Devil Forest

by Jack Lewis

  -1- Felicity -

  Felicity had barely gotten near the old well when she heard a child’s voice calling to her from inside it.

  It was an unexpected sound, and she didn’t want to be alone anymore. Redcaster Copse, the forest she’d walked through alone three times a day since she was six years old, had turned predatory. It was watching her.

  She’d never come this way before, and she'd never even known it existed, since a fortress of bushes and shrubbery blocked this route. But there was a path through the bushes today.

  Like someone had carved it open.

  She pulled on the leash. “Parks! Come on.” Her Alsatian dog was over by a tree, cocking his leg.

  Felicity heard the voice again coming from the well to her right. She should have rushed over, but she didn’t. There was something about it.

  Maybe it was the way the well was sitting all alone and hidden by the shrubbery. How long had it been there for? Decades?

  But if there was a boy trapped in there… God, it was like one of those old movies. She should to and help - any other day and she would have been straight over there, but three weeks ago there was the whole incident with the man outside her house.

  He’d offered to help carry her groceries from her car, and when she’d refused, he’d picked up a bag anyway and told her through gritted teeth, “open your door.”

  Mr. Freite, who lived three houses down the street, had appeared with his partner, the lovely Mr. Hugh, and the man had run away.

  It took Felicity three weeks to build up the courage to walk alone with Parks again, but it wasn’t fair to keep him in the house.

  The boy’s voice drifted from the well again, but she couldn’t tell what he was saying.

  A shiver crept over her. She pulled the leash and saw Parks scamper over the leaves and twigs until he was by her side.

  No excuses now–she had to check.

  She approached the well. The frame was wooden, with a bucket attached to a rope that worked on a lever system–you had to turn it to lower the bucket into the depths. There was something ancient about it. It wasn't just the moldy smell that hinted at something rotten lingering near it, but its aura, like it had been there for centuries, hidden in plain sight.

  Steeling herself, she peered over the edge. Nothing but a never-ending darkness. She felt like hands might reach up from it and pull her in.

  Dread slithered down her spine and made her back away. She looked around now, sure she could feel something in the forest. A presence.

  She'd always thought that all humans had that hard-wired inside us. It was a kind of sixth, seventh, or even eighth sense that made our skin tingle when strange eyes were on us.

  She pulled Parks closer to her. She needed to call someone. Someone who could help. She took out her phone, dialed a number, and waited through the ring tones. It seemed to ring forever.

  “Hello?” said a voice.

  But it hadn’t come from her phone. The voice had an echo to it.

  It was two weeks after she reported it when a police constable knocked on Felicity’s door. She unlocked two latches–she’d screwed in extra ones as a precaution since the business with the grocery guy–but left one in place so the door didn’t open fully.

  “Ms. Peyton? I’m police constable Nunally. I’m here about the incident in Redcaster Copse.”

  “Show me your ID,” she said.

  The constable, young enough to be her grandson, fumbled and then showed her a card with his photograph, name, and title on it, so she let him in.

  Ten minutes later they were sitting in her living room with cups of tea and a plate of biscuits. PC Nunally, tanned and smooth skinned but with premature teases of grey in his dark hair, pointed at the crossbow on Felicity’s wall.

  “A hobby?”

  She nodded. “I was regional champion 1989.” She held up her right arm. “Then I buggered up my tendons, so I’m not strong enough anymore. I can still shoot from time to time, but not for long before my hand hurts like hell. At least my aim hasn’t left me. They used to call me Dead Eye Fel. Those were the days.”

  “A pity,” said Nunally. “I’m sure they have ways around that, don’t they? Like in the Special Olympics, the things those people have to cope with, it’s amazing…”

  Talking about her old crossbow hobby made thoughts of Gerard swim back, and those were waters Felicity had worked hard to swim out of. Even after ten years there were still blisters on her heart.

  “You’re here to tell me about the business with the well, aren’t you?” she said.

  It was all she’d thought about for weeks. Ever since hearing the poor boy’s voice trapped down there and then calling the police. She’d asked for updates every day, but they told her nothing. She checked the news but there was nothing.

  And that was what worried her. If they’d gotten him out of the well safe, it’d be all over the news.

  Nunally set his cup down and took out a notepad. “I’m here to tell you what I’m allowed to, Ms. Peyton.”

  “You’ll tell me bloody everything, since I’m the one who called it in.”

  He shook his head. “Only what I’m allowed to tell you. I’m sorry.”

  She’d worried about this, that they’d cut her out of things . She had no right to know anything about the boy really, since she wasn't one of his relatives. But the need to know was so deep she couldn’t bear this sitting in her head like a dark, unsolvable riddle.

  “You better tell me,” she said.

  “You heard a boy calling to you from the well,” said Nunally. “And the fire crew on scene heard it too. They dropped a microphone into the well to amplify his voice and record it, and then a liaison asked questions while they prepared to get him out.”

  “And did they get him out?” she said.

  “The boy said his name was Ronnie Adlam, and that he was twelve years old. He wouldn’t tell them anything else; everything they asked, he answered ‘I’m Ronnie Adlam. I’m twelve years old.”

  Her frustration threatened to spill out. “Tell me if they got him out!”

  “First, they lowered down a harness for Ronnie to hold on to, but he didn’t. They assumed he‘d injured himself falling down the well, but he wouldn’t tell them if that was the case; he just repeated his name. Next, they lowered a firefighter on a mechanical winch.”

  Felicity‘s heart thumped in her chest. Tell me the boy is fine. I need a happy ending in my life.

  “And?” she said, using her old crossbow breathing techniques to keep control of her voice.

  “And when the firefighter hit the bottom of the well, it was empty, dried up, and had no tunnels or other means of entry. It was closed off. The boy couldn’t have climbed out and even if he had, they were watching the well the whole time.”

  This sent a throb of unease through her. “There was no boy down there?”

  He shook his head. “When we ran his name through our database, we found that Ronnie Adlam disappeared when he was twelve years old. That part’s true. But he disappeared in Liverpool.”

  “That’s 500 miles away!”

  Nunally nodded. “And he disappeared in 1963.”

  -2-

  “I’m being watched,” Jeremiah said, jerking his head to signal a guy sitting at the far end of the train carriage.

  Great, another conspiracy theory.

  I didn’t mind early mornings, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating to be sharing such an early train ride with Jeremiah Lasbeck, a paranormal investigator and smart ass.

  So as the train rumbled to life and hot air pumped from the vents overhead and the announcer listed the upcoming destinations over the speaker, I wondered which karmic god I had pissed off to be sitting right there, right then.

  It was ea
sy to put it in the hands of fate, but it was my fault, really. Well, mine and Jeremiah’s.

  After all, getting involved with a paranormal investigator had its exciting moments, but there was a darker side.

  Either way, Jeremiah had found something to investigate, and I needed to find out what. The problem was, Jeremiah held pieces of information like they were poker cards he didn’t want to play yet.

  “You’re not being watched,” I said. “You just need to stop staying up all night Googling stuff like ‘Top ten scariest ghost encounters – you won’t believe number seven!’”

  Jeremiah huffed. “Anyone can go into a crypt and pretend they hear stuff that the microphones can’t pick up. Scamming bastards.”

  Whoever invented the phrase ‘large than life’ might have had Jeremiah in mind. Even if they had invented the saying based on his looks, they hadn’t had the pleasure of his personality.

  He was the kind of guy who carried a lot of bulk but he wasn’t exactly overweight; it was an in-between stage between muscle and fat.

  Today he was wearing the same damn leather overcoat as always, all buckles and buttons and pulled tight over his belly. His beard, which I always thought of as a shade called burned carrot, was as crazy as ever, but he’d at least combed his hair today.

  “Whatever. You still aren’t being followed,” I said.

  He gestured to the man sitting at the end of the carriage. “Explain him, then.”

  “The man reading his newspaper and ignoring us?”

  “The man who hasn’t turned a page in five minutes. He might as well just cut eyeholes in it, he’s that obvious.”

  I watched the man. He was wearing a tailored suit, and he’d taken off his jacket and put it on his lap. I didn’t blame him, because the train was stuffy as hell.

  “Leave the poor guy alone,” I said. “He’s just going to work.”

  “I’m telling you; I’ve seen him before. And others like him. A woman who followed me to the bakery, another bloke who was watching me get my coat altered. They’re keeping tabs on me.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Because of the things I’ve seen. Maybe because of your blog.”

  I shook my head. “If the government has enough money to send their spies after you, then they can bloody well sort out all the stabbings in the city.”

  He shrugged. “Fine, don’t believe me. But when that man gets off the train at the same time as us, you owe me £5. Anyway, have you got it?”

  I sucked in my cheeks, feigning thought. “Did I get it?” I said. “Hmm, were your six texts enough for me to remember, let’s see…”

  “C’mon, Night of the Living Dead, don’t stall. I’ve killed people for less. Did you get it, or not?”

  “Night of the Living Dead?”

  “You’re not a morning person, Ella. Doesn’t take working with you for six months to realize that.”

  “You know what, maybe I forgot to get it.”

  Jeremiah held up his palms. Callouses covered his skin, even though the closest he got to hard work was holding a pen. “Okay, okay. You’re brilliant company in the mornings, Ella. Now, for the love of everything holy, did you get it?”

  I nodded, tapping the rucksack I had put next to my legs after I sat down.

  He smiled. Say anything about Jeremiah’s grumpiness, but you couldn’t deny that he had a smile that’d light a coal fire. “Lovely. Let’s see it then, come on, chop chop.”

  I shook my head. “First, you better explain two things. When you call someone at three in the morning and they don’t answer, why the hell don’t you get the hint?”

  “I thought it might have been one of those times when you’re just about to answer, but the ringing stops before you can.”

  “And the third and fourth times?”

  “Look,” said Jeremiah. “You agreed to this in your employment contract. Weird hours, strange places, freaky stuff. You signed up for it.”

  “You mean the contract you wrote in pencil on a receipt for a steak and chips lunch at the Brewer’s Corner?”

  “So I’m not a professor of law. Still, you know what I do, you know what this job is.”

  He was right; I knew what Jeremiah did. Six months earlier I’d accompanied him to a Scottish village that people said was haunted by a spirit, in the hope of Jeremiah being able to document paranormal phenomena.

  It was a ghost hunt. Except where most ghost hunters saw spirits because they wanted to, Jeremiah refused to believe his senses. He wouldn’t let his desire affect the way he thought.

  He wanted to believe; he wanted it more than anything, but he refused to let himself. He needed proof.

  I…well, I had seen something. I just couldn’t prove it.

  “Well, I’m here,” I said. “I’m not happy about a phone call telling me to catch a train so early, but I’m here. Now you can tell me what’s going on.”

  Jeremiah eyed my rucksack. “Show me the...”

  “Nope. You first.”

  I dragged the rucksack further under the table separating us. I knew that Jeremiah was like a child. If I kept the rucksack in his eyeline he wouldn’t be able to stop focussing on it.

  That wasn’t the only reason I hid the rucksack from view. Like a child, I half-expected him to grab it and open it. Then he wouldn’t just find what he wanted, but also the birthday present I’d bought for him.

  We had recently found out we shared a birthday. There was no way that Jeremiah would have done anything about it, but I was looking forward to seeing him open the present I’d gotten for him.

  I still wouldn’t cave in to him. “Nope. Spill. What kind of weird crap is important enough to get me out of bed before Costa Coffee is even open?”

  Jeremiah sighed. “When you see these, remember what I always say; keep an open mind, but always err on the side of doubt. Don’t try and prove that a phenomenon is true. Try to prove that it isn’t.”

  -3-

  Jeremiah glanced at the man sitting at the end of the carriage. I hated to admit it, but something was off. I was sure he hadn’t turned a single page the whole time we’d been on the train.

  I tried to push it to the back of my mind, telling myself that Jeremiah’s paranoia had infected me. Even so, I kept looking at the guy, hoping I didn’t catch him glancing at us.

  Jeremiah unslung his bag from his shoulder and put it on the table. It was a man-bag. Old and torn, the strap nearly coming off, but Jeremiah didn’t replace stuff unless he absolutely had to.

  He took out five printed photographs and spread them out.

  A woman sitting across from us, old and bundled up in a thick rain jacket, glanced at our table before looking away. She was wearing headphones that were less about sound quality and more about a fashion statement.

  Just another commuter waiting for her journey to be over.

  I looked at the photographs and couldn’t help feeling a shadow pass through my mind. There was something about them.

  “What do these things have to do with us?” I said.

  “I’m getting to it. See the wells? There’s something strange about them. When you notice it, you won’t be able to unsee it.”

  It was infuriating. All I wanted to know was why we were on an early bird train headed north, but Jeremiah had to string me along. I knew better than to try to push him; he was like a showman warming up his audience.

  “You know you could get a laptop? A mobile phone? You don’t have to use printers and photocopiers,” I said.

  “Distractions. They’re like cigarettes for the mind. You only want them because you have them. Go cold turkey from them, and you’ll see you don’t really need them. Anyway, about mobile phones…I’m haven’t said I’m sorry yet.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “No, but that’s what people do, isn’t it?”

  “The police asked the right questions but I’m not hopeful. A burglary isn’t high on their priorities.”

  I said it as unemoti
onally as I could. I hoped I did, anyway. The fact was, whenever I thought about it I felt my throat tighten. There was no threat of tears. Where most people had tear ducts, I had a tear desert.

  Even so, it was the thought of someone breaking into my flat when I wasn’t there.

  Walking over my carpet.

  Going through my stuff.

  They had stolen little of value other than my phone, and my insurance had replaced that. Hell, I didn’t have much that’d be worth something to anyone else. Nothing they could sell, anyway.

  The worst thing was that they’d somehow found the loose floorboard in my bedroom and they’d pried it open and they’d taken the box.

  It was just a tatty old shoebox, but the stuff inside it was worth everything to me. Photographs of the dad I’d never met, of my blood-related uncles and aunts who were dead. My real family tree had been more of a shrub, every branch clipped before I was out of my nappies.

  It wasn’t a case of my foster families not treating me right. It was just that the photographs in that box were the only link I had to the real me, to where I came from.

  And now, some fucking thief had taken them, and he or she had probably taken one look in the box, realised there was nothing valuable, and then thrown it away.

  The worst thing was that I blamed myself.

  Why didn’t I make copies, or something? Why didn’t I find a better place to keep them? I guessed that I had never counted on someone breaking into my home and intruding on my life like that.

  I could feel my throat closing now, and I knew my face would change and my voice would get all weak, and then Jeremiah would look around with a weird expression on his face, sympathetic but uncomfortable.

  He wouldn’t really get it. As far as I knew, he had a normal childhood. Then again, Jeremiah rarely talked about his family. I knew he had a sister, some cousins, and even an old aunt, but he never talked about visiting them.

  Despite that, he’d still try to make me feel better. He’d make some ham-fisted attempt at making me feel better and I’d be grateful for it, but it’d make things awkward.

  “What am I look at here?” I said, keeping my voice firm.