The Perils of Talking to Strangers

I read once that a stranger is just a friend you haven’t met yet. Using that logic, a stranger is also someone you haven’t been murdered by yet. I only really have two people I like, and there were 714 murders in the UK in 1993 alone, so the odds aren’t exactly in friendship’s favour.

That’s why the number one rule is: do not speak to strangers. Sally and Jessie say it’s for my own good. I would joke and say, in a spooky voice, “The perils of talking to strangers.” They’d never laugh. It made me a little happy for a bit, so I kept saying it. Apparently, I am very important to some people, and they are out there looking for me. They could be anyone.

It’s a pretty easy rule for me to follow. Talking to strangers was never really at the top of my to-do list. It would be like instructing someone that, no matter what they do, they mustn’t deliberately bang their toe on the coffee table.

“What are your plans for the day?” Sally asked me at the dinner table one morning.

She acted like she did it because she was interested in me, but I knew why she was really asking. It was one of her endless ways of keeping tabs on me. I don’t mind. I never have plans to do anything I shouldn’t.

“Just off to the library again,” I replied with a smile. I liked the library. It was quiet. No one expected you to talk. My communication by notepad was well received there.

“They’ll be happy to see the greatest follower of library etiquette that ever lived,” chuckled Jessie. She always made that joke, and they always both laughed far too loudly at it.

I didn’t find it funny. My library etiquette is one of the things I’m most proud of. Some kids in that place are feral. I want so badly to yell at them to shut up, but a child is still a stranger. There’s no age restriction on it. So I express my disgust with my eyes, and with sassy remarks written on a notepad that I keep to myself.

“Have you read anything interesting lately?” Sally asked. Again, not because she cared about my reading habits, but just another way of making sure I’m staying in the straight and narrow.

“Always,” I smiled. “I found a book on Breton folklore.”

Both Sally and Jessie looked at me as if they wanted more. I was happy to oblige. Once I left the house, I wouldn’t be able to utter a word. Might as well get as many out whilst I can.

“Well, Brittany was settled by Brittonic Celts. They’re closely related to the Welsh and Cornish.” I stopped and tapped my nose. That’s my way of saying sorry in the outside world. I apologise a lot, so sometimes it’s just muscle memory.

I was saying sorry because I have a tendency to info-dump at the breakfast table. By the time I actually get to what I wanted to talk about, everyone has to go. Get on with their lives.

I looked at the clock. I had four minutes. Six if I followed them from the kitchen to the front door. Spoke until they both walked out.

“Basically, Breton folklore is Celtic, but not the same as Irish or Scottish myth. Less heroic. More inevitable,” I said, as quickly as possible, trying to squeeze it all in. I was still doing too much. Just the relevant information.

“So, there’s this thing called the Ankou,” I said, straight to the point. “It’s kind of like Death personified. The Ankou calls names at night. If you hear your name and you answer, you’re screwed.”

I took a big bite of my cereal for dramatic effect and continued with my mouth full of Coco Pops.

“No chase. No violence. Just recognition.” I smiled. “The Ankou doesn’t kill. It announces.”

Sally and Jessie looked at one another, concern written clearly on both their faces. They worry my interests might be too violent.

I spent the last four minutes telling them other stories from Breton folklore. Ones that were a lot less scary, to put their minds at ease.

My journey to the library takes me along back streets and alleyways. It adds thirteen minutes to the trip, but it’s worth it for the solitude. I can’t be tempted to chat if there’s no one to chat to. Ironically, seclusion is my only companion. A necessary, platonic evil.

Sorry, before I continue, I should probably tell you about myself. I’ve never really chatted before, so I’m not very good at it.

My name is Logan, and I’m twenty years old. I’m just like any normal guy who isn’t allowed to talk to anyone other than the two women he lives with.

I spend the majority of my muted life at the library. I read everything I can. Recently, I’ve been getting into myths and folklore. When you read stories passed down across generations and empires, you start to notice the same ones being told again and again.

A good example is the classic child taken at night story. A nocturnal figure who comes for children while adults sleep.

Ancient Mesopotamia had Lamashtu, a demoness who stole infants. Ancient Greece had Mormo, a child-devouring female monster. Medieval Europe had the Night Hag. Victorian England warned children about Spring-Heeled Jack. Hollywood, modern folklore, gave us Freddy Krueger. A monster who haunts children in their dreams.

The same story, formed as separate thoughts across time and space.

Empires change. Technology does too. Human fear doesn’t.

Just as I finished that last thought, someone dragged me back to reality.

“Oi, mate!”

I looked up. Three boys, no older than fourteen, staring at me.

I stared back. Not to be intimidating. I just didn’t know what else to do. Once I realised the accidental menace, I dropped my gaze.

“Are you deaf, mate?” asked the tallest of the three.

He looked like a box-standard teenage boy. However, his eyes looked decrepit. All of their eyes did. Like they had lived four times longer than the faces they sat in.

I shook my head and pointed to my mouth. I hoped it would convey all the information they needed not to beat me up.

“Is this dickhead broken?” asked the shortest of the gang, bringing absolute delight to the other two.

I was fairly confident now that this was going to end extremely badly for me. Any attempt at recovery felt like a hopeless endeavour.

I pulled out my notepad and pen, ready to write what would need to be the greatest thing ever penned.

“Look, guys,” the tall one said, pointing both index fingers at me, “he wants an autograph!”

The alley filled with sniggering. It was sharp, and it poked me in the eyes. To be fair, it was pretty quick-witted for something that looked like a prepubescent pensioner.

I showed them my scribbled note. One of them read it out loud. Perhaps the other two were unable to read. What a great friend.

“I am mute. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

He let out a huge sigh afterwards. It seemed to really take it out of him.

The not-the-tallest-not-the-shortest one looked at me like I’d just told him exactly what his mum’s toilet seat tasted of.

“Mute?” he said, as if questioning the entire existence of the concept. “What, like you had your tongue cut out?”

He looked genuinely interested. And extremely serious.

“Like they do to pedos?”

They all looked absolutely repulsed, and extremely excited by this new revelation.

I was pretty convinced that wasn’t true. Tongues were cut out for many reasons. Blasphemy. Snitching. No one cut the tongues out of paedophiles.

I tried my hardest to write this explanation down, but I didn’t even know where to start.

“Are you a pedo?” the tall one asked.

I shook my head.

“Answer him then,” the short one demanded. “Are you a pedo?”

Before even someone with the luxury of speech could have replied, they asked again.

“Are you a pedo?”

And again.

“Are you a pedo?”

I frantically scribbled no on the paper, over and over again. They either didn’t see it, or didn’t care.

They moved towards me.

My body burned with an anxious fire, the smoke making it hard to breathe.

I showed them the notepad again. The tall one knocked it away.

I backed up until my shoulders pressed against the brick wall. It was starting to feel like my tomb.

I had nowhere to go.

They smiled. Looked at one another. Waiting for someone to finish me off.

The small one stepped forward.

“Are you a pedo?”

My skin burned. My blood tore through my body. There was a pain in my stomach, like pins stabbing me from the inside. Something was happening. I felt full. Like I was going to burst.

“No,” I whispered. Barely loud enough for them to hear.

I tried to scrape the word back into my mouth. Make it so it didn’t happen.

They froze. Staring at everything and nothing.

Maybe I could leave.

I walked away slowly.

They followed.

I stopped. They stopped.

I moved again. So did they.

They weren’t chasing me.

They were following me.

I ran. They ran after me.

I kept running. So did they.

I saw a bus and jumped on just as the doors were closing.

I smiled at the driver and tapped my nose. He wasn’t as keen to smile back.

I saw one of the boys approaching the bus too quickly.

My inner voice was screaming at the driver to go. I was relieved it wasn’t out loud.

We drove off.

The boys kept running as they grew smaller and smaller.

As I sat on the bus trying to catch my breath, replaying the bizarre scenes that had just unfolded, a memory forced its way to the front of my mind, as if it were of utmost importance that I paid attention to it.

I was about twelve. I’d just made, and subsequently spilled, a pot noodle on the rug in Sally’s office. I wasn’t even allowed in there. I didn’t even have a reason to be, despite not being allowed to be. I have no idea why I thought eating a sloppy, messy snack in a designated no-go area was such a wise move. Turns out my decision-making skills were at the same level as my ability to hold hot plastic things.

I needed to clean it up before they got back. As I pulled the rug aside to check nothing had soaked through, I saw something written in black on the wooden floor.

When I pulled the entire rug back, I saw the whole space was scrawled with the same eight words, over and over again:

Þū ne scalt bēodan. Wē ne sculon fylgian.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I later found out it was written in Old English. Specifically, West Saxon. It translates as:

You shall not command. We shall not follow.

I’d never been sure what that message had to do with me. Now, having just been followed by three boys, it really did slap me in the face with an open palm of relevance.

I never asked Sally or Jessie about it. Their default answer was always the same. They couldn’t tell me more than I already knew, but it was for my own good.

All I knew was that scary, important people wanted me, and that any use of my voice outside the house would alert them to my whereabouts.

A cavalcade of myths and folklore began to churn through my brain. Any that felt even vaguely relevant to whatever the hell was going on were mentally highlighted for further research at the library.

Then something pulled me back from my internal research papers.

I could feel eyes on me.

I looked up, expecting to see Tall, Medium, and Small standing there.

They weren’t.

Instead, three school kids, one boy and two girls, were all looking in my direction. I’m not sure they even realised they were staring. It didn’t feel like staring at all.

It felt like waiting.

Like they were expecting an instruction from me.

I stared straight forward for the rest of the journey.

I got off at the stop closest to the library. Thankfully, the school kids didn’t follow me. I could still feel their eyes as I stepped onto the pavement. They were asking something of me. Demanding it.

I had no idea what it was about, but I can guarantee it was all linked. If it wasn’t, that would be mental.

As I approached the library, I could hear laboured breathing behind me. I turned and saw Tall, Medium, and Large. Red-faced and uncomfortably out of breath, but still giving everything they had left to keep following me.

When they reached me, they stopped.

Waiting.

I needed answers. I’d already spoken to them once. I could do it once more. Get all the information I possibly could.

“Why are you following me?” I whispered, loud enough for only them to hear.

They didn’t answer. They just stared through me.

A shuffle to my left caught my attention. I hadn’t noticed them before, but two girls, around thirteen, were sitting on a bench just behind me. I’m not sure if they heard my voice, or if they just knew I’d spoken, but they stood and joined the three boys.

I now had five young teenagers following me. This did little to dispel the recent rumours about me.

I cursed my stupidity inwardly, making sure no sound slipped past my lips.

I walked into the library.

So did they.

As I passed the librarian’s desk, she looked up and said, “Look at you, like the Pied Piper.”

Internally, I screamed, you don’t know the half of it. But in the madness of it all, a muffled scoff escaped my tightly shut mouth.

That noise was enough.

Every child enjoying a quiet afternoon in the library turned towards me.

Kids ranging from seven to sixteen began moving closer. They surrounded me, a fortress of adolescence.

“What’s going on?” the librarian yelled. “Everyone, go sit back down.”

No one moved. No one even turned to face her. They all just stared at me.

Some parents tried to reach their children, but were pushed back by the wall of minors. They screamed names and surged forward, only to be held at bay by the shifting mass of school kids.

I kept walking towards the folklore section.

So did they.

I grabbed a stack of books and sat down. The children closed in around me. No one broke ranks. There must have been thirty of them on all sides.

If I was looking for a silver lining, it was good to see so many children appreciating books.

No one could reach me inside this youth bubble. It was the safest I had ever felt.

The most loved.

I tore through the books, searching for something I was sure I remembered.

The noise beyond my living walls was muffled, but it felt frantic. People shouting. Possibly people getting hurt.

Then I found it.

Psychopomp.

A being who leads souls away from the living world.

There are plenty of examples. The Pied Piper being the obvious one. The Greeks had Hermes. The Egyptians called theirs Anubis. In Germanic folklore, the Wild Huntsman led children away with horns, hounds, and shouting.

With each one, sound is both warning and summons.

Mercury. Valkyries. Willy Wonka. Pennywise.

The list keeps growing.

None of them kidnap. They are followed willingly. The method isn’t coercion so much as recognition. They hear something meant for them.

I thought about Sally and Jessie. My heart sank. The swarm tightened around me. They had kept this from me, not because they wanted to help me, but because they were scared of me.

It was never love.

It was fear.

This was love.

Maybe I’m not one of them.

Maybe I’m all of them.

The thing that inspired the stories.

I needed answers. Sally and Jessie knew more than these books.

I stood up.

My living armour rose with me.

Outside, a crowd had gathered. Four or five police cars. Officers shouting. All trying to stop me.

I needed more.

I opened the window and shouted to the world, “Excuse me, can I get a little help?”

Among cries of disbelief and nervous laughter, the crowd began to shift. Children emerged from between adults. All turning towards me.

All listening.

They heard something meant for them.

They heard me.