The Wolfstone Curse

by Justin Richards

  Carys’s grandfather straightened up. “What you doing?” he growled.

  “Nothing. Just looking round,” his daughter-in-law replied. “You can come with us, but don’t touch anything.” It was like she was speaking to a child.

  “Du Bois lived here,” Seymour said, looking round the dusty room. “Lionel and me go way back.”

  “Lionel du Bois is dead,” Faye said gently. “He died a long time ago.” She turned to Peter. “They were in the army together,” she explained. “He gets confused about time.”

  Peter led the way to the tower.

  “All gone now,” Seymour said sadly. “Forrest doesn’t live here.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Carys agreed.

  “Family seat for hundreds of years and he abandons it.”

  “That was the du Bois family,” she pointed out. “Not Forrest. He’s bought it recently. You remember – the new houses?”

  “Gave me the pub he did. After…” His voice tailed off. “After…”

  “What’s he mean?” Peter wondered aloud.

  “I don’t know,” Carys said.

  “He’s confused.” Her mother shook her head sadly. “It wasn’t Forrest who gave you the pub,” she said to Seymour.

  “Forrest, du Bois, all the same,” he grumbled. “Lionel gave me the pub. To make up for what happened in the war.”

  “Up or down?” Peter asked when they reached the staircase.

  They went up, to the room where Annabelle Forrest had been held prisoner – who knew for how long? It was exactly as Peter had left it. He showed them the notebook, and Faye picked up the shredded remains of the teddy bear. Her eyes were glistening and she clasped the toy tightly to her and looked around the room.

  Carys stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable.

  “You want to see?” Peter asked.

  She shook her head. “This is her room. It just feels… It feels like we’re intruding.”

  “We’re trying to help,” Peter told her.

  “Even so…”

  Peter showed them the plane ticket stub. “You think Forrest has taken her to Russia now?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” Faye said. “Oh, the poor girl.” She placed the teddy on the bed next to the pillow. “How could someone…” She sighed and shook her head. “And now Mr Seymour’s wandered off.”

  Peter couldn’t remember if the man had even come upstairs with them. “He can look after himself, can’t he?”

  “I hope so,” Mrs Seymour said.

  “Can we go now?” Carys asked. She waited for Peter to follow her mother, then walked beside him back down the corridor to the stairs. “We’ll find her,” she said. “We’ll do anything we can.”

  “I don’t even know her,” Peter replied. “But she asked me for help…”

  “We don’t know her either, but no one should be treated like that. Not for any reason.”

  “You think there was a reason?”

  “There’s always a reason,” Faye said. “Maybe we’ll find it in this cellar you described.”

  Remembering how the cellar vault had been lit by candles, Peter had suggested they bring torches. Sure enough, the candles were burned out now, twisted stumps of wax were all that was left of them. Illuminated only by the torch beams, the vault seemed even bigger.

  The silver cage was empty, the door standing open. Carys crouched down inside, examining the floor. Then she quickly stood up and hurried out. Peter guessed she was imagining how Annabelle must have felt.

  A movement in the shadows made Peter turn quickly. Mr Seymour stood in the corner, looking back at him across the silent sleeping figures on the family tombs.

  “Paintings,” he said. “Portraits. Forrest.”

  “All the paintings have gone,” Faye told him. “There used to be paintings, I remember – I came here once, with you and…”

  “I saw paintings,” Peter said in the ensuing silence. “Or, I thought I did. Through one of the windows. I thought I saw portraits on the staircase. Old and dark and dusty. Only, they’re not there now, so I must have imagined it.”

  “Here,” Mr Seymour said.

  “No,” Peter told him. “Upstairs.”

  The man was shaking his head. “Pictures here. Forrest pictures.”

  “Ignore him,” Carys advised. “He won’t be right for a few days yet. And even then…”

  But Faye was shining her torch into the shadows behind where Mr Seymour was standing. There was something there, something pushed up against the wall.

  “No, I think he’s found something.”

  Carys and Peter made their way across the chamber. “I see what you mean about the Rogue Stone,” Carys said. “This must be it. This chamber is below the level of the raised terrace round the house, but I guess the stone’s at ground level really.”

  She ran her hand over the rough surface. In the torchlight, the stone glittered like the stones in the circle.

  “He was right,” Faye called. “Look.”

  She shone her torch into the corner – it was the furthest part of the vault, and Peter had not ventured that far the last time. Two rows of pictures leaned back against the stone.

  Seymour pulled a picture from near the front of one of the stacks, turning it so they could see. “Forrest!” he announced. “Du Bois.”

  “What’s he mean?” Peter wondered.

  Beside him, Carys gasped. “Don’t you see it?”

  Faye shone her torch at the picture. It was a portrait of a middle-aged man. He was standing in front of a bookcase. The pose was formal and obviously staged. But it was the man’s face that drew Peter’s attention.

  In the full glare of the torchlight, despite the dust and the way the picture had darkened with age, Peter recognised the face. Or rather, he could see how similar it was to someone he knew.

  “But that looks like Sebastian Forrest.”

  “David Forrest too,” Carys agreed. “Look at the shape of the mouth and chin.”

  Faye wiped away the grime from a brass plaque at the bottom of the frame. “Edward du Bois,” she read. “1887.”

  “Forrest,” Mr Seymour said. “And du Bois.”

  “The same family,” Peter realised. “That must be it. Don’t you see? They changed their name. Sebastian Forrest didn’t buy this house and the estate – he already owned it.”

  “You knew that, didn’t you,” Carys said to her grandfather.

  He was smiling in the torchlight. “Forrest is a du Bois. Recognised him. I knew Lionel in the war. He gave me the pub.”

  “Is that true?” Peter wondered.

  “Oh yes,” Faye said. “Lionel du Bois owned the whole village. Most people are still tenants of the estate.”

  Mr Seymour didn’t answer. He was holding the picture of Edward du Bois, angling it in the torchlight and peering at the detail. He set it down and picked up another picture – a portrait of a young woman this time. Again, he angled it to catch the light, moving it slightly back and forth.

  “What are you doing?” Carys asked. “What is it?”

  “The pictures never lie,” he said. He picked up the portrait of Edward du Bois again. “Look.”

  They gathered round. Carys shone her torch full on the painted face. But Mr Seymour, resting the picture on the top of the others and holding it steady with one hand, reached out and moved the torch. He angled it so it shone across the paintwork rather than directly onto it.

  Peter stared at the picture, wondering what he was supposed to be looking at. Then he saw it – the detail emerging like a lenticular image that you move slightly to make the picture change.

  Here, the hand of Edward du Bois changed. The skin darkened and sprouted hair; the fingernails became claws. His face changed too – from the pale face of a man into the features of a wolf.

  Carys caught her breath, almost dropping the torch.

  “Are they all like that?” her mother asked in a whisper.

  Mr Seymour put down the picture and
picked up the portrait of the woman again. As Carys moved the torch, the woman’s braided hair became matted and grey. Her youthful features twisted into the grotesque face of a wolf, its hairy jaw jutting forward in savage defiance.

  “They didn’t disguise what they were,” Carys said.

  “Perhaps they were proud of it,” Peter suggested.

  “Or simply accepted it.” Faye gently touched her father-in-law’s arm. “You knew Lionel du Bois – what do you think?”

  “There’s paper,” the man said in reply. He put down the portrait, and moved more of the pictures to pull out a torn scrap of paper that had been caught between them. “Letter.”

  “Look at the letterhead,” Carys said, shining her torch at it.

  The letterhead was about all that was left. The paper had been torn across, but the Einzel Industries logo was intact. Below that was a reference number and a subject line:

  RE: Wolfstone Meeting, 28th September

  “That’s next week,” Peter said.

  “Does it mean they’re having a meeting about Wolfstone? About the Lupine Sanctuary, maybe?” Carys said.

  “Or perhaps the meeting is actually here, in Wolfstone,” Peter suggested.

  “But who’s going to be at this meeting? What’s it about?” Faye asked.

  “That’s something you will never know,” another voice announced.

  The man stood at the foot of the stairs. The same man Peter had seen at the churchyard a couple of nights earlier. The ragged remains of the man’s ear looked even more grotesque shadowed by the light from the torches.

  The man blinked, his eyes red like the eyes of the wolves that had chased Peter through the wood.

  Another memory – a wolf with one ear torn into a ragged stump…

  The man’s face twisted into a sneer. “By the time the wolves meet at the circle, you will all be dead.” He hefted a crowbar, the dull metal gleaming. The end was curled into a sharp claw.

  He moved like an animal – treading carefully, body swaying slightly as he stalked towards Peter and the others. Peter would have backed away, but there was nowhere to go. They were right in the corner of the vaulted chamber.

  “We can get past him,” Carys whispered. “He can’t stop us all.”

  “If we all move together,” Faye agreed. “You ready?” She glanced at Peter, then at Mr Seymour, who was watching the approaching man with calm intensity. She grabbed his hand. “Ready?” she repeated.

  Mr Seymour nodded.

  “Now!”

  Carys was quickest, easily evading the man with the crowbar as he lunged towards her. The movement took him away from her mother and grandfather as they stumbled past.

  The man’s cold red eyes fixed on Peter as he raced across the vaulted chamber, torchlight dancing erratically as he ran. He could do it, he was past the man – he was safe. But with a howl of rage, the man hurled the crowbar at him.

  There was a sudden sharp pain in his leg. The crowbar clanged onto the stone floor. Peter stumbled, kept going, tried to ignore the pain where the clawed metal had hit him.

  The man’s shoulder connected with Peter’s stomach, driving him sideways. He crashed into the side of the metal cage, and found himself off balance – falling. He tried to stay on his feet, staggering backwards into the cage.

  The man with the torn-off ear stood in the door of the cage, staring across at Peter. His mouth opened impossibly wide in a snarl of triumph.

  Peter felt the cold, hard bars of the cage dig into his back as he tried to get as far away from the man as possible.

  But there was nowhere to go. He was trapped.

  The torch beam was filled with the man’s snarling face. His eyes were blood red discs. Saliva dripped from his jaws as he lunged at Peter.

  The crowbar came out of the darkness, smashing down on the man’s head. The effect was immediate and extreme. He slumped heavily to the floor, leaving Carys standing in the torchlight, crowbar in her hand. The clawed end was stained as red as the man’s eyes.

  “Don’t just stand there,” Carys yelled. “Come on!”

  Peter slammed the door of the cage behind him. There was no way to secure it. He just hoped the man was out cold for a while. But even as he turned away, he thought he could hear him scrabbling to his feet…

  The house was a blur. Light filtered in through the remains of some grimy windows and round the edges of the boards that covered others. Their torches danced along the walls and the floor as they ran.

  It seemed further going out, as if the house had changed and stretched around them – keeping them tight in its dusty embrace. Finally they reached the room where they had come in. Faye Seymour clambered out of the window first, then Carys helped her grandfather out, with Faye ready to assist him on the other side.

  Then they were running again, along the terrace. The paving stones were cracked and uneven, overgrown with moss and grass. Peter slipped, almost fell. He realised he was still holding his torch, though they were in bright daylight now, their shadows running alongside them across the wall of the house. He turned off the torch and jammed it into his coat pocket.

  They’d almost reached the end of the house when a window exploded. The sound was incredible – splintering wood and shattering glass. Debris blasted across the narrow terrace in front of them. A huge wolf landed heavily in the midst of it, twisting towards them, fangs bared.

  Peter skidded to a halt, catching hold of Carys. Faye grabbed her father-in-law. The wolf threw back its head and howled. Its jaws snapped closed again and it picked its way through the splintered wood and broken glass, muscles rippling beneath its fur. The sun was behind the creature, but even so, Peter could see that one of its ears had been torn away, leaving a scarred stump of gristle.

  “How fast are they?” His voice was a dry, fearful rasp.

  “Faster than us,” Carys told him.

  “We’ll split up,” Faye said. “It can’t get us all.”

  “We’re stronger together,” Carys said.

  Peter only just heard her beneath the sound of an angry growl that had started as a low rumble, and was building to a snarl of rage.

  It wasn’t coming from the wolf with the ragged remains of an ear, but from beside them. From Mr Seymour as he pushed Faye aside. His whole body seemed to swell as he padded forward, swaying from side to side like a hunting animal.

  “Father – no!” Faye yelled.

  Carys pulled her mother back. “It’s too late. He can’t stop it now. You know what he’s like when he gets angry. When he’s on the cusp.”

  Peter watched in horrified fascination as Mr Seymour approached the wolf. At first the animal seemed to welcome the challenge, tossing its head and snarling. Then it became wary. Finally, slowly, it began to back away.

  But all Peter’s attention was on Mr Seymour. The man’s hands were spread wide, fingers stretched apart. Hair erupted from the backs of the hands. The fingers lengthened and curled. Claws sprouted from the fingertips. He rolled his jaw from side to side, as if easing it out from the rest of his face. A hairy snout split through the skin with a sound like tearing paper. Jagged teeth clenched together. Eyes reddened and receded into the fur that now covered Mr Seymour’s face – covered his whole body. His jacket split suddenly down the seams. He ripped at his other clothes with sharp claws, shredding them as he fell forward onto all fours.

  The two enormous wolves faced each other silently for a moment. Then the creature that had been Carys’s grandfather let out an ear-splitting howl and launched itself from powerful hindlegs at the other wolf.

  They met in mid-air. Claws raked down, splitting fur and flesh. Blood spattered across the paving slabs. The creatures became a single mass of matted bloody fur, teeth and claws. Rolling, clawing, tearing into each other.

  Peter watched in horror, unable to do anything but shudder and hope. Carys was white-faced. Her mother’s hand was clenched tight, knuckles pressed to her mouth.

  It was difficult to tell which was wh
ich as they fought. One of the wolves had its jaws round the other’s throat. Blood welled up, bubbling from the wound. With an almighty effort, the wounded wolf broke free and hurled itself back at its attacker. Claws bit deep into the flank of the other wolf.

  The whole terrace was slick red. Both animals were tiring. One was bleeding its life out through its throat. Its howl was a gurgling cacophony of pain. The other wolf collapsed on its side – wounds gaping at the sky as light drizzle diluted the blood. There was a distant rumble of thunder.

  The wolf with the bloodied throat had only one ear. Peter, Carys and Faye ran to the other animal. It turned slightly to look at them through bloodshot eyes. The pupils were like dark crescent moons. Its breathing came in irregular gasps. It reached out a paw, claws drawing back into the fur. The paw became a hand that grasped Faye’s as the drizzle turned to rain.

  He looked so old now, Mr Seymour. He lay in the thinning blood and the rain, staring up at her. Naked and shivering; one side of his chest torn away. Then his hand fell away from hers and slapped to the wet paving slab.

  Across the terrace lay the body of another man – a man with straggly hair and a beaked nose and one ear reduced to a scarred stump. His throat was a red-raw mess, and his eyes stared sightlessly up at the gathering storm clouds.

  The only sound was the pounding of the rain as it washed the blood from the terrace and the tears from Faye Seymour’s eyes.

  They stood for an eternity, just staring at the scene in front of them. Carys was shaking with the cold. It was only because he could feel her shoulders trembling that Peter realised he had his arm round her. Her head was pressed against his chest. He barely noticed. He’d just seen someone die. Two people – one of whom he knew. Not well, but the man was dead.

  Finally, Carys’s mother straightened up and wiped her eyes on the back of her hand.

  “We have things to do,” she said.

  She had it all planned. It was only slightly complicated by the fact there were two bodies to deal with. But Faye said she’d always known that one day she would have to explain away her father-in-law’s disappearance, though she’d always imagined he would kill himself while chained up in the cellar of the pub.