by R. H. Dixon
‘Whispering Woods,’ Uncle Dean said. He positioned himself by the window, folding his arms over his large chest.
‘Why’s it called that?’ Sarah Jane moved closer to him under the pretence she might see better.
‘Because of the trees.’ His voice was a low rumble of gritty caution and Sarah Jane could sense that a nervous edginess had taken hold of him because of the way he was standing, all angular and stiff. ‘The trees sometimes talk.’
Unsure what to make of this claim, Sarah Jane grinned and said, ‘That’s silly.’ But when she looked up, she saw that his blue eye was serious and succinctly more disturbing than the white one.
‘It’s true,’ he said, with a wink. ‘And anyone that can hear them, for sure, will go slowly and irreversibly mad.’
2
Rough fabric prickled Callie Crossley’s right cheek, bare arm and consciousness. She was lying on her side, struggling through dark, incoherent thoughts. Then she groaned and opened her eyes – awakening to even darker and more incoherent thoughts. Her head hurt and she couldn’t move her arms because her hands were bound behind her back. Perhaps even more worryingly, she couldn’t see. At all. Couldn’t even move her tongue to speak (or scream) because there was something jammed inside her mouth. Something soft, like a handkerchief. Or a sock. Or…who knew, it could be anything!
Fully awake now, she knew she was in a different kind of nightmare altogether. A very real one. When she tried to stretch her legs her feet met with something that created a hollow-sounding thud. Panic swelled in her chest and she kicked out, harder this time, causing similar reverberant thuds to vibrate beneath her.
Fucking hell, I’m boxed in!
With this newer, starker realisation the darkness sealed itself around her with a more suffocating density and the air seemed suddenly thin. There was no sound except that of her own breathing, which she knew was too rapid. She wondered when she’d run out of oxygen. This thought, in turn, made her breathe even faster, to the point of hyperventilation.
Calm down, just calm the shit down. Think rationally.
But this isn’t rational.
I don’t care. Just think, think, think dammit!
Mentally backtracking, Callie thought about what she’d been doing last: getting drunk and socialising at Antonio Drake’s private party at his UK home in Kensington. The cosy shindig was in celebration of Ampato Curse, the sequel to Juanita Heat in which Drake’s stellar performance as brooding anti-hero Angel Grind had since branded him as some sexy Hispanic Indiana Jones type. The action-adventure, which had topped the charts for weeks on end back in 2014, had seen Drake’s character Grind battle against time and countless obstacles to claim back the Inca Ice Maiden that had been stolen by fanatical madman Donovan O’ Sheath. O’ Sheath, played by classic British television scoundrel Rothbury Clime, had planned to invoke the Incan God by offering up the ancient mummy along with a new sacrifice, his own step-sister, till Grind thwarted his plans and defeated him halfway up twin-peaked mountain Nevado Huascarán in northern Peru. And now Ampato Curse was forecasted to be just as much of a blockbuster. Callie Crossley wasn’t totally convinced, however. Aside from the fact Drake’s rapport with leading lady Elspeth Moore in Ampato Curse lacked the chemistry he’d shared with Rowena Murray in Juanita Heat, the storyline felt weaker by comparison and rushed in its completion. Just another sequel for sequels’ sake. Callie hoped to be proved wrong though. For the longevity of her own career, she wanted to be proved wrong.
She’d swigged champagne at Drake’s party and chattered enthusiastically about her own part in the movie – bungling historian Rosie Montgomery who wore stereotypical nerd glasses and a tweed jacket with elbow patches - to all that asked, and there had been plenty, until she’d had enough and just wanted her pyjamas and slippers on. She’d made her excuses then left. Bizzle and Franky, her security men, met her at the door and escorted her towards her waiting car. That was the last she could remember.
So where was she now?
Where in the world was so dark and cramped?
The prickly fabric beneath her felt like…what?
Well, felt.
The lining of a car boot.
Oh fuck, I’ve been kidnapped!
Callie had been warned of the risks. Countless times. Had always taken the warnings seriously. Especially recently. Which was why she always had Bizzle and Franky close to hand. But where were they now? She couldn’t recall being manhandled or roughed up. Nor could she recall Bizzle or Franky reacting to anyone who shouldn’t have been there outside Drake’s home. And yet here she was, trussed up in what she suspected was the back of a car.
Had someone drugged her at the party?
She didn’t think so. Having downed more than quadruple her recommended daily allowance of alcohol, Callie felt surprisingly clear-headed. But then, adrenalin could do that couldn’t it? Maybe she had been drugged. She rolled onto her back, knees pointed up. Her bound hands dug painfully into the softness of her buttocks and her arms hurt, so she rolled back onto her side. A piteous sob clawed its way up her throat but was cut short, muffled by the warm, unpleasant gag in her mouth. This was too awful to bear: the knowledge of being in danger offset by the definitely not knowing why. The best she could hope for was a kidnapper who wanted some sort of ransom. She had enough money to guarantee a safe release, if that’s what it was about. But, depending to whom her kidnapper made the initial monetary demand might also (depending on the types of movies you’d seen) depend on how many fingers she would lose before serious negotiations got underway.
Gah.
Another idea occurred to her then. What if she was in the back of her own chauffeur’s car? Maybe Landon was in on some dodgy-bastard, money-making scheme with Bizzle and Franky.
No way! Too paranoid.
Is it? How well do you really know those shady fuckers?
Not very, I suppose.
See!
She tried straightening her body lengthways again, even though she knew it didn’t fit. Not even close. Again this served to make her feel maddeningly claustrophobic. She jolted upwards, a frustrated bid to make more space, somehow, and hit her head on the underside of what she presumed was the parcel shelf.
Arrrggghhh. Need. To. Get. Out. Have. To. Get. Oh wait!
A news report about a woman who’d been bundled into the boot of a family saloon by a would-be killer sprung to mind. Callie recalled the woman had knocked a back light out of the white Passat; a car nobody would have suspected had such an unusual cargo had she not then stuck her hand out of the hole she’d made. This tactical move meant the woman attracted the attention of several fellow road users, most of whom reported her hand-waving to the police. As a result, she was then saved from whatever horrors her kidnapper had had planned for her. A nice, tidy ending.
Callie’s situation was very different, however. She realised that. The car she was in was stationery and there were no sounds – traffic or otherwise – to suggest anyone else was nearby. But still, she had to try. Had to do something. Couldn’t just lie there waiting till there was no oxygen left and her lungs shrivelled up or exploded or deflated or did whatever they do when there’s no air left to breathe. She nudged her stilettos off and felt about with her bare feet, searching for the nearest rear light. When she found it, she reared her left leg and hoofed the inner side of the fitting with the ball of her foot. She felt it slacken, but it didn’t give. She tried another three times, harder each time. On the fourth attempt it fell out and a powdery waft of daylight killed the darkness next to her feet, highlighting the close proximity of her box-like confines even more.
Oh fuckitty fuck, I need to get out.
She jabbed one foot outside into cool air and jiggled it about, making mad grunting noises behind the gag as she did. She could hear birds now. Crows, she thought. And it was the cawing of these birds and the light breeze that danced open-aired freedom about her toes that made her think, most likely, she h
adn’t been stashed away in a garage or some other secure lock-up where no one would ever find her. She kept rotating her ankle, wriggling her toes.
Please see me. Someone? Anyone! Please. I NEED to get out.
But after ten minutes had passed, Callie’s foot became still and she began to sob; an awful sound like a large dog having a seizure, she thought. But she couldn’t help it. Couldn’t stop. Was too distressed. Couldn’t control nor contain the internal terror that made her lungs incapable of filling up anywhere close to capacity – or even half way. She’d been stolen and tied up and locked away. And the arm she was lying on had gone numb and she needed a drink of water. A champagne hangover was beginning to kick in and her mouth was dry, the gag having soaked all of the moisture from it.
What did any of this mean? Was she going to die?
Not like this. Please, not like this.
She pulled her foot back into the boot space and shuffled about, rearranging herself so that she lay on her front. The imminence of pins and needles about to spread up her entire arm tingled; the nerves angry about having been starved of blood for too long. She tried screaming again, a noise that wasn’t loud beyond her own head. A noise that did not much more than hurt her throat. She banged her feet against the hollow, sturdy walls of her confinement to make as much racket as she could. To vent her frustration. Surprisingly, she felt anger building. Which was good, she thought. If she could feed this inner rage it would help her not to fall into emotionally-weak pieces. But after only a few minutes had passed she grew tired. Fell still. Felt less angry already. And sobbed.
Then she heard something. Something beyond her tiny cell. A door creaking open. Close by. Her heartbeat became even more erratic and she strained over the sound of her own breathing to detect more sound. A person, perhaps. She felt hopeful, nervous, frightened and elated.
Please let it be the police.
Or Bizzle and Franky.
Or anyone who doesn’t want to do awful things to me.
She was sure she could hear footsteps now, someone approaching slowly – cautious or deliberate, she couldn’t tell. A steady advance. Grass rustling subtly in a way it hadn’t before. A certain expectancy charging the air, prickling dormant senses not usually used when danger didn’t present itself to this degree.
Then the birds were shouting, excitedly. What could they see that she couldn’t?
Callie held her breath; her lungs burning with the effort. She could sense that whoever was out there was standing not two feet away. Her kidnapper having come to relay his intentions, perhaps, or merely toying with her. Or coming to play holy fuck because she’d kicked the rear light of his car out. Or maybe it was a chance passer-by, as she’d hoped.
Her bladder twinged and she thought she might wet herself. She considered screaming a muffled scream against the gag, in case whoever it was went away without knowing she was even there. But there was a click and the boot opened. Daylight poured in, blinding her. When her eyes adjusted to the new brightness she saw a figure standing over her. It was then that she filled her lungs and screamed.
3
‘What do the trees in Whispering Woods talk about?’ Sarah Jane asked.
Uncle Dean shrugged. ‘Suppose that depends on what it is they have to tell you.’ His blue eye sparkled with mischief, but his dead one conveyed a solemn truth.
Sarah Jane’s own eyes glittered with excitement. She shifted her weight to her right leg, so her arm was touching his. ‘Do you know any stories? About any of the people that have gone mad.’
‘A couple.’ He smiled; his teeth were white and straight and somehow, falsely or not, substantiated genuineness. ‘There used to be a man lived here as it happens. Old Mally Murgatroyd.’
‘You mean here?’ Sarah Jane pointed to the floor. ‘In this cabin?’
‘Yep. He lived alone. Went doolally. Some say it was cabin fever, but maybe he’d always been a tongue sandwich short of a picnic.’
‘Sounds like the picnic was better off that way,’ Pollyanna said. She was looking out of the window from across the room. Next to her was Roxanne Miller.
‘You think?’ Uncle Dean seemed to consider this. He scratched his chin and the whiskers there sounded coarse against his fingertips. He smelled of cologne; a citrus musk. Sarah Jane breathed him in, becoming more and more inebriated on infatuation.
‘One evening, late August, quite some years back,’ he said, his voice still low, ‘something really awful happened here.’
It was then, right at that moment, Sarah Jane felt a change in the atmosphere, as though Uncle Dean’s words had commanded a shift in the fabric of reality. She imagined the room was listening and changing mood to suit, altering to accommodate his story like an emotional chameleon that recognised their morbid interest and need for tragedy. All at once every bit of warmth that the earlier sun had left behind was spat out through the open bedroom door and the air became instantly cold; as cold as the blue of the covers on the two single beds. Sarah Jane shivered. She looked out at the woods, needing and longing to know its darkest secrets so she could ponder them as if they were her own. There was a murderousness about Whispering Woods and she wanted Uncle Dean to go right ahead and weave its stories into the here and now so she might glimpse beyond its frontline, to see what was really in there. To feel what it was like. To know if its insides lay ghastly and stinking beneath countless deciduous summers or if the frostbite of each winter was enough to have cleansed the horror of the trees. She wanted to walk through the undergrowth with Uncle Dean leading the way, the pair of them kicking up dead leaves with the toes of their boots. She tingled with excitement and all the while was aware of a delicious warmth on her arm – the warmth of him radiating through the fabric of his shirt sleeve. ‘What happened that was so awful?’ she asked.
‘Some broken-down motorists on their way home from a camping trip stopped by. A man, a woman and their two kids.’
‘Then what?’
‘Take a guess.’ Again he smiled; it was a smile that didn’t denote any sense of favourable outcome for the family in the tale, but a smile that crushed down on Sarah Jane’s heart nonetheless, adding more weight, more pressure, till it actually hurt.
‘Old Mally Murgatroyd killed them?’ she asked.
He drummed his fingers on the sill, a quick-fire sequence of confirmation, then pointed a finger gun at her. ‘All except the small boy.’
‘But why?’
He shrugged, looked puzzled for a moment as though he’d never considered this, then said, ‘Why does anyone do anything?’
Sarah Jane pressed her arm even closer against his. ‘How did he do it? Kill them, I mean. Did he butcher them?’
‘Sarah Jane!’ Roxanne Miller, still standing by the doorway, folded her arms over her chest. ‘Why do you always have to be so bloody horrible?’
‘Did it with a filleting knife,’ Uncle Dean said, seeming not to hear Roxanne Miller’s voice, let alone her disapproval. He was staring out of the window now, trancelike, unreachable. The room was breathing all around them. In. Out. In. Out. Big. Small. Big. Small. ‘Hacked all three of them up, right there in front of the little boy.’ His head jerked round then, and he regarded Sarah Jane with the most intense blue. ‘Can you imagine that? His mam. His dad. Then his big sister.’
Sarah Jane could. She half-smiled. ‘Then what?’
‘Old Mally Murgatroyd, he sautéed their flesh and made himself a stew for dinner. Made the boy eat some of it too.’
‘Oh come on, Dean,’ Roxanne Miller objected.
‘Once he’d had a bellyful,’ Uncle Dean went on, ‘he left the boy here and went out into the woods and hanged himself.’
‘Wow.’ Sarah Jane was still trying to determine if he was winding her up, but the white of his dead eye made it impossible for her to tell. ‘But why? Why would he do that?’
‘The trees, they told him to. That’s just how it is, sweetheart. Those touched by the madness of Whisper
ing Woods do all kinds of crazy stuff. It’s like the trees…’
‘Dean!’ This time Roxanne Miller made sure she was heard.
Uncle Dean turned to her, startled, fully aware, his thoughts completely back in the room with them. ‘It’s okay though,’ he said, raising his hands in apology, ‘not everyone hears the trees anyway.’
‘What happened to the boy?’ Pollyanna asked, her voice a ghostly addition to the conversation.
‘Stayed here,’ Uncle Dean said. He edged away from the window, his eyes not leaving Roxanne Miller’s.
‘How long for?’
‘Hard to say.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Look, I think we’ve all heard enough silly stories for one day,’ Roxanne Miller said. She was glaring, but her eyes lacked any real reproach. ‘I’m sure tales like this aren’t good for young imaginations.’
‘Yeah, sorry. I, uh, I’m sorry.’ Uncle Dean winced and Sarah Jane hated her mother more than ever for having made him look momentarily weak. It wasn’t a look befitting an ex-army sergeant. He owed her nothing, least of all an apology just because she was too feeble-minded to deal with the truth and the more unsavoury aspects of life.
Roxanne Miller shook her head and flashed him a different kind of sullen look which, deliberately or not, gave way to a certain sexual tension that brought a touch of uncomfortable warmth back to the room. She then turned and made off towards the lounge and Sarah Jane scrunched her fists tight, her nails burrowing into skin, when she saw how Uncle Dean sighed after her. The memory of the orphaned boy who’d eaten bits of his parents and sister lingered in the uncomfortable silence like a stewing argument and Sarah Jane thought of ways to encourage it. But nobody said anything for a while.
