Scary Tales to Tell in the Dark

by Anthony Masters

  ‘He’s been good to her, but she knows your father cares for us equally, that this is the only house I could come to in my state. She’s been blind two years now, and she knows every stone in every path in the village. My mother can get anywhere.’

  But can she get in? I wondered desperately. Surely any ghost could get in if they wanted to. I went back to the window and felt a surge of intense relief. ‘She’s gone,’ I said. ‘She’s completely disappeared.’

  Then I heard the sound of a stick tapping on the stairs and the light step of a woman coming across the tiny landing.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ I whimpered.

  Jem closed his eyes again. ‘Pray my father gets back quick. I’d even welcome the excisemen.’

  ‘So would I,’ I replied, as the door of my bedroom slowly opened.

  Nell stood on the threshold. ‘Jem – is that you?’ she whispered.

  I held my breath and waited; my whole body was trembling and the ripples of fear coursed over me until I felt horribly sick.

  Jem opened his eyes reluctantly. ‘I’m here, Mother, but I’m hurt,’ he pleaded. ‘There was a fight on the beach and one of the excisemen clubbed me. Father’s gone for a doctor.’

  Apart from the ghastly empty sockets, Nell’s ghostly skin was radiant and smooth as the petal of a flower. She was coldly beautiful, and when she smiled I almost cried out in pain, for her smile was the cruellest and the most malicious I have ever seen.

  ‘The doctor won’t be necessary,’ said Nell, and she drew out of her long, dark coat a knife that gleamed palely in the moonlight which was flooding into my bedroom through the open window. She raised the knife high in the air and began to walk over to Jem’s bedside.

  ‘Please – Mother – don’t hurt me.’

  Her pace was slow and she pushed her stick around her, feeling for obstacles. But there was none, and in seconds her stick probed and found the edge of the bed.

  ‘It won’t hurt much, my darling,’ Nell said softly. ‘I know how to make it easy for you.’

  But I couldn’t stay silent any longer and I yelled out, ‘Stop!’

  She looked around her, trying to pick out my position from my voice.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘You’ll not touch him.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I live here – this is my room. Get out!’

  ‘But this is Laurel Lodge. Aren’t you Silas?’

  ‘No, and it isn’t Laurel Lodge. The house must have been pulled down years ago. This house is here now – our house.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying,’ Nell replied, ‘but it’s of no consequence.’ She advanced slowly towards the bed, the knife in her hand, while Jem remained exactly where he was – frozen to the duvet, his eyes on her, his face without expression.

  ‘Stop!’ I yelled.

  ‘I can hear you breathing, darling,’ whispered Nell to Jem. ‘I know exactly where you are.’

  I threw myself at Nell – and went straight through her, landing on the other side of the bed. I tried again, but it was no good. She could hear me, sense me, but we couldn’t touch each other. So what on earth was I to do? Did I have to stand here helplessly and watch her kill Jem, even if she had actually done so hundreds of years ago?

  ‘Goodbye, darling,’ she said, and her smile widened with pleasure.

  The door downstairs suddenly slammed. Two pairs of feet pounded up the stairs – but it wasn’t Jem’s father who appeared in the room. Instead, two men in uniform stood there and I guessed immediately that these must be the excise officers.

  ‘What are you doing?’ yelled the first, but the second was quick off the mark as he hurled himself at Nell, dragging her to the floor and wresting the knife out of her hand.

  As they struggled I heard more feet pounding up the stairs and Jem’s father and his companion returned, together with a taller figure with an attaché case. He must be a doctor, I thought, as the crowded room became electric with tension. But weren’t they all fainter, I thought suddenly. Yes, there was no doubt about it, their outlines were hazy, like wisps of smoke in the air, and I could only just hear their voices. Jem, however, remained much more substantial as he lay on the bed amongst the clamour of voices that were shouting but hardly heard.

  ‘They’re smugglers, doctor. Did you know that?’

  ‘I’m only doing my duty.’

  ‘You could be arrested for consorting with them.’

  ‘I came back to see my son. Let him go.’

  ‘Put that gun down!’

  ‘Give me my son –’

  ‘The gun – put it down.’

  ‘I’ll use the boy as a shield –’

  I could hardly see any of them now – except for Jem, who was as complete as he had ever been.

  ‘Jem-’

  ‘Goodbye, Silas.’

  ‘I’m not Silas. Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m going to die.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘In a minute my father will kill me.’

  ‘Your father? But it was your mother –’ I began incredulously.

  ‘She failed. Father shot me by mistake, in the struggle. There’s only seconds now – tell me – if you’re not Silas, then who are you?’

  ‘I’m Rob.’

  ‘Goodbye, Rob –’ He took my hand and for a moment I could feel warmth. Then it was gone. Dimly I heard more shouting voices and then the faint report of a gun.

  Jem fell to the ground, the bullet smashing his chest -almost exactly at the same spot where his mother had tried to plunge the knife. I heard Nell’s voice, screaming with laughter, and a long-drawn-out cry of anguish from Jem’s father. Then they faded and all I could smell was the sea. Their power had gone and I was left alone.

  They never came back, but sometimes, when the window’s closed, I can suddenly smell the sea.

  ‘I experienced something that was as powerful as that once,’ said Lyn. ‘It happened to my brother Gary and me. He’s gone skiing with my dad, but I know he wouldn’t mind me telling you – although we’ve never actually told anyone else. The power I was talking about – it’s the power of the trees.’

  7

  The Green Man

  My parents and Gary and I were campaigning to save a wood. It was only a small one, but we had loved it all our lives and it was special to us, and when we heard that a local builder had bought it and was going to build houses on it, we all went bananas. My dad’s the headteacher of a primary school and my mum’s a councillor, so we had plenty of push, but in the end it wasn’t enough and we were defeated.

  At first Gary and I could hardly believe Timberdown Wood was lost to us for ever, but soon a big sign saying PRIVATE: HOUSING DEVELOPMENT was put up and a high fence of barbed wire installed all round the edge. Of course, we managed to get over the wire, but we knew, as we strolled around the leafy glades and dense brambles that day, that this was one of the last times we’d ever walk in our beloved wood, and we were both almost in tears at the thought of losing such a wonderful playground.

  As the wintry afternoon sun began to fade, we suddenly saw an all too familiar figure.

  ‘There’s Mr Jackson,’ I said, and Gary snorted and made a rude sign. I should explain that Mr Jackson had bought Timberdown Wood a couple of years ago and he was the builder who would be putting up the houses. We hated him more than we had hated anyone in our lives and we had written him several letters of our own, pleading with him not to chop down the wood and build his horrible little houses, but he hadn’t even bothered to reply.

  ‘I hope a tree falls on him,’ said Gary, ‘and a mighty big one at that.’

  But I wasn’t really listening. I knew that I couldn’t give up just like that. It was so important to us. Surely it was worth one more try.

  ‘Mr Jackson –’

  He was measuring something with a small machine and he looked up immediately. At first there was no irritation in his face; instead I was sure
I caught a look of fear in his eyes. I was genuinely puzzled, but didn’t have much time to think as his fear quickly changed to rage.

  Mr Jackson was a bull-necked pug of a man, huge-framed, with his stomach bulging over his trousers. He was almost completely bald and his large red face was clean-shaven except for a pencil-thin moustache just above his upper lip.

  ‘What the hell do you want? Don’t you know you’re trespassing?’

  ‘I just wanted to have a word,’ I said mildly, while Gary glowered in the background.

  ‘Push off!’

  ‘Just a quick word.’

  ‘Aren’t you the Belmont kids?’

  ‘What if we are?’ growled Gary.

  Immediately Mr Jackson began to advance on him. ‘Don’t you give me any of your lip.’

  ‘Just let me ask you something,’ I pleaded.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Please, please think again. We’ve known this wood all our lives. Don’t destroy it – we love it so. It’s alive.’ I realized I sounded pretty dopey but I didn’t know what else to say at such short notice. I could already feel Gary thinking how dopey I was, which didn’t exactly help, but just as I’d finished talking I caught another flash of fear in Mr Jackson’s eyes.

  ‘Alive?’ he repeated slowly. ‘What do you mean – the wood’s alive?

  ‘Well –’ I was completely thrown. ‘It’s growing, isn’t it? I mean – it’s not dead or anything.’

  Mr Jackson threw his head back and gave a loud, rather hysterical laugh, while Gary and I stared at him in shocked surprise. What on earth was the matter with him? Had he gone barmy or something?

  ‘It’s certainly not dead,’ he said, ‘not dead at all.’ Then he seemed to take a grip on himself. ‘I don’t give a damn how alive this wood is; it’s going to die. It’s going to have little red-brick houses all over it – bijou residences the whole lot.’ He looked up at one of the tallest trees and laughed and shook his fist. ‘I don’t care – you’re going to die.’

  Gary gave a startled coughing sort of laugh, but I didn’t find Mr Jackson in the least bit funny. He must have gone off his rocker or something, I thought, and his words and laughter chilled me completely.

  ‘We’d better go,’ said Gary suddenly; he seemed to have caught something of my mood.

  ‘OK,’ I said, looking at Mr Jackson, who seemed to have forgotten our very existence. He was staring up at the trees again, and his lips were moving. ‘They’re closing in,’ he muttered.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said – the trees – they’re closing in – they’ve been doing that for the last hour. I’m sure of it.’

  I glanced up at the trees. Mr Jackson was right; they were moving in.

  ‘This is impossible,’ muttered Gary.

  I stared at him. ‘You can see it too?’

  ‘This glade was twice the size a moment ago – it’s ridiculous.’

  ‘It’s late afternoon now,’ I said hopefully. ‘Maybe it’s just the light.’

  I stared at Mr Jackson, who had very suddenly gone down on his knees. ‘Please,’ he said, hands clasped. ‘Please go away.’

  There was something terrifying about this fat little man pleading with the wood. Fearfully I looked up at the trees again and could see they were crowding in even closer; there was hardly anything left of the glade now. A little wind stirred the dead leaves round their bases and they rustled sharply and noisily.

  ‘Come on,’ said Gary, but I couldn’t move. As in a nightmare, I felt rooted to the spot, but with a choking sensation of utter panic I knew for a certainty we were none of us asleep.

  Soon we were completely surrounded by trees, and when I touched one of them its trunk was warm and pulsating. It wasn’t hard either; it was soft and there was a rhythm to it – as if it were breathing.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I gasped.

  ‘I can’t move,’ wailed Gary. ‘What are we going to do?’

  I couldn’t think, and we both turned to Mr Jackson as if he might know the answer, although I knew he wouldn’t. Sure enough, he was not only on his knees now but had shut his eyes as well.

  ‘Mr Jackson,’ I yelled, but he didn’t seem to hear me.

  Suddenly my legs began to move again and I could see that Gary was free too. I was sure I could still make out our back-garden fence through the trees, but their height blotted out what little light there was and it was hard to be quite sure in the dark. Then I realized the reason why the light had faded so quickly: not only had the trees moved an awful lot nearer but they were taller as well.

  ‘Let’s go.’ I’d begun to run through the tiny gaps between the dark columns when Gary shouted, ‘Wait!’

  ‘We can’t wait,’ I yelled at him.

  ‘We can’t leave him here, can we?’

  I paused. Of course, Gary was right. We couldn’t leave Mr Jackson to the mercy of the trees, but how could we reach him? He seemed to have gone into a trance.

  I ran back and bawled in his ear, ‘Mr Jackson! You’ve got to come with us. Now!’ But he showed no signs of hearing me at all.

  ‘Mr Jackson!’ I yelled.

  ‘Grab him then!’

  As I yanked at his arm I noticed that thickets now seemed to be growing everywhere, and, horror of horrors, I could no longer see our garden fence.

  ‘Come on!’ I screamed. The trees were almost on top of us now and Mr Jackson came slowly – oh, so slowly – from his knees to his feet. ‘Get a move on – or they’ll crush us.’

  ‘Yes,’ he gabbled, ‘the trees are coming.’

  ‘They’re here!’ Somehow we managed to get him moving and he began to run in stumbling little steps between the lines of trees.

  ‘You’ll have to do better than that, you old fool,’ shouted Gary. ‘You’ve got to really run!’

  Mr Jackson tried again and managed to speed up a little, but it was like a nightmare trying to drag his solid weight between us.

  Soon a thicket engulfed us and I knew there was no way through. We turned back and ran sideways through the trees but we came to another thicket, and we kept on doing it time after time after time until we both knew we were completely trapped, that there was no way out.

  We flopped down on one of the narrow paths and listened to the trees breathing around us. Yes, I mean it They were breathing all right.

  ‘We’re all going to die,’ sobbed Mr Jackson as soon as he could draw breath.

  ‘You shouldn’t have tried to kill the wood,’ snapped Gary. ‘They got wise to it – these trees. They’re not going to let you kill them. You’ve made them really angry and now they’re out to get you. The trouble is – we’ve got mixed up in it. They don’t understand we don’t mean them any harm.’ He looked up to the dark canopy above and yelled, ‘We don’t mean you any harm.’

  But the trees simply moved nearer until we were squeezed between their trunks.

  ‘I can’t breathe,’ gasped Mr Jackson. ‘They’re crushing me.’

  ‘You’ve got to tell them,’ I hissed at him. ‘Tell them you’re not going to harm them – not going to chop them down.’

  ‘I won’t harm you,’ he called feebly.

  ‘Louder!’ commanded Gary.

  ‘I won’t harm you.’

  ‘Much louder!’ I said.

  ‘I won’t harm you,’ he screeched, and as his call died away in the gloom I heard – we all heard – the most extraordinary cry, horribly like that of a huge and menacing animal.

  ‘What’s that?’ jittered Gary.

  ‘I don’t know, but something’s coming – something big.’

  Through the narrow aisle between the trees I could just make out a dark shapeless thing. As it came nearer we could see that it was tall and thin, but all I could make out in the fading light was that it seemed to be made of twigs and leaves and branches and bark.

  ‘What is it?’ gasped Gary.

  ‘A tree monster,’ trembled Mr Jackson, going down on his knees again.

  ‘N
o.’ I suddenly knew who this was. ‘Gary – you must recognize him.’

  ‘Recognize?’ he gibbered at me, his eyes wild with terror.

  ‘It’s the Green Man,’ I whispered. ‘He’s the spirit of the woods. Don’t you remember – we did a project on him at school. He won’t harm us.’

  The Green Man was at least twelve metres tall, and as he came up to us I could smell the resinous scent of coniferous trees.

  ‘You have offended.’ His voice was like the rustling of leaves in a breeze.

  ‘Not us – him,’ said Gary quickly.

  Mr Jackson had covered his eyes. He opened and shut his mouth, but nothing came out.

  ‘Tell him,’ I said fiercely. ‘Tell the Green Man that you’re sorry.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ gabbled Mr Jackson, and he began to whimper, promising that if the Green Man would call off his trees and thickets and show them the way home, he would sell the wood to a nature conservancy project and the trees would be safe for ever.

  ‘Do you mean this?’ asked the Green Man and I caught a glimpse of his face. It was long and drawn and beaky and fierce.

  ‘Yes,’ wailed Mr Jackson. ‘Of course I mean it.’

  ‘You know what will be your fate if you break your word?’

  ‘Yes – no – I won’t break it.’

  ‘I will turn you into a blasted oak – an oak tree struck dead by lightning.’

  ‘I promise – I won’t harm the trees,’ pleaded Mr Jackson.

  ‘Get off your knees,’ sighed the Green Man and began to walk slowly away. As he did so, the trees moved aside and I saw a broad and clear path that led right back to our garden gate. Pale light flooded the glade, but when I looked for the Green Man I couldn’t see him any more.

  ‘You’d better make sure you keep that promise,’ Gary told Mr Jackson.

  ‘And did he?’ asked Tim.

  ‘If you come and take a walk in Timberdown Wood,’ said Lyn slowly, ‘you won’t go too far before you come across a great big blasted oak. It’s standing by itself in a glade. And by the way, Mr Jackson disappeared, just after he went to a meeting with the building contractors.’

  ‘So he didn’t keep his promise,’ breathed Tim.

  ‘Talking about promises,’ said Rik from the depths of his sleeping-bag, ‘I heard about a pretty weird one when I was in Moscow – in fact, I became mixed up in it. I’ll tell you how.’