Being a bit of a pragmatist, I could see reasons for these tales. Some just entertain on a quiet night. Some to explain what they found unexplainable. Some to strike fear to manipulate behaviour or even to hide their misdeeds. There was a burning smell from the kitchen and I dropped the book to rush and save what I could of my lunch.
THE SKIES HAD CLEARED by the time dusk came and I sat admiring the view, back at the desk and in front of my blank page. I'd toyed around with some ideas of American history: the Wild West, New York during prohibition, but everything I thought of seemed to be a rehash of old movies I'd seen and I didn't have the resources to hand for any research. As I gazed out to the lake, I noticed a woman strolling across the stones. She had on a green coat with an ankle length white dress underneath. I didn't imagine that was very practical for her walk; the hem wouldn't stay white for long. She knelt to pick up stones, throwing them into the still waters, pausing until the ripples had faded before throwing another. Her hair was long, black and curled around her shoulders. Her repeated action made her progress towards the cottage slow and it was becoming harder to see in the fading light.
There weren't any other cottages near here for miles. If she'd come from the village, it would be a dark walk back. Who was she? A local girl, a wild spirit who walked alone, drawn to wander in the evenings by herself to feel the earth and air around her? A solitary creature, disconnected from society, woven into nature, the land and the waters.
She turned to track back the way she came, and I stood up abruptly from my seat, leaning towards the window, my soul shouting 'No, please, come back'. I wanted to see her continue forward, come up the shingle to my little house. Have her disappear from view only for the moment it would take me to open the door and see her standing at the eaves, smiling in the light from the room. But it grew dark quickly, and she was gone. As I sat back in the seat, my mind was filled with images and stories of her. I was flooded with fantasies of her touch, her kiss, the overwhelming pleasure of our bodies entwined. I began to write furiously.
By the time morning light came I'd filled half of my book with hastily scribbled writing. The flow had stopped suddenly and nothing more would come. My eyes retreated into my skull at the golden sunrise. The fire had burned out long ago, and I hadn't realised how cold I'd become. I went over to the bed and curled myself beneath the blankets. I tried to think of her, imagine her in the bed with me, but I couldn't form even the vaguest image. I was tired. I slept.
It was late afternoon when I rose; too late to do anything with the remaining day. The previous night's events pushed their way back to my forming consciousness, and I rushed over to the book to see what I'd written. The light was dim, so I picked it up and walked to the light switch. A few clicks gave no result. I took it to the front door and opened it for the daylight, ignoring the cold. I turned over page after page. It was garbled nonsense; a cascade of words forming no rhyme or reason. I tried to picture the woman again, but the visions were pathetic inventions. Even the feelings that had obviously overwhelmed me were just echoes. I felt misery forming... but this wouldn't do. I was a practical sort and not one for flights of fancy. Last night was some sort of aberration because of the long journey and the strange surroundings. I put the book on the table, closing the cover on the event. I got my clothes together, brushed myself down. I'd fix myself a good meal and set off to the village before evening fell.
The pub was called 'The Black Cat', the swinging sign above the door showing a literal translation in its picture. It had a green painted double door which I could only just get through with one half opened. The smoke hit me. It was an avenue of stools in front of the bar, only room for small round tables against the wall. Signs advertised Murphy's and Guinness. The stools were all occupied with men, drinking and chatting. I stood at the bar for quite some time, holding out my money and trying to catch the landlord's eye. Nobody had paid any attention to my arrival.
“Excuse me,” I said timidly. No effect. “Excuse me,” I said more forcefully. This sort of customer service wouldn't happen in the U.S. The conversations stopped and everyone looked round. The landlord approached slowly. He was a red faced man, tall and well built, with a face that would have cracked if it smiled.
“No need to lose your patience there, fella. I was getting round to you.”
“I could see you were busy. Can I have a drink please?”
“And what sort of drinks would you American's be having? This is a simple bar for simple people mind.”
“And none more than you, Shaun.”
There was a snigger round the assembled, but the man who'd spoken up buried his smile in his pint when Shaun gave him a glare. They went back to their conversations.
“Just a beer, please.”
“A beer.” Shaun shook his head and began pulling the pump nearest to him, delivering the finished brew and taking my money without further comment, returning to the focus of the group and joining in the chatter.
I took a seat at one the small tables and wondered if this had been a good idea. A few minutes later the door pushed open, and I was relieved to see Conall, smiling and waving as the men greeted him warmly. I tried to catch his eye, but he was already talking with everyone and being served. I went back to my drink. It tasted watery and unsatisfying.
“Now, gentlemen.” Conall had his hand on my shoulder and was addressing the room boldly. “This here is Mr Michael Devlin, and he's my guest. He might be an American sort but he's got true Irish roots. You wouldn't have him sittin' here all lonesome. Let's show him some hospitality. What d'ye say?”
The men looked round, finished their drinks hurriedly and raised their glasses.
“I suggest you buy a round if you want some company,” whispered Conall.
“Oh, yes. Drinks for everyone please... Shaun.”
The empty jars were back on the bar and being filled before I'd finished. The rest of the evening went well after that as I stood and joined the group, a couple more rounds being extracted from me. The guys asked me the odd question but didn't wait for answers, more eager to tell their own tales. It was good to listen and feel part of things. I told Conall that the lights still weren't working. He made some joke about me being bad luck and said it was no problem for him to drop round again in the morning.
When I decided it was time to leave, hearty 'cheerios' and invitations for the next evening followed my stagger out the door. It was dark now, but I'd had the forethought to put a flashlight in my pocket. It wasn't entirely necessary as the moon was bright in the midnight sky. There was only one trail leading back to the cottage so it shouldn't be too much of a challenge to weave my way home
---
I used the torch for the first mile until I found the turning off the road with the stile that started the track over the fields. The moonlight was beautiful and the artificial light spoilt its eerie effect on the landscape so I switched it off. On the hill, the trees formed ominous black shadows against the sky. I thought I saw a vague glow in the woods but as I tried to focus, it was gone. There was no light pollution out here and I stumbled as I tried to walk, looking at the myriad of stars above me at the same time. A high-pitched wail brought me back to earth, and I looked left and right, unable to work out where it came from. It was followed by a more recognisable barking noise and I guessed it must be foxes.
As I reached the peak of a hill, the lake came into view, its small waves sparkling silver, the cottage a black silhouette in front of it. There was a figure by the lake side. I caught my breath. It could only be her. I wanted to run, but I was far from sober and a modicum of reason told me a fall would be guaranteed on this rough ground. I walked swiftly though, willing her not to turn and head away again, before I could reach her and speak to her. But what would I say? Tell her how she had possessed me? Tell her my passion? What about 'Hi there, beautiful. Come here often?' I slowed my pace to try to work out what would be successful, those essential first words. She began to turn.
I raced forward.
“Wait! Please wait!” Immediately realising the stupidity of my action. “I'm sorry, don't be frightened. I live in this cottage. Please wait.”
I could see her shape, black against the shining lake behind. I tripped, tried to recover, my hand flying forward instinctively. My other foot skidded, and I went down, my head and face hitting the ground hard. I was dazed, a whirlpool of thoughts spinning in the alcohol still clouding my brain. I felt a hand on my head, then under my arm, helping me rise. It was her. Black hair, pale, thin face with dark eyes. My mouth opened... and closed again with no words to fill the void. She said nothing, just led me the last few yards to the cottage door.
I sat down on the bed. I wasn't sure whether it was the drink or the fall or both; I had no idea how hard the knock had been, but I was in a dream. A wonderful dream. She seemed at home in the dark, finding the matches to light the lantern on the desk easily. She opened the book and flicked through the pages, slowly. And I just watched, like I had the previous night, in rapture of her ever move, her every small gesture. She turned to look at me briefly and then I saw the light and her beautiful figure float slowly out of the room and into the kitchen. I was alone in the darkness, a thin line of moonlight drawing a line on the floor. It felt like I'd been sitting for an age and was about to try to rise, when the glow from the lamp grew back from the kitchen as she re-entered, the large, sharp bread knife raised high above her head.
THE RAIN SPATTERED on the roof of the ambulance, the doors closing after the stretcher had entered. The girls black hair lay wet and thick across her face as she was taken to the police car. She didn't resist. Conall looked shaky as he stood talking to Detective Brogan, pencilling notes into a small black notebook.
“Why was your sister out here? Had you not thought to keep an eye on her?”
“She'd been better of late. I didn't think she could do anything like... like this.”
“She did attack your father, here. When you lived in this cottage.”
“That was years ago, and she had enough provocation, don't you think?”
The officer gave a small, silent nod.
“She was under the supervision of Dr...” The detective flicked through his notes. “Dr Williams. And social services are still visiting.”
“Yes, but even they said she was doing well. She'd been having her walks for weeks. I was sure that's what was doing the trick. She always seemed so much happier in the mornings. None of the screaming fits anymore. It's not against the law to have an evening stroll is it?”
“I don't think the services would have approved. Why didn't you go with her?”
“Well, I'm down the bar must nights.” Conall looked sheepish. “But she was always back before I went to bed.”
“Well then, you better come along. We'll sort out contacting the fellas relatives there. Shall I get another car?”
“I'm happy to ride with my sister, thank you. You have got her handcuffed, anyway.”
“Okay then, I expect it's alright, and we don't have any other cars nearer than Cork. In ye get.”
Conall sat in the back of the police car with his sister, moving her hair out of her face. The black, shadowed eyes gazed blankly ahead. Conall began to cry.
“Aww, beautiful leannain. You don't worry now. You'll be fine. You don't have any idea what's going on, do ye.” He gave a sad, little laugh. “Away with the fairies.”
THE LIGHT THAT BROUGHT THE DARK
BY MICHAEL BRAY
Michael Bray is a bestselling horror / thriller author of several novels. Influenced from an early age by the suspense horror of authors such as Stephen King, Richard Laymon, Shaun Hutson, James Herbert & Brian Lumley, along with TV shows like Tales from the Crypt & The Twilight Zone, his work touches on the psychological side of horror, teasing the reader’s nerves and willing them to keep turning the pages. Several of his titles are currently being translated into multiple languages and with options for movie and Television adaptations under negotiation for others, he will look to continue his growth as a full time professional writer long into the future.
www.michaelbrayauthor.com/
1
We set off when it was still dark in those magic hours when most of the world is still asleep. It’s a cold day, and rain is in the air, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing is going to spoil this trip. The kids are last to wake up. April and I have to almost usher them out of bed. David is seven, Edward is nine. Both of them are excited, and once they are fully awake tear around the house chattering and bickering as they prepare their things. Edward complained about the phone rule again, but not for long. He knows when a decision is made its final, and no amount of arguing will change it. We want this to be a family occasion free of things such as Facebook and Twitter or football scores of his beloved Leeds United. Begrudgingly, he leaves the overpriced smartphone on the kitchen table with the others.
April and I have already been awake for ages. Her making drinks and sandwiches for the trip, me giving our Ford explorer one last look over, checking the oil and water, making sure the tire pressures are right. We somehow bundle the boys and supplies into the car without waking the neighbours and are on the road just as the first birds are singing in the new day. The morning air is bitter, and a light drizzle is falling, but it should clear up later. Lots of driving ahead of us anyway. We're heading away from the city, getting some clean, country air. It will do us good, all of us. We leave our house behind, and I notice we all look at it as we drive away. It sits like a dark shadow to our right, an empty shell without the lives that inhabit it. The road curves away and then it’s behind us as we pull out onto the open road.
Traffic is sparse as it’s so early, and it’s easy to make headway. We flash by junction signs and exits leading to cities we have never been to. Nobody speaks for a while, but that understandable due to the early start we’ve all had. At least, the drizzle has stopped. The sky is already a pale yellow gold where the sun is starting to rise, and although there are a few scrubs of cloud, it should clear up nicely. A glance in the rear-view mirror to check on the boys and they seem content enough. They are staring out of the window, watching the secret world of the early morning slide on by as we head south. They are quiet, but it’s understandable. Today is a big day for all fo us. April is in the passenger seat, a frayed tissue clutched in her hands. She's still crying, but silently now so as not to alarm the boys. She looks so frail, so fragile. There is so much I want to say to her, then realise none of it will help. Even if it could, I don’t think I could force out the words, so I concentrate of the mechanical act of driving and try my best to ignore her plight. We’ve reached the motorway now, and like everywhere else, the endless line of concrete stretching ahead of us is almost empty. Lands’ End is still around an eight-hour drive away, but we ought to make good time with the roads so quiet, more so if I push over the speed limit a touch.
I’m partly looking forward to showing the boys Land’s End. I went there with my father when I was a similar age, and I still remember the spectacular views. Hopefully, it won’t be lost on them. This digital age means children are desensitised to the beauty of nature. At least with the phones left at home, they might appreciate what I’m trying to show them. It should be quite the view based on how the day is brightening up. I've actually always liked this time of year. October with its barren trees reaching from a carpet of orange-brown leaves on the floor always has a magical feel to me. I like the chill in the air, how you can taste the bitter cold with every breath, a firm warning that summer is done and winter is on its way.
We stopped at around eleven thirty at the services in Bristol just off the M5. Everything is closed of course. Shutters down, lights off, just like everywhere is now, but we counted for that. We pulled into the car park next to an eighteen wheeler which looked to have been there for a few days. A few of those golden leaves from the surrounding trees had lodged in its huge chrome grill and left a carpet around its massive tires.
We got out and stretched our legs. The
boys asked if they could go look at the truck, to which I agreed. Their excited yelps were the backdrop as April and I unpacked the picnic. Sandwiches, pork pies, and miniature sausages, with Mr. Kipling cakes and biscuits for after. We also had bottles of pop for the boys and a flask of coffee for April and me.
Even though it was chilly, we sat at one of the wooden tables outside Burger King, its steel shutters rattling in the breeze. April and I sat opposite each other, one of the boys beside each of us. Although she had stopped crying, her eyes were still raw and she ate without looking at me, taking uninterested mouthfuls of the ham salad sandwiches she had made. I watched for a while hoping to make eye contact, maybe just to let her know I was thinking about her, but she didn’t look at me. I took the hint and looked around the car park, still unable to get used to how absolutely silent it was. There was no sound of traffic, no drone of engines. If not for the song of the birds, their nests visible now in the skeletal trees, and the skitter of leaves on the ground, it would be easy to think we were in some kind of enormous vacuum.
Edward asked how long until we get there. I told him, three hours, maybe less. It doesn’t escape me that April tenses up as I say this. She sets her sandwich down and looks away towards the deserted slip road. I can’t see her eyes, but I’m pretty sure she’s crying again. I look at my paper plate and the remains of my sandwich. There is nothing else to say.
Within thirty minutes, we are back on the road again. The traffic or lack of is still being kind to us, and our progress is smooth. As we set out, I wonder if we should have filled up on petrol, then realise it's too late now to go back. The gauge reads just under half a tank, which should just about get us there. There is a definite sense of purpose now as we get closer. This road trip has morphed into almost a pilgrimage. Our bellies are full and the heater is keeping us warm against the bluster. The cold cityscapes are starting to give way now to nature. Greens replace whites and greys, and the mood in the car changes. The boys are pointing out of the window at sheep and cows as we get nearer to our destination.
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