These Our Monsters

by Katherine Davey

  You go over to the table where Lorin is writing on her notebook cover. She is writing her name. There’s a little pointy roof over the i, not a dot. You move to the empty chair beside her so your bum is half on and half off the seat. She looks up at you with dark eyes. Hi, you say. She doesn’t say anything. Her hair is curly and black and tied with a piece of ribbon. She’s wearing the lilac slippers that she changes into every morning. Mrs Callahan explained to the class before she started that Lorin might stay at the school a while or a long time or might have to leave again soon, but everyone should make her feel welcome as a Blackbird. Lorin looks down at her book again. Mrs Callahan claps everyone to come over to the carpet. She calls the register and chooses Bethany to take it to the office. Bethany chooses Florence to help her.

  After school you decide to go back to the circle and ask the tall stone a question. On the way you pick up a good stick and whack the cow parsley along the roadside, which is frothing like milkshake. You whip the heads clean off the stalks. You can hear a tractor chugging in a nearby field. No one is around at the circle and shadows are beginning to stretch behind each pillar. You think about the smaller humans that lived in Britain long ago in turf-houses and huts, rolling and dragging and heaving up huge pieces of rock, making sun-clocks and doorways and dolmens. They did it all with their hands. You think about the magical stories, men and women changed, because something in them was different, and they wouldn’t follow rules, because they upset people.

  Rain is just starting – big splattery splots – but you don’t get your coat out of your backpack. You can see the roof of the cottage, your bedroom window. Dark smoke is pouring up out of the garth – TJ’s burning something again. You do the count clockwise, then backwards. You look up as the tall stone leans over you. It’s the first time you’ve ever asked her something. Usually it’s all one way; her words come trickling into you. You try to concentrate. Why? Why should you help your brother, when he’s such a bastard to everyone? Thinking it makes you feel angry all over again.

  You put your ear on the tall stone’s spiral. You wait. Nothing. Just a hum and heartbeat inside your ear. You lift your head away. It’s raining properly and her sandstone is dark red, like the rust on the Nissen hut, or old bracken. She has a stonier smell when she’s wet. You know rain makes things smell more what they are. Like Barns’ fur after he’d been swimming in the river. Like the grass and gorse on the moor. The tall stone isn’t speaking, because she’s stone, just stone, and you feel stupid and angry and exactly like a child.

  You run back over the moor, between the daughters, and over the road to the cottage. Your mum’s car isn’t there, but you don’t take the key out from under the pot, open the door and go inside to watch television. Instead, you walk over to the Nissen hut. You skirt along the nailed wooden barricades. Smoke from the bonfire billows up above the garth, in great, mushroomy wafts. Even though it’s raining, you know it won’t go out. TJ’s put petrol on – there’s that tang in your nose like off a garage floor. You’ve never liked his bonfires, with their nasty fumes, but also because of how important and strange they are.

  You move quietly to the spot where the holly tree juts out and prop your backpack against the trunk. It’s the hardest tree to climb; the leaves are thick and stabby and you never get up it without scratches. But it’s the only place where you can see properly into TJ’s secret world. The lower branches are knotty, with foot-steppers and holds. Higher up the hard green leaves bunch together and you have to scrape through spiky tunnels. You used to think the leaves were shrinking in, but you’re just getting bigger and the tree measures you. This time you snag your sleeve and it takes a while to unpick it. The leaves rake your scalp. You wriggle down a branch that looms over the garth and look through a gap in the green, trying to spy TJ.

  You see him walking towards the fire. You see him, but it’s more like seeing some awful thing that looks like him. He’s not wearing clothes. His skin is dark and his arms and legs are thin and dirty as old elastic bands. There’s a black patch of hair on his crotch but he moves too quickly to see anything inside. The hair on his head is long and matty, twisted over one shoulder. When he turns, his backside is almost not there, just a dark crack with hardly any meat either side. He squats down by the bonfire, crouches very still, and you aren’t quite sure he’s real. It’s like the shock of seeing a big, rare animal, its muscle and fur.

  The flames lift high. They crackle up through a table made of brick with a metal grill – a bigger version of where he used to barbecue trout. You can’t see what he’s burning on it. Joinedup sacks of something. A round lump slumps off one side of the grill and two long bits dangle the other side. The loose threads of hessian flare red. Smoke chugs up and out. Where the septic cut was on his leg, there’s an ugly scar. Your mum wanted him to get stitches because it kept opening and filling with pus. In the end, Ed got pills from a friend without a prescription. Now it’s a wide patch of grey-white, shiny and pitted, like a battle mark in an elephant’s hide. Your brother doesn’t move. He is so still he almost disappears into the background. You don’t move either, scared that he’ll see or hear. You’re covered by thick, camouflaging leaves, a T-shirt and jeans, but you suddenly feel completely bare.

  The rain comes down, pattering the leaves, dripping on you. Your hands ache from clutching the branch, you need the toilet now, and it’s getting cold inside the shadows of the holly. After a while your brother crab steps over to a pile of wood and throws more logs on the fire. Sparks explode. He picks up a long stick and prods the heap on the grill. He pushes and stokes until it rolls and flops over, and then you can see it better, between the flames. The two long bits of sack are wearing boots. They’re legs. And the lump the other side, spilling open and flaring as sawdust ignites, is a head. He’s burning a dummy made to look like a man.

  His filthy, naked body. His animal squat. The thing in the fire. It is so horrible you feel like screaming. The branch under you seems to sway, and you could tumble off, headfirst into the garth, into his lair. You cling tighter. Your brother looks up at the sky, at the clouds rolling off the hills. He stands slowly. He scratches his side hard as if there are fleas. No, he is not TJ. TJ used to ride you around on his bike, and play football. He used to have friends and a girlfriend and eat and do homework at the kitchen table. He was a boy. He walks away into the garth and disappears behind the tall grass.

  You begin to shuffle quickly back through the spears of holly, desperately toeing the branches behind. You can feel a hundred scratches on your arms and neck, and on your bare back as your T-shirt rips open. You jump down, grab your backpack, and run into the cottage. You go quickly up the stairs to your bedroom as your mum calls, that you, Monny, and shut the door. You sit on the window seat, trying to get your breaths down and to calm your heart, trying not to picture him in your head. Your T-shirt is torn almost in half. There’s a patchwork of red gashes on your arms.

  Low cloud and mist and smoke gather over the moor. You can’t see the tall stone – she’s disappeared. But what she said, or what you heard inside your mind, is impossible. You can’t help your brother. He isn’t your brother. The truth is he isn’t even a person anymore. He’s trapped in that terrible form, heartless, and nameless, and ruined. And you know that in none of the stories where people are changed, are they ever changed back again. The curse is really a curse on those left living.

  The Dark

  Thread

  Graeme Macrae Burnet

  Extract from the journal of Bram Stoker

  Whitby, August 12th 1890

  THE SHADOW from which I thought I had unshackled myself has returned. Whether this Horror is real or merely the handiwork of my imagination I cannot say. Nor can I say which of these possibilities disturbs me more. While I cling to the hope that this vision will prove to be no more than a symptom of the fatigue from which I am suffering, I fear I may be on the cusp of losing my reason. Late as it is, sleep will not come and if it does, I dread that my dre
ams will be haunted by what I witnessed not half an hour ago.

  Florence and I arrived in Whitby this late afternoon, weary but in good spirits after our train journey from London. My dear wife has been chastising me for unduly exerting myself in the service of Henry, but though she is correct as always, there can have been no avoiding it. Although the weather was unseasonably grey and chilly, the sea air had something of the restorative effect it always has on me. We dined in our rooms here at Royal Crescent and talked of our plans for the coming weeks. In my anxiety to precipitate a feeling of relaxation, I over-indulged in the wine and port provided, but my efforts had not their intended effect. By the end of our repast I felt more agitated than ever. Florence retired and I set out to take the night air, hoping to provoke the narcotic effect of physical exhaustion.

  The town was asleep and my only company as I ascended the steps to St Mary’s church was a large stray dog which must for a while have mistaken me for its master. He followed me through the cemetery that sits atop the East Cliff, before abandoning me to roam like a dark spectre in the fields adjoining the great Abbey which stands guard over the town. I then walked some miles along the cliffs to Saltwick Bay and the Black Nab. The moon was swathed in a gauze of cloud, but afforded enough light to guide me. There was nothing but silver and grey and the slow turning of the sea. I passed not a soul on my hike and nor would I have expected to, for who but the disturbed would be abroad on the cliffs at such a time?

  After an hour or so I turned to retrace my steps. The eastern gable of the ancient Abbey, devoid of any protection from the elements, thrust above the horizon like the craggy eminences of the Carpathians. As I drew closer the outcrops of the transept resembled a copse of tombstones. The rearward drift of the clouds made the whole appear to pulsate. I had succeeded, I thought, through the exertion of my trek to ease my mind somewhat, until as I approached the gable, at a distance of perhaps one hundred yards, a figure appeared framed in the central archway of the uppermost level of the Presbytery. I was at too great a distance to distinguish more than the silhouette, but I knew at once to whom – or what! – this form belonged. Even had I doubted the evidence of my sight, the creeping sensation on my neck and scalp provided the corroboration that this was none other than the Horror which had been so long dormant. I quickened my pace and directed my eyes towards the sea, as if by averting my gaze I might erase the vision. I was unable to resist the urge to look back, however. For a happy moment, I thought it gone. The archway now framed no more than sky, but then I spied him again, on the lower level. His profile, at this closer proximity, was unmistakeable; the narrow hips topped by wide shoulders, so that the whole formed a slim triangle tapering towards the feet. His hands were clasped across his chest, in a manner which might have seemed obsequious were it not so menacing. I must I confess that I broke into a run, giving no thought to the narrowness of the path and the sharp drop of the cliffs to my right. Such was my fright that to tumble to my death would at that moment have seemed relief. Breathless, I opened the gate into the churchyard of St Mary’s and scrambled through the tombstones paying scant respect for those resting beneath. At a certain point I stumbled to my knees and remained on the ground for some moments recovering my breath. Perhaps it was the corporeal effect of the damp sod on my palms, but I began to feel my reason return to me. What I had seen was a product only of my fatigue and the surfeit of port I had imbibed. I shook my head to myself and forced a laugh. I resolved to sleep late the following day and avoid strong victuals. Then despite the darkness, I felt a shadow pass across me. The Ghoul – Satan’s myrmidon or whatever he might be – was standing before me. I struggled to my feet and faced him. He stood swaying almost imperceptibly, like the branch of a tree in a light breeze. I felt the blood coagulate in my veins. I was close enough to see the wisps of his grey moustache framing his thin lips. His breath, which was quite rank, escaped his nostrils in a cloudy stream. He unclasped a hand and began to extend it towards me. His mouth opened. I did not linger to hear his speech, however, but raised my cane and struck out at his head. He must have stepped back with preternatural speed, for my blow met with naught but air. And then he was gone. Terrorised as I was, I had no inclination to search for him. I dashed down the rough steps that descend into the town and over the bridge traversing the harbour, this putting me in mind for a moment of Tam O’Shanter pursued by his hags. I did not pause until I had regained the sanctuary of our rooms in the Crescent.

  Despite my better judgement I have, since I arrived back, endeavoured to settle my nerves with two or three glasses of port, but my agitation is stubborn and I feel I shall not sleep before dawn. It is a fearful thing for a man to question his own sanity, but so I must. I feel – feel quite definitely – the Ghoul’s presence in the room, and yet when I gaze into the glass I see only myself.

  ***

  From the Whitby Gazette, August 22nd 1890

  INQUEST into DEATH OF LUCY SWANTREE

  The inquest into the death of Miss Lucy Swantree, a maid, 19, late of Haggersgate, Whitby, has been conducted at the Crown Hotel under the direction of the coroner, Mr George Buchannan. The body of Miss Swantree, it will be remembered, was discovered in the cemetery of St Mary’s church on the morning of August 13th. The first witness at the inquest, Mr Alfred Tinley, sexton at St Mary’s, described how he had discovered Miss Swantree slumped against a tombstone on the morning in question. Thinking she was asleep, he sought to rouse her by means of shaking her by the shoulder, but it was right away apparent that she was not sleeping but deceased. The second witness was:—J.M. Agar, a doctor of medicine residing and practising in Whitby. He deposed that he was called to the scene and immediately pronounced Miss Swantree dead. Her body having been removed to a nearby hostelry, Dr Agar made his examination and discovered a fracture to the left side of the skull which he concluded to be the cause of death. No other marks or injuries were recorded. In reply to the coroner, Dr Agar stated that it seemed most likely that Miss Swantree had lost her footing and struck her head on a gravestone causing the fatal injury. The third witness was:—Mina Caffyn, 18, also resident at Haggersgate. Miss Caffyn tearfully deposed that Miss Swantree had told her that she had arranged that evening to meet Mr Thomas Creaser, a cooper, whom she described as Miss Swantree’s fiancé. The fourth witness:—Mr Thomas Creaser deposed that he had indeed arranged to meet Miss Swantree on the evening in question, but had not done so. He further denied that he had ever been betrothed to Miss Swantree or given her cause to believe this to be the case. He stated that he had been drinking all evening in the Black Horse Inn and had stayed the night there. This evidence was corroborated by the fifth and sixth witnesses:—Mr Harold Edley, landlord at the Black Horse Inn, and Mr William Ackroyd, a friend of Mr Creaser. The final witness was:—Inspector Hugh Sorsby. Inspector Sorsby deposed that he attended the examination of Miss Swantree’s body carried out by Dr Agar. He later made an inspection of the churchyard and found nothing to suggest that foul play had occurred.

  This being the whole of the evidence, the jury (Mr R. Lennard, foreman) returned the following verdict: that the deceased died of a blow to the head following a fall. Mr Buchannan then concluded proceedings.

  ***

  Extract from the police log of Inspector Hugh Sorsby, August 14th 1890

  Further to the discovery of the body of Miss Lucy Swantree, I had yesterday afternoon an interesting visitor, this in the person of a Mr Bram Stoker. Mr Stoker presented himself at the station, having explained that the landlady of his boarding house had told him of the tragic event in the churchyard of the previous evening. Mr Stoker let me to understand that he is a gentleman of some renown in the theatrical circles of London and having no reason to doubt him, I received him in my study and offered him a glass of port which he accepted. He was of impressive stature and dress, but exhibited a certain garrulousness and eagerness to please, which ill befitted his status. He first began by asking if there were any suspicious circumstances surrounding the death of the
poor girl. I would not be drawn on this, and instead put it to him that if he had some information suggesting this to be the case he was obligated to share it. After some minutes of waffling, during which he twice rose from his seat and paced about the room, he told me that due to some agitation of the mind, he had taken a late evening walk along the cliffs towards Robin Hood’s Bay. As his discourse was dreadfully long-winded and replete with unnecessary detail, I interjected to ask if he had seen Lucy Swantree. He answered in the negative, but instead told me that he had fleetingly observed a black-clad figure, first wandering among the ruins of the abbey and then in the churchyard at St Mary’s. He was unable to furnish me with great detail, other than that he was a tall, slender gentleman of a certain age, dressed in a black frock coat and tight-fitting trousers. He could not say precisely what time he saw this gentleman, as he had not his pocket-watch upon him, but it must have been close to midnight. I thanked Mr Stoker for volunteering this information and wished him a pleasant stay in the town. This morning I made a tour of premises in the vicinity of St Mary’s and enquired as to whether any of those residing there had seen either Mr Stoker or this mysterious dark figure. As the answers were all in the negative, the matter merited no further action.