Prologue
In his final years, when he closed his eyes at night, Ulrich could still smell the blood on little Martin Drake’s white shirt. All the good things had faded. Meeting Sarah. Sian’s wedding. His father’s face. But the events of that one summer’s evening in 1968 would remain clear until his final day. It was a languid bank holiday evening when Ulrich found himself in the sprawling garden of his mansion, nursing the last dredges of his whiskey bottle. In the lull between his bouts of sunbathing, he’d swivel and peer through the sliding glass doors into the wreckage of his kitchen. Cabinet doors hung off their hinges, a testament to his and Sarah’s violent unveiling, while shattered glass and porcelain painted the floor, the fallout from another of their altercations. It wouldn’t be their final spat, but the events of that day would forever shift the course of the retired banker’s life. A mind once devoid of fear and packed with ego would soon be haunted by dread and uncertainty lurking in every shadow. There he sat, shirt unbuttoned, liquor-soaked, gazing out at the garden that unfurled into the forest and the hills encircling the valley. At first, he dismissed the figure flitting between the trees on the forest’s distant edge as a hallucination, an illusion brought on by the heat of summer and the alcohol seeping through his veins. Yet, the figure didn’t vanish into the ether as he expected. It lingered, and with it, the chilling sensation of something being terribly wrong. Unmistakably the form was edging closer, emerging from the forest’s veil to reveal itself as a small boy. Ulrich remained frozen at the garden table, incredulity clouding his senses as the boy loomed nearer. The morning’s events and the dispute with Sarah had led Ulrich to believe his life was at a dead end. He had transformed into a bitter, pitiable creature, and all his friends and acquaintances had tired of his antics, scrambling over one another to find the nearest escape route. Perhaps the figure advancing towards him was the apparition of his inner child, finally breaking free from the dark forest of his tormented psyche. Such muddled, destructive thoughts plagued Ulrich, submerging himself in fantastical narratives to conquer the monsters confronting him. But no, the boy was real, soaked in blood and emitting a terrified scream as he scaled the fence into Ulrich’s garden. Startled, the inebriated banker leaped up from the table, upsetting the condiments and drinks, and rushed towards the boy who had fallen over the fence and lay crumpled. As Ulrich moved to help him up, he recoiled violently. “GET THE HELL OFF ME!” Ulrich retreated; hands raised in a defensive surrender. “Kid, I’m not trying to hurt you! Is that blood yours? If it is, we need to—” The boy shook his head, his breathing ragged and uneven from shock. “Listen, my name’s Ulrich. My wife, Sarah, she’ll be back soon, and we can … Oh God!” Another form was breaking free from the forest. Even at half a kilometre’s distance, Ulrich could discern the crunch of undergrowth and the ominous rhythm of muddied footfalls. The figure seemed to lurch towards them, arms flailing wildly, emitting a guttural shriek that echoed with primal fury as if the boy had been torn from its clutches. “Get inside,” Ulrich murmured, first to himself, then louder, to the boy. It wasn’t an animal. It was a man, a ghastly figure garbed only in a rabbit mask, brandishing what appeared to be a machete. “Get inside! NOW!” Wasting no time, Ulrich seized the boy by his blood-soaked shirt and hoisted him up. The boy kicked and screamed as Ulrich sprinted through the garden door. The bone-chilling shrieks from behind swelled, growing louder and more insistent with each stride the figure took towards the house. Once inside, Ulrich set the boy down and quickly secured the doors. As he fastened the final lock, a heavy thud jolted it from the outside, nearly splitting the barrier that kept them safe from the assailant. The man outside continued to shriek, a wild, relentless sound, hammering against the door in a desperate attempt to reach the boy within. Ulrich turned to see Martin, who stood against the back wall, tears streaming down his face. “Come on. Follow me.” With a sense of dread gnawing at his gut, Ulrich guided the terrified boy into the next room. All the while, their tormentor shadowed them, his silhouette moving from window to window, tapping his machete against the glass and letting loose unsettling, manic giggles. They made their way to the living room, then to a narrow landing with a steep, uneven staircase. “Up there now! Quick!” Without hesitation, the boy scrambled up the stairs, his heart pounding in his ears. Ulrich followed closely, adrenaline propelling every step. As they reached the landing, the boy, bereft of direction, darted into one of the secluded bedrooms. Ulrich lingered a few steps away, drawn unwillingly to the large glass window that dominated the landing. He watched specks of dust dance in the sunlight, a tiny spectacle that offered a fleeting distraction from the pulsating fear. Taking a deep breath, Ulrich summoned the courage to peer down into the garden. His fleeting bravery was extinguished by regret as he locked eyes with the assailant below: a man in his late twenties yet strands of grey already threaded through his unkempt hair. His skin, an eerie pallor of white, stretched taut over prominent bones and his eyes gleamed with a manic fervour, a wild energy that spoke of chaos and unrestrained violence. He held a blood-smeared rabbit mask in one hand, and in the other, a blade that told tales of savagery. Even from this distance, Ulrich could sense the unhinged malice emanating from the man below. A shiver of dread crept down his spine as he observed the assailant’s eyes flick towards the bedroom window where Martin was concealed. A dreadful, silent understanding wove its thread between Ulrich and the frenzied figure below, pulling tighter with every beat of his heart. Sprinting into the bedroom, voice scratched by fear, Ulrich commanded, “What the hell are you doing, kid? Get away from the window, now!” Martin retreated from the window, his eyes an abyss of terror and some inexplicable emotion. A strange, silent interaction seemed to have passed between the boy and the man outside, a dark secret conveyed in a glance. The relentless thud of machete against wood interrupted Ulrich’s thoughts, and Martin’s muffled sobs harmonized with the impending threat. And then, the door yielded. As the intruder’s footsteps echoed like a death knell within the house, Ulrich, propelled by a desperate resolve, moved to the cupboard and retrieved a firearm, all while Martin trembled silently in the corner, a young mind in the throes of horror. “They’re going to kill me!” Martin’s voice quivered, the raw terror palpable. “They’re going to kill me like the rest!” Ulrich’s attention darted to the room’s entrance, his parched lips clamping together, teeth grinding as the ominous figure crept ever closer to the door. He thrust out the gun, his grip quaking, and the weapon itself seeming to shudder in resonance with his dread. A desperate prayer rose unbidden in his mind—that the words exchanged with Sarah earlier wouldn’t their final farewell. His finger trembled on the trigger. The monstrous apparition was at the precipice. And then, it was no more. A gasp escaped Ulrich’s lips at the sound of footsteps; not encroaching, but hastily withdrawing. Time seemed to warp, twenty minutes elongating into an unbearable eternity before he could muster the fortitude to inch open the door. The menacing figure in the mask had vanished, leaving behind only the grim remnants of blood droplets from his weapon. Ulrich navigated towards the window, his grip on the gun now unwavering. He leaned forward, scrutinising the garden below. The lunatic was absent. His gaze traced a slow arc upwards, back to the dense shroud of the forest from where the horror had first emerged. He spotted them lurking in the forest’s depths. Where one had appeared, now there were two, each adorned with the same grotesque rabbit masks, each wielding identical blades. Ulrich’s stare was unyielding, transfixed on the pair, and he sensed their cold, predatory stare in return. Gradually, with deliberate steps, they began to recede, melting back into the forest’s embrace, disappearing, their return hanging in the air like a promise.
