The Wolfstone Curse

by Justin Richards

  Another figure stepped out of the helicopter. He was tall and thin. He stared up at the moon for a moment, the pale light illuminating his pinched, emaciated features.

  The man wore a long, dark leather coat, like that of a German SS officer from the Second World War. His left arm hung loose, the shoulder dipped and hunched. As he walked, the man did not move this arm at all. In the glare of the searchlights, his face looked bluish-grey, like it was bruised. He paused to peer at the trench where Mike and Abby had been digging, now covered with a tarpaulin, then he continued towards the circle.

  There was something about the SS officer that drew attention away from everyone else. Peter was transfixed. He couldn’t look away. This must be the Old One, but who was he? Why was he here?

  Sebastian Forrest stepped forward. He greeted the man and they shook hands, like equals. But from the way the cloaked figures shuffled nervously while the soldiers stood to attention, it was clear who was really in charge.

  Forrest shook his head, pointing off in the direction of the woods. The other man also gestured – always with his right hand. His left arm remained still throughout.

  Peter peered into the circle, trying to see past the cloaked figures, desperate to know if Annabelle was all right.

  Finally, the tall, lean man turned away from Forrest. His deep-set eyes scanned the area around the circle. Even at a distance, Peter was sure the dark eyes fixed on him, bored right into him. The man raised his right hand and snapped his fingers. Then he pointed right at Peter.

  He couldn’t have seen him. But in unison, the soldiers turned and started running – straight towards Peter. If he didn’t move, they’d find him in seconds. If he did, they’d see him at once.

  He crawled backwards, desperately, pulse racing. How far was it to the woods? He jumped to his feet, praying the darkness afforded some cover, and ran as fast as he could. The ground thumped at his feet and his heart thumped in his chest. He gulped in painfully cold night air – afraid to look back, but unable to stop himself. The soldiers were gaining on him. But not just soldiers.

  They came out of the darkness. Bounding across the stone circle, racing through the open countryside, overtaking the soldiers and racing towards Peter.

  One of them passed him, ignoring Peter and charging on into the wood. Another massive dog, bigger than Peter, its tongue lolling hungrily from the side of its mouth as it ran.

  Peter reached the woods, staggered onwards, deeper and deeper. Until, exhausted and terrified, he sank down in the undergrowth.

  As soon as he’d stopped, another of the huge dogs barrelled through the trees. It stopped, front paws up on a fallen trunk, eyes glinting red in the reflected moonlight as if they were lit from within. One of the animal’s ears was twisted and torn, a ragged stump of gnarled gristle. It snapped its jaws hungrily as it looked round – not a dog at all. A wolf.

  It stood for a few moments, absolutely still except for the breeze riffling its fur. Its head was raised and Peter realised it was sniffing the air. The way he was sweating it would smell him in no time. But the wolf set off deeper into the wood, away from Peter. If it wasn’t looking for him, who was it after?

  He didn’t have time to think about that. The soldiers were coming, crashing through the undergrowth – snarling and growling like the wolves. Peter burrowed into the middle of a clump of bushes as one of them charged past. Branches scraped at his face and he stifled a cry of pain. The soldier stopped, breathing heavily, looking round.

  The moonlight was broken up and scattered by the trees. But the soldier would see Peter if he looked the right way.

  And there was enough light for Peter to see the soldier. He struggled not to make another sound, forced himself to stay absolutely still.

  Tufts of dark hair erupted from the soldier’s collar, and more bristled where the gloves met the wrist. But the face was the worst – silhouetted against the almost-full moon as the creature in uniform turned. A long snout, vicious jaws, deep-set red eyes, and matted hair… It was the face of a savage wolf.

  The wolf-soldier stood for what seemed an age, as if sensing its prey was close. Peter pressed slowly, carefully, back into the shadows.

  A fallen branch snapped under his foot. The wolf-soldier swung round towards the noise. Its face was a snarl of triumph. A thin dribble of saliva escaped from its hideous jaws as it started towards Peter.

  He couldn’t move – frozen with fear. Shivering. A cry of panic welling up in his throat.

  Then one of the real wolves charged into the undergrowth behind him. It forced its way through the tight-knit branches, ignoring Peter. The soldier-wolf gave an angry bark as the creature ran past it.

  Distracted, the soldier-wolf moved off through the trees, still snarling. Its gun was slung over its shoulder, hanging loosely as the creature swept aside the foliage with massive, gloved paws. Peter had never seen a gun like it – a narrow barrel and light stock.

  As soon as the sound of the figure’s angry progress through the wood had faded, Peter pushed out of his cover. He had to get back to the pub. He’d be safe there. He could crawl into bed and hide under the covers and hope that Dad would be back soon.

  Staring after the soldier, Peter didn’t see the blood-red eyes glinting in the shadows. The massive animal charged out of the gloom, leaping at Peter. Its front paws slammed into his chest, knocking him backwards.

  Peter rolled out of the way instinctively as he landed, and the huge bulk of the animal crashed into the ground where he’d been. It would have crushed the life out of him. Immediately the wolf was up and heading straight for Peter as he lay winded, confused and terrified.

  His hands scrabbled at the ground, found something – a broken branch he’d trodden on. He rolled again, bringing up the branch as the wolf leaped out of the darkness. The end of the branch was a broken, ragged point. The wolf saw it, but too late.

  The point connected with one of the wolf’s paws. Peter felt the animal’s weight, like the recoil of a gun, knocking back into him. The speed and size of the wolf drove it on. The branch emerged from the back of the paw, accompanied by a shower of blood. The branch was torn from Peter’s grip, snapped as the wolf landed on it.

  The animal’s high-pitched screeches of pain echoed in Peter’s ears as he dragged himself to his feet. The wolf lay on its back, clawing at the stump of the branch with its good paws, trying to pull it out. Its red eyes locked onto Peter’s, and for a moment there was something in them, something he thought he recognised.

  Peter ran.

  He didn’t care how much noise he made, didn’t know which way he was running, had no idea if the wolves or soldiers were after him. He ran until his lungs were about to burst and his throat was raw from breathing so hard. His face was scratched by branches and his ankle ached where he’d twisted it and not even noticed.

  A soldier-wolf turned at the sound of Peter’s approach. It brought its gun up.

  Peter didn’t see it until it was too late – his only chance was to keep running. He put his head down and charged, shoulder slamming into the creature’s midriff. Unbalanced, but still on his feet, Peter ran.

  The sound wasn’t loud. He felt something whistle past his cheek. The shot missed, embedding itself in a tree ahead of him. Peter could see it, not a bullet but a metal dart with a tufted end, sticking out of the bark of the tree.

  Another shot – and a sudden pain in Peter’s arm. But he kept running. He clawed at the pain with his other hand, and felt the dart. It had stuck in his coat, but the tip of it must have penetrated the skin. He pulled the dart out and stuffed it into his pocket. He could feel blood running down his arm, inside the coat, slick and sticky.

  He dived to one side, rolled under a bush and was up and running again. Peter felt light-headed, like he could run for ever. But the world around him seemed to be slowing down. Blurring. He emerged from the trees and the moon was a double-disc. His head was swimming.

  At least he knew where he was. The distinctive, forbi
dding shape of Wolfstone Manor loomed in front of him. He struggled to keep it focused, realising now that he’d been drugged. The dart was a tranquiliser. He had to keep going, had to find somewhere to hide. To sleep it off. Inside the house? Too far. Too dangerous.

  But where in the grounds could he hide? Where would they be unable to find him?

  The answer was so obvious he’d have laughed out loud if he’d had the strength. But he could barely move his fingers over his phone, could hardly see what he was doing. He forced his way through a hedge. Pressed the dial button.

  Signal – please let there be a signal.

  He was falling. The whole world was getting darker. There was a throbbing in his ears – or was it the sound of a phone ringing somewhere in the distance?

  “Hello?” a voice said. Even that seemed so far away.

  Focus – he had to focus on what he was doing.

  “Hello?” the voice said again, even fainter now. “Have you any idea what time it is, Peter? Hello?”

  He struggled to speak – to explain. He must tell… must…

  His head fell back, and he felt the cold, hard earth under it.

  The last thing he saw was a vivid purple flower swaying gently close to his face. Maiden’s tears.

  The best time to cry is at night.

  Wolf’s blight.

  Then even that was gone.

  The helicopter had woken Carys. She had heard it in the distance, cutting through the still of the night.

  She got out of bed and went to the window to see what the noise was. Searchlights shone down from the dark shape that traversed the pale disc of the moon. It looked like it was somewhere between the circle and the manor. She watched, as the helicopter descended out of sight.

  She got back into bed, and tried to get back to sleep. Her phone buzzed to tell her she had a message. She ignored it. She was just drifting off when her phone rang. Not a text, but a call. Who calls in the middle of the night? she wondered as she fumbled for it.

  A few moments later, she was wondering if Peter was drunk. He’d sounded woozy, half asleep. He’d not made much sense, apart from telling her that he was in trouble. He’d said something about the circle, and he’d mentioned the helicopter.

  She heard it again. The dark shape hovered like an insect above the trees before disappearing into the distance. Carys’s phone buzzed in her hand, reminding her she had an unread text.

  She stared at the blurred picture. She could make out the stones of the circle, the dark figures. A pale shape in the middle of them – another person. A girl?

  The obvious, sensible thing to do was to get Mum. But she was looking after Mr Seymour. A glance at the sky out of the window was enough to remind Carys of that. She felt guilty enough about not being there to help, but she’d been so tired that Mum had packed her off to bed. No, Carys must handle this on her own.

  Peter wasn’t drunk, she decided. He wasn’t that sort of boy. He was out there somewhere and he needed help. He’d called her for help, she thought as she pulled on her jeans. Not his dad (though, okay, he was on his way to London), not smarmy spoiled David Forrest, or one of the archaeologists, but her.

  He’d said – she thought he’d said – he was in the maze. She called him back, but the phone just rang and then went to voicemail. Mum’s bed was empty and hadn’t been slept in, and Carys grabbed the keys from her bedside cabinet. Would Mum hear the battered four-by-four as it spluttered into life? Well, if she did she could call – Carys had her phone.

  Ahead of her, a car turned out of the narrow track that led down to the circle. Its brake lights flashed briefly in her rear-view mirror, then it sped away.

  There was another track further on, hardly more than a footpath, but it led to the Manor’s old driveway. The four-by-four bounced along, lurching from side to side. Carys fought to keep going in a straight line. The steering wheel twisted in her grip as the wheels caught in ruts or bumped down rabbit holes.

  After what seemed an age, Wolfstone Manor loomed in the distance. Its roof merged with the grey of the night sky. The going was easier for a bit, but it soon became slow and bumpy again. How close could she get?

  A dark shape charged towards her out of the night, and Carys stamped on the brake. The four-by-four slewed and skidded to a halt. She breathed deeply, telling herself to stay calm. But she’d caught a glimpse of the animal as it crossed her path. It was an enormous wolf.

  The engine had stalled. But she was about as close as she could get anyway. Carys clambered out, feeling weak and sick as she started towards the house. The sight of the wolf had made her stomach lurch. “Oh God, oh God,” she muttered as she hurried forward. “Please let him be all right.”

  In her imagination, Carys saw Peter lying in a pool of thickening blood, his throat ripped out by the beast…

  Across the terrace, the maze was a mass of shadows. She called out – hesitant and nervous at first; increasingly loud and frantic as she got no reply.

  Along overgrown paths, through hedges that were more branches than leaves. She scraped and clawed her way onwards, painfully aware that there was no method in her search. Stop, she told herself, stop and think. Just think.

  He wasn’t answering, so either Peter wasn’t here at all… or perhaps he couldn’t answer. She had her phone out – but that was stupid. If he couldn’t answer her shouts he wasn’t going to answer his phone.

  Then she realised. He didn’t have to. She made the call – and somewhere in the distance a phone started to ring, a good old-fashioned bell sound. Thank God he didn’t have some crazy, childish ringtone.

  The ringing stopped as the phone went to voicemail. Carys ended the call and immediately rang again. She edged closer to the sound, shoving through the overgrown hedges and ducking round the larger branches. She was desperate to reach Peter; terrified of what she might find.

  And suddenly, there he was – lying on his back, eyes closed. But his chest was moving – he was breathing. Carys ran to him, dropped to her knees, grabbed his hand.

  It was covered in blood. She gasped in horror, and he stirred slightly. His forehead was glistening with sweat in the dappled moonlight that filtered through the hedges. The blood was coming from higher up his arm, yet his coat wasn’t torn – wasn’t ripped and clawed to shreds. But he was feverish, shivering, unconscious…

  She tried to lift him, to drag him. She managed a few metres, then gave up, breathless and frustrated. She’d never get him back to the four-by-four like this.

  “I need to get the car closer,” Carys told him. Could he hear her? Did he even know she was there? “Really – I won’t be long… You’ll be all right. I promise – you’ll be all right.”

  As she gently lowered his head, she caught sight of the small purple flowers nestling under the hedge and almost cried out with relief.

  Quick as she could, Carys plucked the flowers and crushed them in her fist. She felt the moisture welling up. With her other hand, she prised Peter’s mouth open slightly. Then she let the juice from the flowers drip out of her fist and into his mouth. It might be enough.

  “I won’t be long,” she said again. She hesitated for a moment, before leaning down to kiss his forehead. Then she was running back through the maze.

  She didn’t see the shape that stepped back into the shadows, all the time watching Peter as he lay shivering on the cold ground.

  He was running, running for his life. But it wasn’t like before, when he’d been pursued through the woods. Peter was running, but he couldn’t feel the ground under his feet. It was like he was floating just above it, never quite touching reality. And he was not alone.

  The girl ran with him. It was Annabelle, and yet it wasn’t Annabelle. She looked similar – long, fair hair blown round her determined, frightened face. She kept looking back. She stared right at Peter running alongside her, and didn’t see him.

  He didn’t know who she was, but she was running for her life.

  They ran through formal gardens, alo
ng a tree-lined path, and out onto a wide driveway. Distant gates set into a high wall stood impassive and impressive ahead of them. The statue of a wolf looked down hungrily from the top of each gatepost.

  From behind came the thunder of the horses” hooves, the bark of the hounds. The shouts and laughter of the men chasing them. Chasing her. Because Peter wasn’t really there at all.

  “You’re the girl from the legend, aren’t you?” His voice was loud despite the sound of dogs and horses.

  She didn’t answer. She kept running. When she fell, sprawling headlong on the grass, Peter reached down to help her up. But he couldn’t. Even though he was right there beside the girl, he couldn’t reach her.

  He looked round, confused, and found that they were suddenly in the middle of the Wolfstone Circle. Or rather, where the circle should have been, because there were no stones – just the view down to the woods one way and back towards the road the other.

  The girl struggled to get up, but the dogs were on her before she could move. Snarling and snapping, they forced her back to the ground. The horses were close behind, the men riding them laughing as they watched.

  She managed to drag herself out from under the hounds. Her dress was ripped, her face spattered with blood. Her eyes wide and pleading as she staggered towards the nearest horseman, hounds snapping at her ankles. He twisted in his saddle and pushed himself down from the horse, landing in front of the girl. He raised his whip.

  And suddenly in place of the man there was a stone; a flattened semi-circle of stones replaced all the men and their horses. A faint echo on the breeze was the only memory of the laughter.

  The echo of the barking dogs became the chant of the approaching robed figures. They pushed a man ahead of them. He was exhausted, his dark hair and beard matted with sweat. A medieval peasant – his rough clothes torn and muddy. His hands were bound together with a thin silver chain. If he’d had the strength, he’d have run – Peter could see that in his eyes. At the back of the group of robed men stood an archer, silver-tipped arrow already slotted to his bowstring.