by Michael Bray
“I’ll do my best. What time shall I be back?” I asked.
“Be home before dark. And remember, don’t cross the river. That’s the boundary of our land.” He added, pointing his spanner at me for emphasis. “Now go on, those fish won’t catch themselves.”
I whirled around and grabbed the old wicker creel that was beside the barn door just as my dad said it would be, and began to walk away from the house towards the tree line. For the first time since the move, I didn’t hate the place. In fact, I was looking forward to doing some solo exploration, and maybe, just maybe catching a decent fish or two. I wondered if the river held trout, or maybe even tuna, although that was doubtful. I was already covered in a sticky sweat as I approached the looming tree line. I looked over my shoulder at the house, marveling at how small it looked silhouetted against the crisp blue sky. Wiping my brow, and looking forward to a good days fishing, I stepped into the cool shadow of the forest.
The shade was a blissful relief from the dry heat of the day. A light breeze passed through the trees, making mottles of sun dance across the ground. I explored lazily, heading towards the sound of the river. All around, I could hear birds chattering and singing, and content in my wondering I began to whistle to myself. I was so excited to get to try out the rod that I almost fell down the sheer embankment that edged the river. I somehow managed to cling onto a thick branch with my right hand, whilst I pin-wheeled my left in a desperate attempt to avoid a nasty fall. The sunlight was no longer impeded by the thick canopy, and shimmered brilliantly on the surface of the water, making the green hues of the forest stand out with breathtaking vibrancy.
I shielded my eyes from the glare and looked for a suitable place to set up my rod and give me a shady place to wait for a bite. There was a nice looking area downstream where the river curved away as it made its way deeper into the forest that looked just about perfect.
When I arrived, I set up the rod, and after casting the line using a few plump earthworms that I dug up for bait, I settled back to wait for the fish that I was sure would come.
I must have fallen asleep, lulled by the heat and the sound of the river, because I woke up to find that my line had been moved. I reeled it in, hopeful for a catch, but it seemed that the opportunistic fish had taken the bait without hooking itself. As I bent to pick up my rod, something metallic reflected in the sunlight across the river.
I could see no source for the out of place shimmer, which only further increased my curiosity. The warning words of my father echoed in my ears, but only for a second. I had already decided to go over and look, just to satisfy my own curiosity. I convinced myself that my father need not know, and I would be back over with time to dry off before I had to head back home.
I sometimes wonder how my life would have turned out had I not seen that intriguing shimmer in the trees. Would the nightmare I went on to live still have happened but in some other way? Was my own curiosity alone to blame? I have asked those questions myself more times than I care to remember. I think, perhaps that is why they haunt me the most.
Time has made the rest of the experience easier to live with, or at least to bury it away in the deep, dark place in my mind, but it’s always there, festering and lingering close enough to mean I will never have peace, or normality. Even to write it down brings back horrifying memories, things that I had somehow managed to repress over the years. To have them so fresh in my mind makes me understand just how tired I am, and perhaps the end of my time in this earth can’t come soon enough. No matter, I set out to tell all, and that is what I will do.
The water wasn’t as deep as it looked, and at no point reached higher than my knees. I began to make my way across, the heat of the day burning the back of my neck as I waded through the cool water. It’s funny how the things, which would cause the old man that I am now, to grumble, were no more than a slight irritation for a twelve year old boy, especially one who’s curiosity had been piqued, and wet pants or not, I was determined to find out what was over on the other side of the water. The opposite bank offered more shade, and more exhausted than I thought I would be, I took a moment to rest and try to catch a better look for the shimmering thing in the woods.
At first, I couldn’t see it, but then the wind moved the trees and it was there. A quick flash of chrome against green. The ground was softer on the opposite side, and my feet left water filled pools as I toiled through the boggy ground.
I can still recall that time with frightening clarity, of dragging myself through the mud, swatting the mosquitoes away from my face and driven on to discover what I had seen in the woods.
As I approached the object, I recognised the form, the familiar shape making my heart sink.
It was just a van.
A large silver transit with a sliding side door, its front grille, the source of the shimmer that had brought me across the water. My disappointment was short lived, however, when I noticed the trail that curled off deeper into the woods. The shadows here were inky and cast into long, probing fingers by the intertwined tree canopy. Everything seemed slightly different, the birds were less vocal in song, and the air was still and sticky with the dry summer heat and the pungent smell of stagnant water. Only the mosquitos were consistent, going about their business with aplomb as they buzzed, dived, and looked for something to feed on. I didn’t really think about not following the trail. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world.
Perhaps that was the first twinge of some different feeling within. Not excitement, but not quite fear either. It was more of a lingering uneasiness that I couldn’t altogether shake. Part of me had expected — and even hoped for — a long and winding road into the woods, but I was surprised to find that as I rounded the curve, the trees terminated almost immediately and there, set back against a natural recess in the trees was a dilapidated shack.
I must choose my next words carefully as even to think of it now makes my tired old heart quiver and my hands begin to shake. I would do no service to you by falling down dead here at the desk in my room with the story unfinished. The staff here are nice, and I don’t want them to think of me as some crazy old fool making up stories in the dead of night when I should be sleeping.
Apologies, I’m distracting myself again.
Perhaps part of me is reluctant to commit the rest to paper, but I will, I must if I am to have any hope of resting with a clear conscience. And so I will push on, despite the terror that even thinking about that place fills me with. Even from a distance, I didn’t like it. It looked to be some kind of a hunter’s lodge, one that had been long forgotten, and the woods were making steady progress of reclaiming the land where it stood.
Fear.
I still remember the moment of distinction between it and excitement. I was aware of how exposed I was — standing in plain sight and staring at that ugly wooden building in the middle of nowhere. I looked at the filthy board-covered windows and imagined someone watching me through the gaps in the wood.
I scrambled off the road, plunging into the undergrowth and the relative safety of the trees. Stinging nettles scraped my arms, but I barely noticed as I positioned myself out of sight.
How long I crouched there on my haunches I can only guess, but when I did move, I was drenched with sweat and my calves burned. Something inside told me to run, to put as much distance between myself and this ramshackle building as possible, but that part of me was quickly silenced by the Buck Rogers adventure seeking child, and rather than head back across the river, I skirted around the trees and moved closer to the shack.
Two of the planks on the windows at the side of the building were broken and slightly pulled apart, and I guessed that with enough effort I could squeeze inside. Even as I write the words it seems insane, but back then the world wasn’t such a harsh place as it is today, and I wanted to see what was inside. I made my way to the shack, and looked through the gap in the wood. A rotten, earthy stench hit me, and I had to pull my T-shirt up over my nose. It was a smell unlike
anything I could express in words. Undeterred, I cupped my hands and peered through the gloom into the shack.
It looked to be a small kitchen of some kind, although I couldn’t really see much from the angle I was at. With fear once again replaced by excitement, I began to wiggle my way through the window. I squirmed and wriggled, and for a horrifying moment, I could go neither forwards or backwards, then like a cork from a bottle, I was in.
The first thing that hit me as I squeezed my way into the room was the heat. If you have ever opened the door to a hot oven and had your breath taken away by the change in temperature, then you will have a good idea how it felt. It must have been well over a hundred degrees in there, and as I knelt on the floor, I looked around to allow my eyes to adjust to the gloom.
The small kitchenette was dilapidated at best. The walls were filthy, the tile floor broken and grimy. Bars of sunlight fell across it from the multiple cracks and breaks in the wooden walls, and dust motes drifted and swam in the golden shafts.
A filthy sheet covered the doorway that led to the rest of the shack, and I was about to sweep it aside when the feeling of being watched came over me. I held my breath and listened, but could hear nothing apart from the sound of my own breathing. I decided that I would just peek and then get out of there, just to satisfy my curiosity.
There was a girl.
She was gagged and tied to a chair in the middle of the room. Her head was low, resting on her chest, and I feared the worse, but I could see that she was breathing. Her hair was dirty and hung listlessly to her face in sweaty clumps. She looked to be in her early twenties, and was wearing only her underwear. I could see her jeans and t-shirt tossed in the corner. Her wrists were caked in crusty, dried blood where she had struggled to break free from her restraints. The rest of the room was bare apart from a tripod and camera set up in one corner, and a long table across the far wall draped with a red cloth and filled with, what I can only best describe as torture implements. There was a different smell in the room, buried below the dry, woody, rot stench. It was a coppery smell, and there were stains on the walls and floor, dark reddish brown, which I knew was blood. There was something almost poetic as she sat there in the gloom. How long had she been captive was anybody’s guess, but she looked painfully thin and her skin was dirty and bruised. All I wanted to do was help this poor girl to break free from the pitiful conditions that she had been subjected to.
Pushing the curtain aside, I entered the room. She must have heard me, as she raised her head. The awkwardness that I had expected at meeting her gaze was, in the end, a non-issue, as she was wearing a blindfold.
“Who’s there?” She said, unable to hide the fear in her trembling voice.
My own voice was stubbornly refusing to show itself, and I was suddenly aware of how thirsty I was and how much I wanted a cold drink, just a simple thing that I took for granted now felt like an unattainable luxury. I couldn’t help but stare at her, and felt ashamed and disgusted that I had begun to feel aroused as I cast my eyes on her semi-naked body.
It pains me to write this now, and I urge you to remember that I was just a boy, a young boy who didn’t know any better or have control of his raging pre teen hormones. I make no excuses for it, and even though eighty-one years have passed since that day, I still feel ashamed when I remember how I had looked at her. I might have stood there forever, had I not been forced into action.
I sensed it before I heard it, which I think is what saved me. I’m not sure how, maybe it was some kind of intuition, but I knew I was in danger. With only seconds to spare as I heard the sound of a key working the lock, I quickly scurried under the table, protected from view by the overhanging cloth. .
The door creaked open and I heard heavy boots on bare wood. The footsteps approached me and I was sure I had been seen. After all, such a poor hiding place was only ever viable in a movie, but not here. This was real, as real and terrifying as it gets. I closed my eyes and waited to be discovered, hoping that I wouldn’t suffer the same fate as the girl, left here waiting for death or worse. The footsteps were close, and then went past me as their owner went to the filthy kitchenette.
I could have run then, and should have, but I was shaking and my legs wouldn’t move even though I willed them to obey and get us out of there. Either way it was too late, as the owner of those boots returned and moved towards the girl. I dared to peek, ignoring the stifling heat as I watched.
He removed her blindfold, and then just circled the chair, watching her. I tried to get a look at his face so that I could give as much information as possible to the police the first chance I got, but he was wearing a novelty monster mask that wouldn’t have looked out of place in some cheap 50’s B-Movie. As much as I was desperate to help this girl, and no matter how I would like to tell you that I saved the day, I have to admit that saving my own skin was more important to me, and so I stayed hidden whilst he danced around her and cackled as she grew more and more afraid. I don’t know how long it went on for. All I know is that I was drenched in sweat and the shadows had grown long by the time he left. I waited and listened, and once I was satisfied that he was really gone, I crawled out from under the table.
The girl was sobbing quietly, and if she knew I was there, she didn’t acknowledge me. I was just about to sneak off when she spoke, so softly that it would have been easy to miss.
“Help me.” She said, and found the strength to lift her head and look at me. Her eyes were a piercing blue, and although her ordeal must have been unbearable, there was a life and defiance in them which told me that she still had plenty of fight. I approached her restraints. They were tightly knotted, and the rope was thick, but I thought with enough time I would be able to untie them.
I began to work the knots, ignoring that intuitive feeling that I didn’t have much time. I don’t know how much the girl knew about what was going on, but I suspect that she might have been experiencing some kind of delirium. It was now almost dark, and the shadows had almost completely claimed the room when the gaps between the window boards illuminated with the harsh twin glow of car headlights. The girl began to thrash in her seat, and I ran for the safety of the covered table. I barely made it before the door swung open.
A lot happened all at once. It seemed that I had done enough to loosen the ropes, because the girl squirmed free and ran for the door. I could see right away that she never had a chance of making it, but she tried anyway, and the masked man with the dirty work boots grabbed with ease. She tried to fight, but she was weak, and he easily overpowered her despite her clawing and scratching at his arms. I thought he would tie her back to the chair, but he seemed intent on teaching her a lesson, perhaps for daring to try to break free. He began to hit her, the sounds of his fists impacting on her flesh combined with the screams were indescribable.
He carried on even when she stopped screaming.
By the time the man left, the shack was in total darkness. I crept from my hiding place, and in the gloom, saw the girl lying there on the floor. I had never seen death before, and it was a frightening thing to experience. I ran, ran as fast as my young legs would carry me. I barely felt the cuts and scratches from the unseen branches as I charged through the underbrush, at every second, expecting my world to grow bright from the twin pool of headlights behind me as the gibbering, masked man came for me.
I didn’t stop running until I was on the other side of the river, and there I stood gasping and sobbing but finally safe. I walked quickly, keeping on my guard until I could see the soft glow coming from the house in the distance. All I could think of was that lifeless stare of that poor girl who lay dead in that stinking, filthy shack. By the time I had reached the house I had organised my thoughts enough to work out how I would tell it, making sure that my parents knew how serious the situation was before they had a chance to punish me for my lateness, or for forgetting my rod and creel. What happened next was one of those moments where a person’s life can change completely in a split second, and all tha
t seemed important suddenly became trivial.
They were the same boots.
I knew because I had been unfortunate enough to get a really close look at them whilst I was cowering under the table in the shack. They were by the side of the back door, my father obviously not wanting to walk the mud that covered them through the house.
My stomach was performing dizzy somersaults and I felt something, perhaps a scream, launch itself to my throat, but in the end, it only came out as a shallow gasp. It seemed impossible to me that the gibbering, mask-wearing thing in the shack could be my father, a man I associated with being strong and proud. A man who lived by his morals, and tried to always teach me the difference between right and wrong, and yet I knew it was true. He and the murderous, cruel beast in the shack were one and the same.
My mind raced with what to do, and even though now as an adult, the answer seemed obvious, the repercussions on my family weighed heavy, and rather than call the police, I took off my equally filthy shoes, set them next to the murder boots, and went inside the house.
Dinner that night was roast chicken and potatoes, but as we sat around the table, I barely tasted it. I had told my parents that I had fallen asleep whilst fishing, and then got lost in the woods trying to find my way home after dark. It was a plausible explanation, which they accepted without question. We ate in silence. I shot my father secretive glances, trying to make sense of the new information I had just learned. I tried to see him as that thing from the shack, but despite my best efforts, he was just my father, the man I had known and respected since I was old enough to know right from wrong. Broad shoulders, red and black lumberjack shirt, strong jaw and kind eyes which I had inherited from him. Nowhere could I see the latex mask-wearing animal, and I began to wonder if perhaps I had made a mistake.
He caught me looking at him and I almost screamed.
“Everything okay, boy?”
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
