The Darkest Part Of The Woods

by Ramsey Campbell

  "I'm saying it's your mother. She's the Mrs. Price who's here."

  "Oh, I see. Sorry if I was . . ." Her growing sense of Sylvia's absence was robbing her of words, and she had to search for the right question to ask. "Why is she?"

  "My apologies for bringing you bad news." Presumably his pause was intended to let Heather brace herself rather than demand what kind. "I'm afraid there's been an accident," he said. "She was in a collision with a car."

  30: The Lowest Room

  That was my house when I was just me," said Sylvia, gazing across the common. In the dimness before sunrise Woodland Close was back-lit by the street-lamps, but every window was dark. For a moment she hoped to see hers light up—hoped that, having found her note, Heather was hurrying upstairs to discover the suitcases hidden in the wardrobe and realise her sister couldn't have gone far. The window stayed unlit, while behind her the forest whispered and creaked and touched her neck with a clammy breath. Even if all that was only the wind, it felt as though the trees were eager to have her among them. "You'll be with me, won't you,

  Natty?" she murmured.

  "Yes."

  She didn't so much hear as feel his voice. It seemed to rise from a depth far greater than she could contain—from a darkness under the earth or beyond the thin faint sky—but it was her only companion. She had to leave her old home behind and everything it represented. She lifted one hand in a wave almost too small and tentative for her to be conscious of performing it, and turned to step into the forest, past a log that resembled a giant eyeless lizard with deformed unequal stumpy legs. As she set foot on the edge of the vast pattern of decaying leaves she felt the woods grow aware of her, and saw the trees flex themselves like antennae attuning themselves to her presence.

  For as long as it took her to remember to breathe she couldn't move. She wouldn't have been surprised to see the log raise itself blindly but purposefully on its remains of legs to lead her or herd her between the trees.

  She did her best to think that would only be like one of the games she used to play by herself in the woods, since it had failed to appeal to her sister—the game of turning over a log to expose its hoard of insects that would swarm back into hiding for her to turn up again and again, though hadn't the teeming mass put her in mind less of insects than of fragments of discoloured bark? The poised stillness of the wooden reptile sent her stumbling into the woods as if she had to keep up with her swollen belly so as not to overbalance. She was digging in her handbag for the flashlight when she realised that although the trees had closed around her and overhead, she could see her way, just as earlier she had been able to read Selcouth's journal in the dimness of her room. "Are you doing that?" she wondered. "Are you changing me?"

  "Yes."

  She was more aware of his consciousness than of anything physical within herself. She had yet to feel movement in her womb. Sometimes, in the depths of the night, she felt she contained nothing except a darkness more intense than she imagined could be found even at the limits of the universe, and then she would become sensible of harbouring a mind besides her own. Since its conception she had gradually regained her memories of all her visits to the forest, a process that felt as if the creature with which she was sharing her body was adding its mind to hers or using hers. It couldn't harm her, she kept needing to think, without harming itself. "We'll look after each other, won't we?" she promised or pleaded or both.

  "Yes."

  The response was enough to send her plodding onwards, watching for signs of her father. Surely it must have been whatever was left of him that had given Rosemary the message. That was a reason for Sylvia to be here, and so was her pledge not to betray her and Sam's secret—she wouldn't have felt certain of suppressing it if she'd stayed with him and Heather. Besides, she had never been afraid of the woods; why should she start now? "It's a magic place, isn't it?" she murmured.

  "Yes."

  It appeared to be. The trees of the natural avenue down which she was advancing framed a vista that brightened as she watched, tree-trunks gleaming like silver pillars cracked by antiquity, fallen leaves composing a design as elaborate and many-coloured as the floor of an ancient temple. She thought dawn was responsible for the brightness until she glanced back. She hadn't realised she had already walked so far; she could barely distinguish the glow of the street-lamps, let alone the shapes of houses, and no other light was to be seen.

  Yet when she faced forward the glow of the woods renewed itself as though it had only been waiting for her to look. "Are you there?" she ventured to call, however softly.

  "Yes."

  "Not you this time, Natty. I know you are," she said, though the buried voice had seemed less precisely located than ever. "I meant my father."

  She had a sense, too vague for definition, that he was near. If he was hiding behind any of the trees ahead he must have grown considerably thinner. She couldn't help hoping he wouldn't play the game she used to play among the trees with Heather. Perhaps it was thanks to the nervousness she was suddenly unable to ignore that she had a momentary impression of being accompanied, not under cover of the forest but beneath the ground she trod on—accompanied by a vast presence that had shrunken itself to pace her. When she twisted around, planting her feet wide to support the burden of herself, she saw only forest, not a hint of the town. She turned away for fear of losing her balance and as her midriff carried her another step deeper into the woods she was informed

  "He's waiting."

  "You can talk. You don't just answer. You're growing up fast," said Sylvia, telling herself she had really heard the words: she wasn't talking to herself as she roamed the forest—she hadn't gone the way so many people thought her father had. "Where is he?"

  "Keep going."

  She took that for an answer as well as a direction while she attempted to decide whether the voice sounded more like a child trying to imitate a man or the reverse. She was distracted from looking for signs of her father by a scent in the humid air. It was almost too faint to be distinguishable from fancy—it was subtle as the intimation of a mystery—and yet if it had been any more intense its sweetness would have overpowered her. "You can't smell that, can you?" she hardly knew why she asked.

  "We can."

  He must mean he was sharing her experience, she thought, and felt enlarged beyond words. "What is it, then?"

  "Our season."

  No ordinary child could use language like that. She was almost as proud of herself as of him. She wished someone else were there to admire his development; she hoped her father would be. The woods were brightening further as if to demonstrate they had nothing to hide, so that she hardly started when a butterfly she'd taken for an especially colourful patch of dead leaves fluttered up to hover a yard or so ahead. She had nearly reached it when it darted along the latest avenue she was following. Having swerved from tree to tree, on which it appeared to fit into the patterns and texture of bark, it hesitated until she was close before dodging onwards, trailing the scent she would have attributed to some seductive blossom. "Is it playing with us?" she whispered.

  "Yes."

  As he answered she gasped, but only with delight. Another patch of the floor of the woods had sailed up to join the first butterfly. They must be of the same species, however different their colours were, because they danced around each other as they led her down the avenue. She did her best to watch their antics while trying to identify where the next one would reveal itself. That made the entire decaying floor of the avenue seem about to come to life, but she could see no reason to be apprehensive. When another fragment of the shadowed tapestry proved capable of taking flight, she clapped her hands. "It's like . . ." she murmured. "What did it say in the journal?"

  "All things shall be changed by the procedure of the dark, and all shall partake of its essence."

  Except that nothing she was seeing could be called dark, she thought. Perhaps she had been thinking of another passage in the journal, but she was diverted from rememb
ering by the spectacle of so many butterflies adding themselves to the dance. At least a dozen were leading her now, tantalising her with their hesitations and their scent, and she felt close to some revelation contained in the intricate patterns they were describing in the air. They were fluttering onwards almost too swiftly for her to match their pace, but her midriff no longer seemed to be weighing her down so much as bearing her through the forest, and she was able to focus her attention on the enigma of the rapid jagged insect dance. She fancied she had almost grasped its significance when the flock of butterflies flew apart in all directions and instantly vanished. Had they really turned on edge to reveal a lack of one dimension? She had no time to wonder, because she could set where they had brought her—where she'd tried to be unaware of heading ever since she had entered the woods. "I didn't know your father when

  I met him here," she whispered. "It just felt as if we were made for each other."

  She couldn't pretend that her having failed to recognise Sam had caused her sudden nervousness, and only silence answered her. If her father had called her back where he'd tried to leave here—where Selcouth had lived and the child she hadn't realised she was naming after him had been conceived—why couldn't he show himself? She was beginning to feel he was caged by the trees or trapped within them. When she ventured towards the clearing it wasn't just in search of him; it was partly to reassure herself that she couldn't reach the buried steps—she had no spade, and could hardly be expected to dig without one. Then a gap between the trees gave her a clear view of the mound, and she hugged her midriff as though to protect both its contents and herself. The mound wasn't as Sam had left it. The earth above the steps had been dug up.

  As she faltered, reluctant to approach the open space even though it seemed bright with more than the imminent dawn, the butterflies reappeared above the mound. Had they emerged from the disinterred passage? "Look, there are our friends," she murmured, not least to reassure herself. She was moving forward only to watch them, she tried to think. Then, behind or within the rapid dense intricate patterns, a figure looked out of the mound.

  No sooner had it beckoned to her than it withdrew into the earth, but she was certain she had glimpsed her father's face. As she tramped into the clearing and stepped over the bricks onto the glistening upheaved soil she felt as if the heat had gathered within her, urging her to be quick. The butterflies sailed high like shards of a fire and were lost somewhere under the dim thick sky, but she was peering down the spiral of steps, above which the two chunks of the slab were propped. "Is that you?" she called.

  "Yes."

  The whisper was below her. It sounded as though he was finding it hard to produce any voice. "Where are you?" she called louder.

  "Waiting."

  "Will you be with me?"

  "Of course."

  She heard that he felt distrusted. How could she demand any further reassurance or abandon him down there in the dark? She took the flashlight out of her bag and followed its beam down the steps. The forest reared above her, and she felt as if it was urging her downwards—as if the effect of last year's gale had been to close the focus of the woods around her. When the mound cut off her view she tried to probe the secretive curve of the passage with the light. "Won't you let me see you?" she said.

  "Come down first."

  His voice was more stifled than ever, but then hers sounded trapped by the walls. Only the scent she had associated with the butterflies drifted up to meet her. She plodded down, supporting herself with her free hand on the clammy wall, until she came in sight of the doorway of the first charred room. She didn't have to shine the beam on the remains she remembered were there; just now she preferred to hurry past. As she came abreast of the doorway, however, she became aware of far too tall and scrawny a figure that stood in the depths of the room, watching her from the dark.

  "All the way down," the voice murmured below her, and she was glad to obey, though once she was past the doorway she wished she had retreated instead. She could only flee downwards while the walls capered around her and the low ceiling appeared to jerk lower. At least there were no watchers in the other rooms. The solitary sound was her own tread, flattened and shrunken by the passage. It ceased as she reached the bottom of the steps and sent the beam into the lowest room.

  It wasn't just charred bare; the floor was exposed earth. Nevertheless an attempt had been made to prepare it for her. Piled against the far wall was a long broad mound of fallen leaves at least a foot high. When she stepped forward, having used the beam to ascertain that the room was deserted, she didn't know whether she felt fulfilled or as exhausted as the flashlight was beginning to appear. She only knew she had to take her place on the bed of leaves, though she wouldn't have been altogether surprised if they had revealed their true nature by swarming into the air. They merely yielded while she lowered herself onto them and was rewarded by feeling bathed in the scent that had helped entice her down. She clutched her handbag to her as if she was clinging to all that was left of her life up to that moment, and laid the flashlight on the earth, pointing the feeble beam at the unlit doorway. "Can I see you now?" she whispered.

  "Soon."

  The voice was so close to her it seemed impossible that she couldn't locate the speaker. It was much closer than the pair of thuds that reverberated down the steps. The slab had been replaced. She knew she would never be able to raise it, and the resignation the knowledge brought with it felt like accepting her role at last, not that she'd had any other option since returning to Goodmanswood.

  She might have reflected on passages from Selcouth's journal—might even have tried to come to terms with its final revelation, which had disconcerted her so much that not only had she kept it from Sam, she'd done her best to bide it from herself—if her attention hadn't been trapped by the black rectangle of the doorway. Now and then her lips parted, but surely it was time for someone else to initiate a conversation. Nobody had spoken, and nothing had shown itself, when the beam that had grown so dim it barely touched the floor went out and all the subterranean blackness came to find her—at first, only the dark.

  31: The Lucky Ones

  What else could I have done, Sam?" He was watching the haze catch reflections of the traffic ahead on the bypass. It looked as though a medium was flooding out of the woods and struggling to transform into itself whatever it touched. He kept feeling it was about to cease to recede, having gained a hold on the world outside the forest, but he couldn't imagine how it would affect him if it lay in wait for the car. "When?" he scarcely knew he said.

  "To make Sylvie stay." His mother gripped the steering wheel and peered nervously ahead as though she was sharing his thoughts about the haze, but of course she was searching for Margo. "Unless," she said even more wistfully, "it was something I did that made her leave."

  "It wouldn't have been."

  "It's kind of you to say so, but you can't be sure. I wish you could."

  He was tempted to relieve her of her guilt, but how could he admit to having given Sylvia cause to leave? His mother would never be able to cope with it, nor he with her knowing. Nevertheless he muttered "I can."

  "I keep meaning to tell you you're one of the kindest people I know. If Sylvie's gone on her travels again I suppose there's one good thing, however much we're going to worry about her." She glanced at him as she finished saying "You'll have one less reason to feel you have to stay."

  "It wasn't her fault."

  "I wasn't accusing her, Sam. There's been too much of that around lately for all of us." She seemed disappointed in his reply, however. "I hope you'll take the chance to have a word with Dr Lowe," she said then leaned over the wheel as if she'd been jabbed in the stomach. "Is that. . ."

  When he followed the direction of her gaze he wasn't immediately sure what he was seeing. It resembled the ghost of an accident: a car wobbling like red gelatine and throbbing with orange hazard lights as it watched over its victim, beside whom a figure knelt priest-like on the roadsid
e. Then the tableau swam forward, and Margo's prone body appeared to float up as though the medium that had drowned it was returning it, however temporarily, to the familiar world. The kneeling man was Dr Lowe, and he was speaking to her. Behind the red Nissan hatchback with its guilty orange pulse was a police car, its roof lights imparting a lurid bluish twitch to the nearest trees while its driver interrogated an unhappy middle-aged man in the seat next to her. As Sam's mother sped in quest of a gap that would let her turn back, he hoped she had time to observe that Margo was conscious.

  Beyond the Arbour, where several of the patients were watching the spectacle from their or someone else's windows, she found a place to turn. She parked rather less than expertly behind the police vehicle and ran past, leaving Sam to close the door she'd left ajar. Dr Lowe stood up, rubbing stiffness out of his legs, as Sam joined his mother. "Try not to move," she was advising Margo in a soft anxious voice, but Margo raised her head from the improvised pillow of a man's tweed jacket, apparently the doctor's. "Why, here's Sam now," she said with dreamy astonishment. "Look what your old grandmother's done to herself, Sam.

  What a family we are for falling off things and stepping in front of things."

  Perhaps she felt that trivialised her husband's death. She frowned as if the pinching of her wrinkles might draw her thoughts together. "What I'm trying to say," she declared, though falling short of the forcefulness she was attempting to summon up, "is all these people put to trouble just because I forgot where I was for a moment."

  Heather reached for her but withheld her hand. "Can you say where you're hurt?"

  "Just my leg and the old hip where the car bumped into it, I think, and I suppose the shoulder where it hit the road." She blinked down herself but seemed unable to focus before letting her head sink back. "I'll be like you, Sam. We'll have to prop each other up, except you'll be somewhere else, won't you? You should be. You mustn't get the notion you have to hang around and help take care of me."