A STORYTELLING OF RAVENS

by R. H. Dixon

  There are other things out there.

  ‘Now’s about the right time to tell me,’ she said. The whites of Smiler’s eyes glinted and she could feel his quick breath on her cheek. She didn’t think he’d answer, but he licked his lips and whispered the word ‘Wolfmen,’ as if it was code for something she should already know.

  ‘What?’

  ‘At least two of them.’

  Callie stumbled for words. Stumbled for clarity. ‘Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘I swear to God.’

  ‘There’s no such thing.’

  ‘I knew you’d say that.’ His voice was a frustrated hiss. ‘That’s why I told you to forget about it, but you just wouldn’t let it go.’ His fingers were still tight on her arm and she could feel him trembling.

  ‘So, what?’ Her stomach churned. ‘You expect me to believe there are werewolves out there?’

  ‘Wolfmen,’ he corrected.

  ‘What’s the fucking difference?’

  ‘They walk on hind legs and don’t turn into men.’ His eyes glinted again. ‘At least, I don’t think so. But maybe they do. I dunno.’

  ‘Ha-fucking-ha!’ Callie nipped his forearm, a sharp tweak between thumb and forefinger that made him suck air in through his teeth. ‘When we get back to the cabin you’re dead meat, Golden.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For being a total dickhead.’

  ‘Hey, I’m not!’ he whisper-shouted. ‘I’m being serious.’ He jabbed a finger at the blackness of the woods. ‘There are two great big fucking things out there. In the trees. I’m telling you. So. Shut. The fuck. Up!’

  Neither prompted the other to move, but they started creeping forward again. Both needed the sanctity of the cabin. Right now.

  ‘If there really are wolfmen out there, then why the hell didn’t we stay at the village till morning?’ Callie said, incensed that either she was being taken for a fool or led to certain death.

  ‘Because we need to get back to Pollyanna.’

  ‘Fuck Pollyanna! What about us? I’m worried about us.’

  ‘Well I’m sure we’d stand more of a chance of making it back in one piece if you’d just be quiet.’

  Callie’s lips pinched. She wanted to argue, but knew he was probably right. She wanted to slap his hands away, but knew she’d regret it. Regardless of what she thought of him, she needed him to lean on to make it along the wooded road, which seemed to stretch on forever. Otherwise she thought she might just freeze with fright and take root alongside the trees. Woodland smells of turned earth, fungi and the decomposition of old leaves pervaded her thoughts, making her think of the cabin. She wondered if the cabin was made from trees felled in Whispering Woods. Wouldn’t be at all surprised if it was. Whispering Woods was all around her and inside her, suffocating her with its oppressiveness. She had an overpowering urge to flee in the opposite direction. To go back to the church. But she was closer to the cabin now, closer to the lake: perhaps their only escape route. And closer to Thurston. Because despite what Smiler thought about him, Callie couldn’t quite allow herself to think that Thurston might be connected with Uncle Dean. He couldn’t be.

  Could he?

  A shimmying noise above made Callie and Smiler jump, but they realised with some small relief that the wind was picking up, making the treetops chatter. The susurration continued to develop, however, till it was a chorus of voices all talking at the same time. Callie looked at Smiler with dread, but he didn’t seem to notice that anything was different.

  ‘Can’t you hear that?’ she said.

  ‘Hear what?’

  ‘The trees.’

  ‘It’s just the wind.’ He sounded mildly vexed at her insistence on talking.

  Couldn’t he hear the furore of whispered words being shaken from the branches? The voices that were filling her head with an avalanche of nonsense, like lyrics from a forgotten lullaby being regurgitated in a mixed up order. She wanted to close her eyes and scream for them to stop, but she couldn’t. She had to stay quiet, but on and on and on they went…Do you know any stories? Suppose that depends. Lived here as it happens. Something really awful. Take a guess. Suppose that depends. Why does anyone do anything? Suppose that depends. All except the small boy. But why? But why? But why? But why? That’s just how it is, sweetheart.

  Another mile down and Callie wasn’t sure her nerves could withstand much more. Her emotional state had surpassed any physical sense of feeling, she didn’t even care that Pollyanna’s shoes had bitten the skin off her heels. She looked across at Smiler but couldn’t see his expression because dark shadows of trees raked across his face. She felt lightheaded for the umpteenth time that day, like she was having some kind of out of body experience. But on she walked. Down the horrible road that led to the horrible cabin which was surrounded by horrible woods, while the onset of deepest night chased at their heels. And all the while the trees kept talking. Teasing her with the notion of something that had happened here. Something significant. Something really awful. Suppose that depends. Why does anyone do anything? Take a guess, sweetheart.

  ‘By the way.’ Callie looked at Smiler again, still not really seeing him. She needed to speak, however quietly, before the trees drove her mad. ‘I think the cabin is haunted.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ She saw a flash of white. His eyes.

  ‘I’ve heard someone talking. A woman. The one I heard in your room, maybe. I heard her downstairs too. And I felt someone touch me when there was no one there.’

  ‘And you chose now of all times to bring it up?’ Smiler still sounded vaguely annoyed. Not what she’d expected. ‘As if things aren’t shit-scary enough right now.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said, ignoring his complaint. ‘What if it’s Pollyanna’s aunt?’

  Smiler was quiet but she knew he was looking at her.

  ‘What if Roxanne Miller is dead?’ she put it more plainly.

  ‘Then why would she communicate with you and not Pollyanna?’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe I’m more susceptible to hearing ghost-talk.’

  ‘Isn’t it possible you imagined it?’

  Ha! Callie almost laughed. If only you could hear what the fucking trees are saying!

  They walked without speaking for a while, Callie trying to ignore Whispering Woods as it moved and whispered all around them. When the cabin eventually came into view like some nightmarish mirage in the far distance, shapes in the treetops moved in a black scattering that flew closer. Soon the ravens were circling overhead, cawing tale-telling stories that would be enough to worry the too distant morning with pangs of grating darkness had it cared enough to listen.

  Little bastards are ratting us out!

  Callie quickened her step and Smiler matched her pace. They let go of each other and broke into a jog. The finishing line was so close, yet still so far away. Gravel skittered noisily beneath their feet and their jogging turned into a full-blown run. Soon Callie’s legs no longer felt like her own. She was working them, pumping her feet up and down, but couldn’t feel them.

  From in the distance or maybe close by, from somewhere distinct yet everywhere and nowhere, came a terrible sound. A sound they’d hoped not to hear. A long, harrowing howl.

  No! No! No!

  Callie’s scalp prickled.

  Then there was a second howl in answer to the first, in what Callie could only interpret as two animals’ communication through a primal language of hunger and teamwork, cunning and stealth. She was panting now, not even trying to control her breathing because she didn’t care how loud she was. It no longer mattered. The wolfmen knew exactly where she and Smiler were. Perhaps they had all along; stalking them this far, heightening the anticipation of the thrill of the kill having allowed them to hope they could make it back to the cabin. But now their paws thundered heavily through the woods.

  Now the chase was on.

  20

  The night air nipped w
ith insistent vicious teeth, making Thurston’s skin hurt. He imagined the fluid in his spinal cord was simmering with fever and his blood was boiling around muscle and bone. He’d made it as far as the veranda but begun to wonder what the hell he thought he was doing. He felt weak and woozy, and shivered so much with hot and cold chills that his teeth knocked together. Even his eyeballs hurt. How did he hope to find Callie and the young actor in this state?

  For a moment he thought about going back inside, back to the relative comfort of the couch, though he quickly dismissed the idea. Not because the cabin bothered him, but because Pollyanna would think he’d chickened out, given all she’d told him about the wolves-but-not-quite that walked on hind legs.

  Chrissakes, what a load of shit!

  But that’s what you got when a couple of kids with nothing better to do made up stories to scare each other.

  The light from the lounge cast a glow as subtle as slug trail across the lawn and the Bentley glistened like a giant beetle. Thurston looked to the end of the garden where the lake lay silently in wait. For what, he didn’t know, but he could see its foreshore looked slick with hostility and hungry for something. He didn’t believe in bipedal wolves any more than he believed trees could talk, but Thurston could tell that the night was bringing something bad. He could feel it on his skin as a looming premonition. The woodland air was charged with the decay of many dead things; an underlying reek on a breeze that should have been fresh. He tipped his head back and looked up at the starless sky, imagining just for a moment that he was at home. Standing in his own garden with Betsy, his Kerry blue, at his feet. Clouds had worn thin in places and he saw the perfect circle of the moon behind. It was a phosphorescent white coin that he thought would fit neatly in his palm.

  It had to be bloody full!

  He lumbered down the veranda steps, leaning heavily on the rain-slimy bannister, onto the gravelled path that led along the side of the cabin and round to the back where the access road was. His legs felt weak with the exertion and his stomach had tightened, readying to vomit in protest if he didn’t ease up. He imagined Pollyanna was watching him from the lounge window. Resisting the urge to turn to see if her black bug-eyes were staring back, he clenched his teeth and hobbled down the side of the cabin. Out of sight.

  Above the shhh-shhh of gravel beneath his feet, Thurston couldn’t hear anything besides the distant subtleties of the woods; branches relaxing, trees sighing, ravens repositioning. The night was altogether too quiet, in a brooding kind of way, as though it was holding a secret about to be revealed. A secret that would have the potential to ravage friendships and blur the boundaries between sanity and madness. Because Thurston could feel the threat of death hanging thick in the air. It touched his skin and he breathed it in. It filled his lungs and he felt the stitches in his chest tighten. The red eyes of Death came back to him in a flash of clarity, all too real. Had his dream been an omen? He rested against the back wall of the cabin to catch his breath, cursing his eagerness to come outside and play the hero. He was in no fit state to be any such thing. Pain played his nerve-endings like a jagged violin bow, zinging to his detriment. All he wanted was his own bed and a whole load of painkillers. And Betsy curled up next to him, her wet nose nuzzling his neck.

  Poor Betsy.

  He hoped Freya would take care of her till he got home. Whenever that might be.

  Freya.

  The thought of his girlfriend made him frown with guilt. She was twenty-one, he was thirty-five, and apart from Thai food, an adventurous wanderlust and Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sherlock (albeit for differing reasons), they had nothing in common. Subconsciously the considerable age gap had always fed Thurston’s ego, but right now, with some startling new insight, he was able to acknowledge his own shallowness. He felt deeply ashamed. Freya had long blonde hair, a lithe body and a youthful sparkle in her eyes, the kind of natural effervescence that couldn’t be recaptured or bought back once it had dulled with time. Thurston had been swept along by her infectiousness and she said she was in love with him, but he had never reciprocated the sentiment. Not even falsely.

  He pushed off the cabin’s back wall and hobbled onto the narrow dirt track that separated the cabin from the woods. The nearest trees were jagged giants, arms outstretched to the sky. To the left the road ran to a dead end. He presumed Callie and Smiler must have gone right, unless they’d cut through the woods. Which he had no intention of doing.

  Just ten minutes. I’ll walk for ten minutes and if there’s nothing I’ll go back. Then at least I can say I tried. At least I can say I did something.

  It frustrated Thurston to be so incapacitated. He was independent and self-sufficient; it didn’t sit well with him to rely on others. So when Callie and Miles Golden had failed to return by sunset, the pressure to do something – anything at all – had grown till he couldn’t stay on the couch a moment longer, even though moving around made him feel sick with pain.

  He clutched a hand to his chest as he limped along the road, his mind more willing than his feet. With his fingertips, he could feel the stiffness of black twine through his shirt and found it hard to concentrate on much beyond the gruesome wound someone had inflicted on him. He wanted to take the stitches out. Felt repulsed by them. Sickened by the symbolism, whatever it might be. Sickened by the vulgarity of the way he’d been handled. Whoever had done this, whoever had seen fit to disfigure him, would pay the price. Of that he was sure. It was the thought of revenge that spurred him on. He hissed angrily with each pained step.

  Branches ruffled further ahead and a furore of raven-squabble broke out. Thurston stopped to listen. He looked up and saw a mass of blackness take to the sky. He wondered what might have disturbed them, then blanched when he heard a different noise. Urgent footfalls. A slapping of feet on earth. Coming towards him. Someone in a hurry. No. There was more than one set of feet. He strained to see past the dark but saw nothing but a patchwork of black shadows against blacker night, fringed by nearby trees. His whole body became rigid and he thought that if he moved again his joints might shatter. But he had to. He had to move. Because what if it wasn’t Callie Crossley and Miles Golden running towards him? Or what if it was? Why were they running? He pitched himself, ready to run in either direction. Then the night smashed like glass all around him with the onset of a howl.

  Christ Almighty!

  He edged backwards, his feet stuttering on gravel, his eyes still focussed ahead. Then came another howl. This time from somewhere else. Somewhere closer.

  Oh man!

  Movement up ahead made him freeze again. Two figures. Running fast. Blonde hair. Miles Golden and…

  Callie!

  Blood roared in Thurston’s ears and he wasn’t sure if that’s all he could hear or if there was a thundering of large paws churning up undergrowth. Wolves on hind legs.

  No fucking way!

  Callie was some way behind Smiler. Her arms were bent and fists punched the air with forward thrusts as she tried to catch up. Branches snapped and crashed somewhere amongst the trees, too close for comfort. Thurston waved his arms, beckoning to Callie, but he froze in horror when something barrelled out from the trees behind her. Everything else ceased to exist then, everything except Callie, Miles Golden and the dark hulking figure that moved like an animal. On all fours. It was the size of a grizzly bear but looked decidedly canine. Larger than any malamute or wolf had a right to be. Thurston hoped that Callie wouldn’t turn round to look, because if she did, if she saw what he saw, he thought she would surely melt to the floor. His own legs were just about holding out, staying solid.

  Animalistic grunts of excitement and exertion were loud above everything else. Thurston imagined the sound would be hot and deafening to Callie. He stood and watched, helpless to do much else but will her to run faster. The thing behind was closing in and would soon be able to swipe out and bring her down.

  ‘Run, Callie. RUN!’ he screamed, finding his voice at last.

&n
bsp; Which prompted Smiler to turn his head, to look back. Thurston heard the young actor yelp, then watched as he veered off to the right and ploughed straight into the spiky blackness of Whispering Woods.

  ‘Smiler!’ Callie screamed his name with such terror attached to it that Thurston stopped breathing. But when the beast swerved and followed Smiler into the woods, leaving Callie on the road, unpursued, he began waving his arms again and urged, ‘Come on, Cal! Run!’

  He could see her face now. And her confusion. She carried on coming towards him, her feet pounding the ground, her breaths coming hard and fast. When she reached him, she slowed to a canter and Thurston picked up a jog to move alongside her. He slung an arm across her shoulders and she gripped his hand. Thurston thought he might well pass out with the pain. They hurried to the cabin. Thurston misjudged the back corner and slammed his shoulder against the wall. Callie managed to stop him from falling to the ground and they stumbled along the side of the cabin together then up the veranda steps, in a bundle of grasping arms and shaky legs. There were no more sounds to suggest they were being followed, but this didn’t ease their panic. Thurston pulled open the door and they spilled into the cabin, into the musty hallway. Both breathless. Fighting for air. Thurston’s throat felt raw, as though he’d drunk fire. He leaned against the door and breathed. It was all he could do. Callie slid down the wall. She sat with her knees pulled up to her chest, then her face crumpled and she began to cry. Thurston pushed himself away from the door and hunkered down next to her. ‘Shhh,’ he told her, stroking her hair.

  She looked at him but didn’t seem to see.

  ‘Come here.’ He gathered her into his arms.

  She didn’t resist and rested her chin on his shoulder. ‘You saw it, didn’t you?’ she said. ‘You saw it.’

  ‘Shhh,’ he said again, gripping her tighter, knowing that neither of them would sleep much that night.

  ‘What was it?’ She pushed away so she could look at him.

  Thurston frowned. He’d rather not dwell on the thing out there. Whatever it was. He’d never seen anything like it and he didn’t want to ever again. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know.’