by Luca Veste
By the time we were done, I had twenty quid’s worth of stuff I didn’t need and no cash for a coffee on the journey home. I waited until she was bagging things up for me before I tried to make the whole trip more fruitful than it had been up to that point. “I’ve been around Brock Hope a few times. It’s a massive place though, so I’m not sure where I’ve been before and that.”
“Oh really?” the woman replied, who was more interested in getting a few spuds in a bag, now the transaction was complete. Her hands were lined and red, calloused from hard work. The air was fresh, but bitter along with it. A hint of saltiness behind every gust.
“Yeah, we would come down when we were kids,” I continued, trying to keep the lies general enough to not be questioned. “Some friends of ours relocated out over by the coast, but I like driving through this part of the countryside.”
“Well, it’s a nice place to look at,” she said, handing a bag over to me and walking back toward the road. “The scenery can be breathtaking in the winter.”
“I’m sure it is,” I replied, allowing myself to be led out and away from the farm now. I stopped as we got to the gravel path that led back to the road. “There used to be this other place nearby. Over by where they do the festival camping and that?”
Her face darkened somewhat and I knew that I wouldn’t want to cross her at any point. Her shoulders had tensed and she suddenly looked a few inches taller and broader.
“Oh, that thing. Such a shame what that brought to the area. A lot of damage was done to the surrounding land holding that thing. Thankfully, I don’t think it’ll be happening again. Not after that poor boy went missing.”
“Didn’t another guy go missing during that same time? I seem to remember seeing the name and thinking it was the farm I’d visited on another trip down here.”
She frowned at me, and I could see I was starting to raise suspicions. I kept my face as straight and open as I possibly could.
“I think you’re talking about the Moore family,” she said eventually, thrusting her hands in her pockets and looking out past me and toward the forestland. “They were a couple of miles through the tree line. Not there anymore of course, after what happened to the father. Terrible business.”
“Was he ever found?”
She shook her head, but there didn’t seem to be any sadness there. “Lot of rumors, but nothing official. You ask me, he was probably into other stuff besides farming. We never saw him doing any actual work on the land. He only had a hundred or so acres, but no livestock or anything like that. It was always very quiet over there, and we never saw them in the village or anything like that. They didn’t mix in with the other locals. It was just him and his son.”
“No other family?”
“Not that we ever saw. The story was that his wife died while giving birth to the boy, but we weren’t exactly on speaking terms. He never mixed with the people in the area. Kept themselves to themselves. When he went missing, we tried to help out, but the son didn’t seem to want anything. All a very strange business, but people were more interested in that boy from the music thing, so he got forgotten about. It can be hard out here. You make a wrong step, and you can be lost for years. The son, he sold up about six months ago and Jim Treador—he owns the place that bordered on his land—bought it up. Now, at least the land will be used properly.”
“He has plans to use it then?”
“Oh, yeah, course. He’ll be knocking down the old farmhouse that’s there now, I imagine. It’s not in a good state, by all accounts.”
“Ah, right. That’s a shame. So, you never spoke to the son after his father disappeared?”
From the look on the woman’s face, I’d outstayed my welcome now. One question too many.
“Who are you exactly?” she said, regarding me anew. Her gaze hardened a little. “You’re not just passing by, are you? Are you one of those journalists looking for another story about the young boy who disappeared? Trying to link it to us ‘simple country folk’ like condescending fools?”
“No, nothing like that,” I stammered out in response. I began walking away. “Thanks for all this. I’m sure my friends will be very happy with it all.”
“Yeah, I’m sure they will,” she replied, but there was nothing but sarcasm in her tone now. “Just be sure to watch yourself out there. Not everyone out here is as accommodating as I am.”
I waved out of politeness as I reached the car, but she was still standing in the same spot, unmoved, as I switched on the engine.
Thirty-Four
There was no choice. Even if the son had sold the place, it was a possibility. And I couldn’t leave without making sure.
Michelle was out there, somewhere. And this seemed like a good enough place to start.
I’m not thinking straight.
I kept moving anyway.
Back in the car, I drove out of sight of the increasingly suspicious farmer. Pulled over to the side of a country road and took my phone out of my pocket. Found Mentmore Farm, where I’d just left, and searched on the Maps app for the farm she’d indicated with a sweep of her hand.
A mile or so behind that farm, there was another place. No street view available, but I could see the overhead image. It didn’t look in the best state even from that.
I worked out the best route and programmed the GPS to take me as close to it as possible. Managed to get less than a minute’s walk away, down a side road with no name. It contracted as I drove slower and slower down it, until I came to a place that was impassable. The GPS told me I was only a couple of hundred yards away from the marker I’d placed on the map, so even though I couldn’t see the farmhouse, I got out of the car and walked the rest of the way.
It was the middle of the day, but the thick tree line covered the sky above me. The path was thick with overgrown foliage and broken branches crunching under my feet as I approached the marker.
A bird chattered unseen to my left, then fell silent. I could hear a breeze lifting leaves from the ground and the sound of my own breathing as it increased in frequency. Nothing else.
I pushed aside a low-hanging branch and saw the farmhouse for the first time. To say it was rundown would be being kind. The outside brick had been white at some point, but with the ivy crawling over it and the weather damage to it, it was now a dirty mix of green and brown. The roof was falling in on one side of it, exposing rotten wood and slate. Attached to the house was a metal lean-to that was being held up by its own will alone it seemed. The rust was a shade of orange-brown I’d not seen before. It rattled a little in the wind.
I was standing there, taking it all in, working out how best to proceed. Whether I should shout Michelle’s name and hope for an answer. Or creep closer and find a way inside.
Or run back to my car and get the hell out of there.
On the outside of the farmhouse, I could see the faint outline of a cross. No Jesus figure on it, which was a blessing, I guessed.
I started moving. The ground underfoot was damp, but not overly muddy. I was wearing sneakers that had been white a few years earlier, but were now a dull, almost egg-shell color from overuse. A darker tone would now be added to them.
I checked the metal structure first, glancing inside and seeing a broken-down piece of machinery on the ground. There didn’t appear to be my thirty-six-year-old friend lying in there, so I kept going. Walking around, closer to the house.
There was a hole the size of a fist in the first window I came to. I could see cobwebs and dirt and grime covering the inside. I cupped my hands around my face as I looked through, seeing an almost-empty room on the other side. I could smell damp and decay emanating from within. A broken table and a single chair with three legs, propped up against a brick wall.
I moved to the next window and saw much the same. And the next. Whoever had lived there had either lived incredibly sparsely, or the furniture had
been removed in a hurry. Every look inside made me more nervous, as if I was going to see something I didn’t want to behind each pane of glass.
I didn’t want to be there. I wanted to be home.
I swallowed back my fear and moved back to the front door. It was solid and immovable, but I tried the handle anyway. It was stuck tight. Locked. I knocked and the rap echoed around the woodland surrounding me.
No answer. Of course. All I had done was announce my presence if someone was there.
My hands were shaking as I lifted them to try again, and I lowered them now without repeating the effort.
There was only the rear of the property to check now. I walked slowly to the side of it and found the missing furniture from inside. A threadbare sofa, a black stove that would have probably failed health and safety checks of any kind lying on top of it. Two stained mattresses propped up against the side wall of the house, bending in the middle, ready to fall at any moment.
I picked my way through the detritus outside, checking for empty ground with each footstep. I could smell rotting meat and came across a fridge with its door open once I’d gotten past the broken sofa. I glanced inside it and saw yellowed shelves and food packaging I wouldn’t want to check the sell-by date on. I lifted the sleeve of my jacket to my mouth and tried to breathe through that instead as I passed it.
I was fourteen years old again. Picking my way through a scrapyard. Scared and wanting to go home. Back to safety.
I had to keep going. Not for me. For her. For all of us.
In the trees to my left—away from the house and back toward the woods—I heard a noise. A sound like footsteps on dead leaves.
I froze in place, midstride, my head cocked to one side. I listened intently for any other sound to follow. Closed my mouth and heard my breathing heavy through my nose. I stood there for at least five minutes, waiting for someone to emerge from the trees and rush me without warning.
I could feel eyes on me. Someone watching. I wasn’t sure how I could sense that, but my mind was gone now.
After what felt like an eternity, I started moving again. Made it around the corner to the back of the property. Waited for someone to hit me from behind, but it never came.
I soon forgot about the noise when I looked over the back of the house to what had been a patch of grass in the past but was now blackened by fire. A circular area of burned ground. A firepit, of some sort, I thought. That wasn’t what I concentrated on.
On the back step. Sitting on a gray concrete block that served as the way to step up and into the house from the back door.
A metal storm lantern.
I was walking toward it without thinking. Crouching down as I reached it. Trying to open its lid and failing.
I could see inside, although I knew without looking what I would find.
A melted red candle. Only the wax left. It had burned there for an indeterminate amount of time, until all that was left was a puddle of blood.
I looked up and could see a wooden roof that jutted out above the door, protecting the storm lantern.
I was at his house.
There was no doubt in my mind now. The Candle Man was William Moore. And we had killed him a year earlier.
I stood back up and looked across the small yard area and waited. Only, there was no one there. I was on my own. I looked down at my hands and saw they were shaking. I wanted to collapse onto the ground and pretend this wasn’t happening. Close my eyes and wake up back in my house. Click my fingers and be anywhere else other than at this damn farm.
It wasn’t going to happen. With what little courage remained, I forced myself to keep going. It was a blur now. I was acting on instinct.
I had come this far.
I had to finish.
I tried the back door. Putting my shoulder to it when I felt a little give. It opened with a clunk, and months of neglect escaped, hitting me in the face in a rush of air.
“Hello?” I said, hearing the fear in my own voice. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Michelle, are you here?”
I knew she wouldn’t be. Logic told me this place had been abandoned. Sold off, a new place found.
Yet something told me logic had left this place a long time ago.
I moved inside, feeling floorboards underneath my feet groan at my weight. Newspaper was crumpled on the floor, sticking to my trainers as I continued moving. I imagined mice and rats scuttling beneath me and in the walls, but all I could hear was silence.
Silence.
I couldn’t breathe.
Still, I kept going. Moving forward, going through rooms without knowing what I was trying to find. Knowing there was nothing there for me.
Everything was gone.
No trace of him left. No trace of Michelle.
It hit me at the bottom of the stairs. Wooden and rotting. Missing posts on the banisters. Cracked walls and peeling paint. Darkness and dust.
I wouldn’t hear her sing again.
Ever.
I was too late. I was in the wrong place. I had no clue where she was and she was already gone.
And I could hear something in the darkness as it grew around me and the shadows took form and tried to claw at me.
It was the sound of my own voice. Saying the same words over and over.
“I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you.”
Thirty-Five
I left the house. Left the trash piled up outside. Left the rickety metal lean-to, the building covered in overgrown ivy, the abandoned pathways and ill-maintained grounds.
Left the candle.
Left it all behind, with my body shaking uncontrollably and each step a risk of falling to the ground and screaming at the sky.
Managed to get into my car, sitting where I’d left it; untouched, it seemed, at first sight.. Pounded the steering wheel until my hands hurt and my head screamed with pain.
It took a good twenty minutes until I felt calm enough to drive.
On the drive back north, I got ahold of everyone on the phone. The bag of potatoes and tomatoes and eggs I’d purchased gave the car a sickly earthy smell, so that I had to crack a window to breathe through after an hour on the road. Then, I pulled over and threw the food over a hedge after I’d checked the coast was clear.
They were all prepared to meet, and when I finally arrived back at around five thirty, Chris and Nicola were waiting outside for me. We greeted each other awkwardly and I let them inside, the whole time trying to ignore questions about what was wrong with me. Telling them to wait until Alexandra arrived.
She arrived a few minutes later, walking into the house like it was death row. We were sitting in the living room, silence growing by the second, everyone refusing the offers of drinks or takeout even. My stomach rumbled in protest, but I wasn’t sure I’d manage to get through more than a few mouthfuls. I could still feel that farmhouse on my skin and wanted to get in the shower and wash the stain of it away.
“I can’t remember when we were all together like this,” Chris said, breaking the tension finally. “Just the four of us.”
“Stuart’s funeral,” Alexandra replied, sitting back on the sofa and crossing one leg over the other. “Although I suppose that doesn’t count.”
“The week before the festival,” I said, sitting on the armchair opposite the sofa and leaning forward. I was itching to tell them where I had been, but another part of me wanted to try to get my thoughts in order first. “We had that meal to christen the stove. We’d only just moved in, and I couldn’t get the oven to work properly, do you remember?”
We all smiled thinly at the memory, but just like everything else, it seemed tainted by what happened after now. That’s how it would always be, I guessed.
“Did you tell Chris?” I asked, looking at Nicola and trying to gauge a response before she gave one.
“Yes, I did.”
Chris’s head was hanging down now and his shoulders hunched over. At first, I thought he was about to break down in tears, but when he looked up, there was something else in his eyes.
“We need to work out what we’re going to do about this,” Chris said, a hard edge to his voice that I hadn’t heard in a long, long time. “This is it. Michelle has disappeared. And now…”
“What are you talking about?” Alexandra looked at Chris and then me. She finally settled on Nicola. “What is it?”
“I found a red candle this morning,” Nicola said, her arms cradled around her body. “Same thing that Michelle had. And Stuart, apparently. It was in a storm lantern, so it could still be burning, even outside.”
“Bloody hell,” Alexandra replied, her voice quiet as she closed her eyes briefly. Her shoulders sank into her body a little. “Maybe you were right after all.”
She looked at me as she spoke, but I couldn’t maintain eye contact with her. I shifted uncomfortably on the chair and looked up toward the ceiling.
“Well, that’s why we’re here,” Chris said, putting an arm around Nicola and pulling her closer to him. “I don’t think we can just pretend that there isn’t someone after us anymore.”
“I agree,” I replied, waiting for Alexandra to argue, but she stayed silent, which I took for agreement. “So, what do we do now?”
“Has anyone heard anything from Michelle?”
I shook my head at Chris and looked at Nicola and Alexandra who both slowly did the same thing. “I found his old house.”
“Who’s house?” Chris said, frowning at me. “What are you talking about?”
“The man from the woods. The Candle Man.”
There was silence as they waited for me to continue. I swallowed and found the words. “There was a story online about a missing farmer in the area. Only a short thing, but it all tallied up. I’ve been down to Brock Hope today.”
I told them what I had found and when I got to the discovery of the candle in a storm lantern, everyone in the room took a deep intake of breath.
