Ready or Not, Here I Come

The world was bathed in darkness while something stirred in the silence. Movement appeared in and out of sight, flickering like the flame of a candle. My mind was drawn to it, watching and waiting from the edge of the forest. Trees towered above me. I was surrounded, entranced by the monolithic woodland - an intimidating facade. Branches curled up towards the night, framing the sky in a web-like network. There, just beyond the tree line - a child. Barefooted, the small child wandered. His clothes were a trail of rags and his pallid skin was bruised and broken. The only thing that remained untouched were the child’s unblinking eyes. He reached for tree after tree, running and jumping over piles of detritus. I watched for a time and then my feet followed, moving on their own accord. I discarded my hiking pack at the base of an old oak,  shoved my map into the bag and rushed forward into the darkness. The trees seemed to wrap around me, isolating and suffocating, and yet - somehow freeing. This was a place where stories were born, where myths and legends awoke from their slumber and arose from their woodland grave. This was the place where adventures were found. I grabbed a nearby branch and used my knee to break it down to size. Although a desperate choice of weapon, at least I  had something. Just in case. 

I felt the forest stirr, beginning to awaken. The sounds of nature grew louder, birds screamed and cawed at the intrusion while the wind whipped through the leaves. The travel guide had warned me about this part of the forest. He said, “Many have gone missing.” My body pulled me towards the sounds of panting. “Just be careful and you’ll be fine.”

And you won’t be next, was his unspoken warning.

The logical part of me reasoned it would be unlikely something bad could occur on a single overnight hiking trip. The curious part of me wondered: What really happened to these people? Where did they go? Why were their bodies never found?

Suddenly, the forest went quiet. And the breathing began again, behind me. 

“Would you like to play a game with me?”

My heart thudded. Once, twice - before I turned. Closer, the child seemed to appear translucent, his dark hair melded into the backdrop and his skin was ever so slightly dulled, as if made from smoke and air. My palms sweated profusely, cooling my body uncomfortably in the midnight breeze. The wind wrapped around us, trapping him and I in this eerie exchange. His eyes followed my hands as I layed down the stick. Moss crumbled from the touch. It was fleeting, the flicker in his eye, but fast. So fast it seemed unnatural. Slowly, I slid my hand into my pocket, feeling around for something...anything. 

“The rules are simple.” The boy stated, his head tilting as his eyes dropped from mine to my pocket. His calm appearance contradicted the anger seeming to pulsate in the swirly depths of his eyes. “You cannot die.”

The wind howled; the spectre disappeared - and a single word echoed through the night. Yet...Yet...Yet.

“Are we there yet?” A child moaned to his mother. 

“Patience Jonny, we’ll be there soon.”

I smiled at the boy who looked me up and down before losing interest. The bus jolted over the uneven Scottish roads. Potholes riddled the roads of the country, puddles forming instantly after only a half hour of rain. The brown rainwater reflected a dull image of the overcast sky and the green landscape offered the only colour. Fields, forests and mountains reached as far as the eye could see with sheep and cows grazing by the fences. The narrow roads and overgrown hedges jostled the vehicle from time to time, branches scraping against the window panes. I sighed, desperate to be out in the fresh country air. Although we had only 10 minutes left of the journey, I felt as impatient as the young boy sitting across from me. I saw the town in the distance, the rows of grey stone houses and cobbled streets matching the image on the postcard. I had found the memorabilia with a stash of keepsakes in my father’s attic. Since he died 10 years ago, I had felt an unexplainable pull to come here and visit my father’s hometown. He never talked about it, he never talked at all, and I never knew why. Until I read about the tragedy.

Breath rushed out of me. I grabbed the torch from my pocket, fiddling with the switch and pointed the light in all directions. Frantically, I backed away from the spot the ghost-like child had stood. I rubbed my head as if to forget the nightmarish memory, but all it did was bring it further into reality. The faint blue light was subdued by the surrounding darkness, brightening only the bark of the trees and revealing the sticky sap as it trailed down the wood. Ants weaved in and out of unseen gaps, awake and alert even at this late hour. I shone the torch at the same spot I backed away from, dreading the sight I would soon see. Footprints, two sets - where there should only be one, my own - and beside them, a smaller set - as real as the beat of my heart. As stark as a ghost in the night.

“Will you tell me a story Ma?” The child asked again. My eyes were closed as I listened, resting my head against the cold glass window. 

“Very well, and only if you promise to be good.”

A beat of silence passed and then I heard the rustling of clothes as the boy nestled into his seat, finding comfort in the soft rhythm of words. 

“Night was a place of wonder, but not here. Not ever. Closed doors and locked latches marked the inherited memory of this town, the Town of All Souls. In the evening, as the sun began to set against the land, candles sparked and spluttered with flames, dazzling little fires said to stave away the dark. But this was not enough, not for those unlucky souls who wanted nothing more, and nothing less, than an adventure.”

I chuckled beneath my breath. The bus bumped violently against a particularly deep pothole, startling me. My eyes flew open, my gaze landing on a strange sight. Light disappeared as we drove through a darkly shaded part of the forest and in the distance, between the trees, was a rope; tied like a noose and weighed down with something heavy and yet with nothing at all.

“The town was said to be haunted, but this town, you see, was haunted by the people it so eagerly wanted to forget: the dead. Adventurers were never easy children to control. Darkness may not always be found at night, but can be hidden away in the deepest most secret part of our hearts. And it is within those people, whose hearts were as black as night, that death was met, and ghosts were made.”

I turned in my seat, looking at the faces of those on the bus. Tired and placid, there was no evidence any had seen the rope, nor had even heard the woman’s peculiar story. I shook my head and rubbed my eyes; almost as if I had simply dreamt it.

If this was a dream, it was a nightmare. And if this was real, a nightmare would be better. I was lost and I was losing my mind. Not a great combination. I searched for my hiking pack but the battery of my torch was failing and the night stretched out long before me, deeper and darker as if never ending. The breeze chilled me to my bones. I hit the torch once more before utter darkness consumed it all. Clouds covered the moon and no stars could be seen below the thick canopy. Without light, sounds became notably louder: the snap of a branch, the twist of a twig, leaves rustling, animals skittering. An owl hooted in the distance and I looked towards the sound, caught like a deer in headlights as my gaze landed on two large yellow eyes. Unblinking. The sound of a rope being tightened frightened me to my core. So this was fear, true primal fear, that oft-discussed fight or flight response. I was the prey being stalked by the predator. I did not breathe. I could not breathe. Laughter reverberated through the air, harsh and callous like careless feet on hallowed ground. 

This is my home you are in, the laughter seemed to say. You will not escape. 

I felt like choking. The boy’s words came back to me with a sudden wave of nausea. 

The rules are simple. You cannot die.

Run, the boy whispered in my ear. And so I did.

Leaves and branches scraped my face and grabbed at my clothes. I ran and jumped and fell and scrambled for purchase. I dropped my torch and felt my jacket tear and all the while, the laughter followed me, calling me by my name; the name my father and I shared. Alexei.

“One...Two...Three.” The boy taunted. “Hurry up and hide. Four...Five...Six…” I tripped again. “Seven...Eight...Nine.” I rushed into the clearance, moonlight finally shining through the clouds and lighting the way. A familiar moss-covered stone stood in the centre, tall and ancient. I reached out to touch its smooth surface, without noticing the dark fissure before it. 

“Ten.” I heard, as I fell into the depths. “Ready or not, here I come.”

“The thing ‘bout ghosts, ye see, is that they always want revenge.” The old man said as he leaned over his pint. “But, the person they want to kill is usually already dead.” He took a slurp of his ale, wiped his beard, and then pointed his finger at the ceiling. He was about to speak again but was interrupted by the publican, who was twisting a tea towel in an interestingly threatening manner.

“Aye alright, enough of you gabbering. You’ll scare all the tourists away, and god knows we need ‘em.”

“Hey,” the bearded man said with a shrug, “I’m doin’ ye a favour bringing them in with mah stories, we all know the lure of a good tale.”

“Nah, that would be the drink!” Someone in the back shouted. The publican stared at me with an uncomfortable intensity. 

“What brings you to these parts anyway?”

“Something that happened here 40 years ago.” I began. The pub fell silent. “And every year ever since.” 

Three Weeks Earlier

Dust coated the box of keepsakes. Barely any light seeped through the single stained glass window in the centre of the attic. With the strike of a match, I lit the unused wick of a forgotten candle and sat amongst my memories. Photographs littered the wooden floor with tea stains and tear marks, a juxtaposition of time and meaning. My hand underwent a series of tremors as I lifted the lid. Inside, the box remained perfectly untouched. A postcard sat amongst newspaper clippings and a list of obituaries, beside which lay a vile of ink and a timepiece. Somehow the gilded hands of the ancient pocket watch still moved and ticked with time. I brushed my hand over the newspaper, tracing the black ink of the title, which read:

The Scottish Daily                                     September 1981

LOST SOULS IN THE TOWN OF ALL SOULS

Missing people, deaths, and disappearing bodies - it all began on that fateful night back in the year 1961. Could this be the reason the town is said to be haunted? Could this boy’s death have broken the veil between worlds?

It began with a game played by two, but ended with only one winner. The cause of the boy’s death remains unknown to the authorities, but the townsfolk have their own theories. The boy was murdered. But who do they believe committed this heinous crime? Only the boy’s friend, a strange, unsettling child named Alexei. Having moved to the town in 1959 from Russia, the boy was already an outcast. Unable to speak English and mocked for his outlandish ways, Alexei lured his only friend into the forest with the unspoken promise of midnight mischief and murdered him. Though this has yet to be proven, it is an accepted truth, as implacable as fact, among the people of All Souls. Disgraced and disparaged by the townsfolk, Alexei moved to the city of London and was never heard of since. 

.  .  .

A monochromatic photo, depicting an imposing headstone, marked the end of the article and dated the boy’s untimely passing. The engravings were partially veiled by shadow, the harsh truth of such irrevocable finality - a stark contrast to the words that had been softened by the passing of time. A sense of disquiet settled over me as I read the inscription. 

1951 - 1961

IN REMEMBRANCE OF AN UNFORTUNATE SOUL

WHO WANDERED TOO FAR,

AND TRUSTED TOO MUCH

Here in the forest, somewhere lies,

The boy who played a game and died,

Beware for as time passes by,

Your time will come too, in Nature’s eye,

Soon to be due, the next of you,

Who lays their gaze upon this sight,

Remember as you live your life, 

So once did he, until he died.

.  .  .

He was mute, my father; never spoke of his life. Many wrote him off after their first meeting, but they didn’t know him like I did. He would sit beside me in silence as I read to him, hugged me often and smiled when I laughed. I loved him. I remember curling into the covers as he brought over a book from the shelf. The pages were marked with red post-it notes in various locations and pencilled writing could be seen faintly in between the lines. The novel was my father’s favourite: And Then There Were None, by Agatha Christie. The fire roared, shadows jumping between the flames. It was my tenth birthday that day and this was the final present my father would ever give me before he died. I read deep into the night, treasuring the moment and locking it as a memory deep within my heart. My father may not have spoken, but he showed me a world of excitement and adventure. He taught me, through his quiet presence, the importance of words and the meaning of life but never once did I wonder at the possibility of his sanity. Was his name simply a coincidence? 

This mystery, I decided then and there, must either be proven or put to rest. Stories were meant to be told, mysteries meant to be made and adventures meant to be had. In fact, a story was a world of  its own. And maybe Agatha Christie was correct, it was “[a] world, perhaps, from which [we] might never return.” (Chrisie, A. Chapter 2) But despite the fear this thought invoked, I too would wish to live “before I died.” (Christie, A. Chapter 14)

The earth swallowed me whole. Dampened dirt, stones and dust crumbled as I fell into the chasm, burying me beneath the world. I lay there, unmoving. Confusion clouded my thoughts until I realised my luck. I could hide here until morning. I stayed silent, trying desperately not to breathe too loudly but the cold air and damp surroundings made it difficult. I began shivering, my body betraying itself. Darkness closed in around me and tendrils of mist seeped into the hollow pit. 

“Hide and seek. Hide and seek.” The boy sang. “Be wary that you do not make,” rain began to pour, causing rivers of mud to cascade into the hole, “the same mistake, the same mistake and fall into your resting place. The grave, the grave that you made, when you set upon your gaze, the fate of the unfortunate.” I choked on the clumps of dirt and debris. “Hide and seek. Hide and seek.” The song was carried away on the wind. “Be wary that you do not choose,” I could not breathe, “the same mistake I chose to make, and fall into your resting place.”

The last words I heard were said with a sigh. “The rules were simple. Oh well, I win again.”

.  .  .

A man walked the trail from the town to the forest, gripping an old map to stop it from flying off in the wind. The local publican had offered it to him. The crumpled chart was stained with blood. A hiking accident, the man had explained harshly. Although it was early evening, the sun was absent, hidden by a heavy blanket of fog. The walker stumbled over a bag, half-covered by a pile of branches and leaves. The hiking pack had been abandoned, it seemed. Further into the forest, the wind howled with laughter. He had not heard the stories, this man, so he was not afraid when he came across the grave. 

1981 - 2001

HERE LIES ALEXEI NOVIKOV

He played a game and lost

A storm brewed in the distance. Lightning flashed in the sky and thunder rolled through the air. Something was not quite right. The wind whipped around him, whispering and whistling through the trees. The same unnatural feeling that gripped him as the storm grew closer, made him look over his shoulder to his left.

“Would you like to play a game with me?”