by C. J. Waller
“Okay… we'll get the footage, then we’ll leave. Try to be out of here by tomorrow evening. That’s fine. I can live with that.”
“I hope so,” Decker said. “I hope so.”
Chapter Seven
Paul left Decker alone after that. He’d never done anything in all the years they’d known each other to scare him – well, okay, maybe apart from that time they went to Manchester for the weekend and Decker had taken way too much speed and declared he was having a heart attack – but even that hadn’t chilled him the way his words chilled him now.
They undressed in silence and lay back against hard pillows that smelt of lavender and damp. Usually, they both relished this time together; a time where they could just be, without any of life's pressures intruding, but tonight Decker wouldn't even look at him; he just rolled over, pulling the blankets up so high that they nearly covered his head. A lump, bitter with disappointment and hot with worry, rose in Paul's throat. He reached over and tried to gather Decker closer to him, to try to at least imitate their usual intimacy, but everything about him was as if made of stone, unyielding and cold. The lump expanded, making it hard to breathe, and Paul couldn't help wonder if they should just call it off. Do what Decker suggested and leave, because it wasn't worth this.
Paul lay on his back and closed his eyes. The dark seeped in and, surprisingly, sleep found him pretty easily; it wasn’t long before Paul was snoring.
o0o
A short while later, Decker raised his head and looked over his shoulder. He paused for a moment, checking to make sure that Paul was truly asleep before sliding out of the bed and grabbing his clothes off the nearby chair.
He wasn’t really sure what it was that bothered him. The dreams were vague but filled with menace, and they were getting worse. He didn’t even have to be asleep now for the darkness to find him; merely resting was enough. He shivered. The darkness. What a crap name for something that scared him so much. But what else could he call it? He couldn’t see it, couldn’t define it, but it dogged his every moment, a tight suffocating certainty that something was out there, watching, waiting for… what? Him? It had to be him. Otherwise, why would he be so afraid? But afraid of what? An acute sense of unease and a strong desire to get the fuck out of here? And so his thoughts went, around and around, until he feared they'd never stop.
That’s why they had to leave. He couldn’t tell Paul, because Paul would think he was cracking up… and he’d be right, because that’s what scared Decker the most. That he was cracking up. Going doolally, crazy as a shithouse rat, or even worse, crazy as his mother with her constant mutterings about how the demons lived in the water, and how he had to avoid it at all costs...
He crept over to the door and slowly turned the handle. It squealed, making Decker wince, sure it would wake Paul up, but he just kept snoring right on. Finally, there was a deep clunk and the door gave, allowing him to open it just enough to slip through.
Well, he was going to find out what it was that seemed so determined to drive him to the nuthouse. This place was doing something to him; he had no doubt about that. He’d been fine before they’d arranged this trip, fine until he’d told Paul that Sinner's Wake existed. Ever since then, he had been plagued by nightmares and vague, dread-fuelled anxieties which left him unable to eat or sleep comfortably. Well, now it was time to find out why.
Good job he knew of someone who might be able to explain.
He took the stairs carefully, measuring each step to ensure no-one would hear him. The old guesthouse had taken on a second life in the dark; what had once seemed twee and harmless by day now looked creepy and wrong in the moonlight. He shivered and the darkness inched closer. His vision swam as his heart quickened, forcing him to stop and clutch at the handrail. It took a good few minutes to pass, and he spent each one convinced someone would burst out of a room and demand to know what he was up to, he knew better, stay inside, stay safe, never question, Old Nine Eyes would know –
He stopped. What? Old Nine Eyes? Who was that? His pulse banged in his ears and for a moment, he thought he might be sick. Where was all this coming from?
Old Nine Eyes... Yes, he had heard that before, somewhere… but where?
Where?
Where? Why, here. Here is where you heard-
His fingers clenched around the handrail, his teeth gritted.
Where I heard what?
Nothing.
Outside, something shrieked. It was probably no more than a fox, or a hunting owl, but to Decker’s subconscious, it was a warning.
Something was coming.
He crept downstairs as quickly as he dared. Something was coming. Not now, maybe not even tomorrow, but it knew he was here, knew he was back. He paused by the bottom of the stairs and listened again. All was silent: no vengeful Mrs Kelly swooped out of the kitchen, demanding to know what he was playing at, Paul didn't appear at the top of the stairs telling him to get back to bed, Old Nine Eyes didn't slither across the lobby and smile a jawful of jagged teeth at him, willing to him follow. He padded over to the reception desk, let himself through the counter and opened the desk drawer. Inside was a ledger, a mess of papers and a small, battered address book. Despite himself, Decker grinned. He knew she’d have one – all old ladies in small towns did. He leafed through it, daring not to breathe, until he found what he was looking for. His grin widened, and had Paul seen it, he would probably have run to the hills.
Sadie Decker.
He knew she’d been lying.
He grabbed a scrap of paper and scribbled the address down.
One way or another, he was going to find out what was going on here.
And he was going to stop it.
Chapter Eight
25 years earlier...
Even in high summer, the mist is there. It hugs the ground as if it is afraid to leave it, afraid that one day it won’t be there. Brandon stirred it with his toe, making it swirl into shapes that reminded him of smoke and ice cream.
He looked up at his father, who smiled at him and jiggled his hand playfully. The small boy smiled back. A boy and his daddy. What could be more perfect?
“Now, Brandon,” John Decker said. “Today is an important day. An important day of many more yet to come.” He hunkered down in front of his son, who regarded him with a solemnity only small children and priests are able to achieve. “You’re a big boy now – seven, at last. That means we’re going to trust you more.”
“Does that mean I get a key?” Excitement fizzed through him. David Fenton had a key to let himself into his house after class, because his father was gone and his mother worked. They’d all passed it around in awe, small fingers caressing its jagged teeth, marvelling at the way it shone in the sunlight until David had insisted on having it back. He kept it on a piece of string which he put around his neck so he wouldn’t lose it. He said it was his Big Responsibility. Brandon wondered if this was going to be his Big Responsibility. He wiped his damp palms down the sides of his trousers, just in case.
“You know where we’re going?” his father said.
“Aye. The loch.”
“Aye. The loch,” His father paused and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“What’s wrong, Daddy?”
“Oh, nothing. I’m just surprised at how quickly this day has come around, I suppose. Now, you know the loch? How you’re never going to go near it?”
“Yes, I know that. Everyone knows that.” Brandon rolled his eyes. Was this it? Another lecture about never going near the loch?
“Yes, and you’ve been a good boy about that. Some boys aren’t so good about it, but you are. You are so very, very good.”
John Decker leaned forwards and pulled his son into a rough hug. Brandon hugged back, confused. He sensed something in his father – a nervousness; a fear, even – but he didn’t know what it was about. And now he’d brought him here, telling him it was important… just to tell him something he already knew? He hugged his father back, as if
he might squeeze the confusion out until John rubbed his son’s back one last time and stood up.
He sniffed and passed his hand over his eyes. Brandon frowned. Was his father crying? A little bubble of unease popped, sending shooting stars of fear burst in his tummy. Why was Daddy crying? Daddy never cried. Mummy did… but Daddy? Never.
Not until now, anyway.
Chapter Nine
The next day dawned bright but cold. The air held that tang only autumn brought. It always reminded Paul of the beginning of the university year, and he felt a pang of nostalgia. Had it really been eleven years since they’d left? He glanced over at Decker, who looked like hell. Poor guy must’ve had even less sleep than he had. He kept getting woken up by weird noises on the edge of his hearing, undefined and unsettling. He supposed this was his city-boy sensibilities kicking in; give him sirens and the roar of a local train, and he’d sleep like a log. Silence, though... silence unnerved him, made him feel an irresistible urge to fill it with noise. Nature was even worse, which was kind of ironic when you considered he spent so much time in remote places like this, chasing dreams and nightmares.
They parked up on the side of the road, on the opposite side of the loch from the day before. The shore was still a fair way off, but they could at least see the slaty expanse of water from here – all they had to do was head down a rutted path and they were there.
The camper rumbled up behind him and disgorged three dishevelled looking passengers. None of them looked like they’d slept particularly well. He offered them a wan smile and a wave. Only Mags returned it.
“You okay?” she asked.
Paul nodded.
“Decker still…” she didn’t need to finish the question.
“Yeah. He is,” Paul said.
“Is he ill?” she asked.
“I don’t think so. Just didn’t sleep very well. Something is really bothering him, but he won’t tell me what it is.”
“Maybe we should, you know…” she gave him an apologetic look.
“I don’t know. Maybe. We’ll see how today goes.”
Paul wandered over to where Decker gathered his camera equipment and helped him pile it up in the back of the camper. They figured it was better to only risk one vehicle to the muddy track, but it wasn’t long before they regretted choosing it over the Astra. The Astra might have been smaller, but its suspension was definitely better, and more than once they winced as it rock and rolled its way down. Finally, they spied the water’s edge and their spirits lifted. The view was beautiful – almost uncannily so, and even Decker seemed buoyed by it. He climbed out of the VW to take some establishing shots, and Piers managed to turn the camper around so they could ease their boat off its trailer and into the water with little trouble. The way the light refracted off the early morning mist that clung to the edge of the loch gave it an ethereal quality, a faerie grotto of legend bordered by drooping pines and the odd deciduous tree just turning a glorious gold. After a few minutes, Decker finished filming and they continued on to the water’s edge, where Yolanda gave the obligatory introductory speech whilst Piers and Mags ducked behind a nearby tree to pull on wetsuits.
“Hey... have you seen this?” Piers emerged from behind his tree, his wetsuit dangling from his torso. He held something large and round in his hands. Paul rolled his eyes and called cut.
“Piers, how many times? Don't interrupt filming!”
“Oh, sorry, man – but you've got to take a look at this.”
He offered Paul a rounded lump of grey stone, about the size of a brick, carved into the shape of a face. It had staring eyes and a round 'o' for a mouth, reminding Paul of Edvard Munch's 'The Scream'. It was a crude approximation of a human expression, but it unsettled him enough to refuse to take it from Piers when he offered it over.
“Where on earth did you find that?” he asked.
“It was on the floor, just over there behind the tree.” Piers jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I wonder what it is?”
“Hey... I think there's another one over here!” Mags' voice floated over from the trees. She was fully suited up, a splash of violent colour crouched amongst the earthy tones of the surrounding trees. Both Paul and Piers wandered over to join her, Piers' fingers still caressing the lumpen features of his find, and indeed, there was another one, sitting amongst the bracken, its sightless eyes facing the loch. Mags continued her search as the two men compared sculptures, pulling the undergrowth back until she let out a low whistle.
“Yep, another one... what the hell are they?”
She bent down to touch this third one, but was stopped by a bark from Decker.
“No! Don't... don't touch it.” He came running over, his equipment forgotten. “Please, just don't-” He stopped abruptly when he saw Piers holding one.
“What?” Piers said. “I was just looking at it.”
“Put it back.” Decker's request was quiet; he didn't shout, he didn't swear, but Paul couldn't help feeling it might have been better if he had. Piers shrugged and ambled over to where he discovered his little head and set it back on the ground.
“Face it the right way,” Decker said.
“For God's sake,” Piers muttered, but did as he was told nonetheless.
“What are they, Decker?” Paul asked.
Decker paused and looked to the ground. “Just a local superstition. They... they protect us. From the Beast. They're always watching.”
“They're weird,” Piers said. He dusted his hands on his thighs and switched his attention to Mags. “You ready, partner?”
Mags nodded and threw the stone near her feet one last, almost hateful look. “Yeah, I'm ready.”
Together they manhandled the boat into the water. Without a jetty it was a bit of a struggle, but they managed it. Usually they hired boats from the locals as they tended to be larger and sturdier than their little motorised dinghy, but after asking Mrs Kelly, they'd discovered there were no boats for hire at all in Dùisg a' Pheacaich. It seemed a little odd, but Paul hadn't been willing to push it, so they'd decided to stick with their own and make do.
Decker was to stay on the shore with Yolanda whilst Paul operated the probe that allowed Piers and Mags to communicate with them as they dived. In the past it has always been Decker in the boat, but Paul didn't have the heart to send him out there, so he's offered to go instead.
The water was bitingly cold as they waded out, guiding the dinghy out into deeper water. One by one, they clambered aboard. Mags took hold of the tiller and they motored out to the middle of the loch, a few feet shy of the church spire. At this distance, they could see its weather-stained surface, mauled and pitted by the ravages of time. No weathervane graced its top; judging by the chunk of stone taken out of one side, it had been torn free many years ago, probably so it could be sold for scrap. Out here, all was quiet, the only movement the occasional gust of wind that stirred the waters, shattering its surface into a million glittering fragments before it calmed back to glass once more.
Undeterred, Paul took the probe and dangled it over the side of the dinghy before switching it on. Both Piers and Mags then pulled on their full face masks so he could check and see if he could pick up their frequencies. It wasn’t perfect, but after some fiddling he managed to tune in so their voices were at least louder than the background hiss of interference.
“I don't know what's up with it – must be atmospherics, or something,” he said. “When you’re down there, keep talking – even if it’s just to sing ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’. I'll need to know you’re there, so if I do lose you, I know it’s time to start tuning again, okay?”
Both Mags and Piers nodded.
“I’m looking to you to get some good footage of that church and get out,” Paul added. “Don’t take any risks, stay together and don’t go inside. Last thing we need is for either of you to get stuck down there-”
“Yeah, yeah, we know the drill,” Piers said, grinning. Every dive, the same pep talk. He’d heard it all before.
Paul pulled on his headphones and pulled the radio-mic close to his mouth.
“You hear me?”
Piers nodded. “Back at you.”
“Yep, I read that. Mags?”
“Yeah, I can hear you,”
“Good. Looks like we’re going to be okay.”
Mags and Piers shuffled over the edge of the boat and plopped backwards into the water, where they hovered for a second, gaining their bearings. That done, they both gave Paul a thumbs-up and disappeared into the depths. As always, Paul watched them go with a mixture of trepidation and awe.
This, as the old saying went, was it.
o0o
Decker stood a little way from the water's edge. He dare not go closer. Even though he knew it was stupid, that the warning only applied to children, something deeply ingrained within him made him stop.
It had taken everything he had to stop running up to them, to beg them not to go. Now he watched helplessly as the dinghy powered out to the middle of the loch. The hum of its little motor filled the glen, drilling into his head, giving him a headache. Then, finally, it stopped and they were motionless, tiny dolls atop a child's bath toy.
A familiar, coppery tang spurted in his mouth. He dragged his attention from the loch and looked at his fingers. He'd bitten them to the quick; one was bleeding.
Blood.
The word loomed over him, important and heavy. He swallowed hard and tried not to allow the memory that howled behind the prison-door of his mind a chance to escape.
“Are... are you okay?”
The way Yolanda spoke, hesitant and awkward, told Decker she was concerned. And of course, why shouldn't she be? She had been left here, with him, a man who trembled at nothing and bit his fingernails until they bled. He tried to offer her a reassuring smile, but it wouldn't come. Instead, he nodded and continued to stare out over the water.
