by Ben Cheetham
The sound of a spade slicing into earth drew Amanda’s attention. Warily now she passed through the opening in the grass bank that ringed the standing stones. Her dad was frenziedly digging at the centre of the circle, his face purple with exertion, his shirt dark with sweat. The spade struck something metallic. Dropping to his knees, he began clawing up handfuls of earth.
‘Tom was right,’ Amanda said in a voice of breathless hatred. ‘You lied.’
Henry jerked towards her, but didn’t seem to see her. His eyes were somehow there but not there, as if he was dreaming with them open. He turned back to the hole, thrust his hands into it and pulled out a bulging black bin-liner. A glimpse of something rusty showed through a tear.
‘How could you do it?’ The words were like hooks being dragged out of Amanda’s throat. ‘How could you do that to your own grandson?’
Henry reeled backwards suddenly, his eyes gaping at an empty space between the standing stones. ‘Who are you?’ he cried. He shook his head frantically. ‘No. You don’t exist. I made you up.’
‘What is this?’ scowled Amanda. ‘Are you going to pretend to be insane now? Well, it won’t work. You’re not going to worm your way out of this.’
Henry dropped the bag and a claw hammer fell out of the tear. ‘Don’t tell me.’ He clapped his hands over his ears. ‘I don’t want to hear it!’ He made for the circle’s entrance in a staggering run.
As he passed Amanda, she spat in his face. He didn’t wipe it away or even seem to notice. Gown billowing, Mary sprang from behind a standing stone. Hissing like a feral cat, she clawed Henry’s face with long fingernails. He staggered backwards and fell with her on top. His hands latched onto her scrawny throat and he rolled to straddle her. She raked his skin again, drawing blood.
‘Let go of her!’ screamed Amanda, grabbing his arm. He elbowed her in the chest, knocking her to the ground. Her hand landed on the hammer.
Henry gouged his thumbs into Mary’s windpipe. Her hands dropped limply to her sides. Her eyes rolled white.
Winded, Amanda struggled to her feet. She raised the hammer and brought it down. It sank with a crunch into Henry’s skull. He didn’t cry out, but rose stiffly, took several faltering steps and keeled over like a felled tree. Blood leaked out of his nostrils. Crimson tears spilled from his eyes as he rasped, ‘I know his name. I know his name.’
Amanda stared at her father emotionlessly. All she could feel was the void left by Jake’s face. She turned at a sound from Mary. Mary’s lips formed two words so faint as to be hardly heard. ‘Henry Brooks.’
Amanda held out her hand again. This time Mary took it. Henry’s breath was winding down like a dying clock. Before it could stop, they walked away. As they descended the hill, the Five Women danced silently behind them.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ben Cheetham is an award-winning writer and Pushcart Prize nominee. His writing spans the genres, from horror and sci-fi to literary fiction, but he has a passion for dark, gritty crime fiction. His short stories have been widely published in magazines in the UK, US and Australia.
Ben lives in Sheffield, UK, where – when he’s not chasing around after his young son – he spends most of his time locked away in his study racking his brain for the next paragraph, the next sentence, the next word.
If you want to learn more about Ben, or get in touch, you can look him up at www.bencheetham.com or www.bencheetham.blogspot.com. Find him on Twitter @ben_cheethamUK and on Facebook at www.facebook.com/BenCheethamBooks.
