy’s eyes did not move from the hunched form before him, and he did not move to attack her. “I’ve seen you, old woman. I’ve seen that you would come here tonight. I’ve seen what you do to the people you see are at peace.”

  The headscarf twitched to look to her other side and an unnatural crackling noise accompanied it. “You have the sight?”

  Not even blinking, the boy replied, “Yes.”

  “Wist, wist, and still you came here? Where ye woot I would be?” The ancient voice was keening, eager but whining. The scarf twitched again and slid back from her face and head of its own accord. The old woman’s head thrust ever so slightly forward, revealing itself from the shadows. Like a tortoise’s head emerging from its shell, an incredibly old face, creased and decrepit appeared as she gave a low mutter, “Skin and bone, offal and meat, some’s for stock and some’s a treat.” The forehead was sunken and craggy, the skin had dropped and hung like bags of material upon the visible shape of the skull, the mouth thrust forward with large, jagged, teeth protruding, giving a debased, animalistic quality to the rest of the face. Large random strands of hair sprouted from her cheek and chin and she was dirty. Her eyes were partly hidden by the filthy, sagging flesh and were wide set, adding to her feral, beastlike appearance. “If you have the sight, well ye woot what I am going to do to you. Well, you know it be supper time and we be hungry.” A high pitched, insane, noise followed, a gagging, giggling, choking noise. A hacking, retching noise ended it. “Come and give old granny a kiss, dearie. Come to granny; let me eat your soul!”

  The boy’s eyes didn’t move from her. “I saw what you would do tonight, witch. I saw you come here. I saw the child you would have killed. I sent him home and came to meet you. I saw it all.” The grey eyes didn’t waver. They stared through her, cold. “I saw how you will die.”

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nbsp; “Die? Die? You can’t kill me.” She was shrill with indignation. “I have powers you can’t imagine. You think having the sight gives you some advantage.” Scorn dripped from her every word. “I have been served the dark master for five and a thousand years. I have kissed the dark one and been granted powers beyond the ken of mortals. Fie, fie, you think your petty sight has seen my downfall, you clot. You think you can stare where my eyes can not see? I will blind you, dolt. Dullard, I will feed you your own hands and feet. As though your mortal sight will see beyond mine. You may as well stare at the sun and sooth to say, soon I will kiss you and eat your soul. Do you think you have seen my death? Let us look again, boy, for well I woot, you will see your own.” Writhing, swift movements flung her body in a fast forward blur and she rose onto her toes before rising from the ground itself, till she hovered over the earth, thrashing around in the very air. The tightly wrapped winter coat which enveloped her strained and bulged and buttons popped off.

  The winter coat fell open and a creased and crumpled form moved within the darkness, a monstrous, deformed creature that would not have been so repulsive but for its remaining human aspects. The destroyed, pain filled face, the tatters of clothing that disappeared into the witches insides. Like a moving death mask or an underwater swimmer about to break the water’s surface, the thing was half submerged within her, trapped inside her flesh. “Harken, boy. Priest Peter, my son, supper be soon. But look with your share of the gift and tell this wight of his fate.”

  The thing that had once been Peter, Priest of a church, sucked in air with a sound like someone drawing the final dregs of milkshake through a straw. “Mather, I’m hungry,” it wailed through phlegm.

  “Yes, child, yes, we shall soon sup. But say what you see with your gifts. Tell this wight a prophecy. Who will die tonight? Be it him or me?”

  Again, the painfully wet drawing in of breath, “In the Shadowlands she be alone, waiting for her love.” Another laboured liquid inhalation. “Tis sight ye have and sight so sharp that cuts you so you bleed, who placed there an offering that’s taken root indeed? It has no power beyond the sight, so why has it not taken flight?” It broke off to cry in despair, “I’m hungry, mather, feed me!”