Darkborne

Rain bombards the windshield of my car as I sit in the long driveway of my grandparent's manor, the water washing down in thick waves that blot out my view. 

I pause here not just because of the elements, but another cold feeling in the bowels of my stomach. Or is the cold just in the air, my imagination stirred up by the remote lodge and the quiet British countryside as usual? I cannot be sure. 

I look at my reflection in the rear view mirror and see a tired young man looking back at me, dark circles under both eyes, my freshly shaven face slightly gaunt as of late but still with remnants of youth. Insomnia runs in the family. I count myself lucky though, schizophrenia, alcoholism, and a strange, fantastical form of delusional narcissism do too, I’ve been told. Sleep deprivation is fine. 

Sighing, my eyes look out into the darkness of the storm. The night is ridden with mist, and the orange porch lights are blurry as I see my grandfather’s grey silhouette standing before them. He waves, slowly. 

The mad old fool will catch a cold I think, smiling to myself. I grab my weekend duffel bag, watching him wave through the blur of glass and water as I step out into the whistling storm. I slam my car door locking it, eager to get inside. As I use my jacket to shield my face, my vision fixes on the porch as leaves sweep over it, empty. 

“Grandad?” I shout into the night. He is no longer there. 

I rush up to the large red door of the manor, my eyes darting left and right. Nothing but the swaying trees of the woodlands all around, leaves blowing, the darkness of the expansive fields. 

Fuck it must’ve been a long drive 

I hammer the large golden doorknob, staring into the dull eyes of the metal lion as the door swings open with a creak. My grandmother stands there, her face wrinkled from a hundred thousand smiles, her grey blue eyes alive with intelligence despite her age. 

“Get in you’ll catch a bloody cold!” she says, grabbing me by the arm to come inside. 

I laugh and am grateful to have arrived after a long journey. 

Hours later the grandfather clock ticks next to the large dining table as I pour myself another glass of wine. The fire roars and I am content as my grandmother clears the plates. 

“I thought I saw you earlier, Grandad… were you outside when I pulled up?”

My grandad lifts his enormous grey eyebrows above the rim of his wine glass, his vibrant green stare lucid, smiling always within his eyes. He is not as sharp as my grandmother, but his character has never dulled. 

“Blimey…not on this night, under this moon. Not with her out there!” he says, his gaze suddenly half serious, the presumed joke not quite landing. 

“Her? Grandma you mean?” I ask, sipping my wine again. Grandad waves his hands and chuckles at me. 

“No boy. The wood watcher. She comes out under this moon” he says, eyes now wide, voice croaking. My grandmother scoffs as she comes in, laughing at him. 

“No more wine for you” she says and my laugh returns after brief concern for my grandad’s sanity. 

“Your grandfather has found an old chest in the guest house. A bunch of letters in there, written by his own great grandad… 1857 one of them was dated, fascinating really” grandma explains. I sit forward. The history of this house has always intrigued me. 

“Oh yeah? What was in the letters?” 

“For pity’s sake don’t ask!” she says as she finally clears the table, her voice fading into the kitchen as grandad sits up straight. He wields his spoon like a knight's sword, holding it upright as he begins his tale. 

“The true history of Britain, boy, the forces we used to understand!” he begins, his face now carrying traces of humour once more. I sit back as he comes alive with stories of ancient pagan magic, the witch in the woods, the satanists who cursed the lands around them and for a moment feel like a child again, truly entertained. 

The clock chimes midnight as I pour myself one last glass of whisky, staring into the flames of the fire. The leather chair is comfortable and the whisky high-quality, but I must get a decent night's sleep before the rest of the family arrives tomorrow. Grandad had been taken off upstairs over an hour ago, his ramblings nearly incoherent after maybe one glass too many, but drawing smiles from both myself and my grandma. 

“The guest house is yours this weekend, uncle Tim and aunty Sandra over tomorrow. You’re welcome to stay upstairs until then but you’ll have to move” she had shouted down the stairs as she took grandad off to bed up the wide staircase. I watched after them, seeing the great oil painting of the women in white at the top of the stairs illuminated with the lightning strikes that still pulsed through the window. 

I laugh as I feel the same fright I used to feel as a child after grandad’s stories, making it slightly harder to leave for the guest house. I remind myself I am nearly thirty years old and shake my head, putting the cover around the fire, bracing for the storm with the guest house key in hand. 

The wind is biting cold and screams through the high treetops as I barrel across the grass, finally twisting the stiff key in the door and slamming it behind me with an almighty thud. 

The guest house is homely but a little bare, another fireplace, of grey stone this time, a small, ancient TV and sickly green rug in the living room. The kitchen tap drips with water from the next room and I dump my bags by the fireplace, strolling to turn it off. As I do my foot catches something on the floor and I trip forwards. Loose floorboards next to a rusty old hammer. Grandad. He was very handy for a nearly ninety year old man but forgetful also, leaving his tools lying around after the job. 

“You funny old boy” I mutter to myself as I stoop down. 

This must be where he found the chest...god knows how..

As I pick up the hammer I notice two floor boards not yet nailed down, loose nails atop them. Hammer in hand I kneel, lifting it up to finish my grandads work and then pausing. Curiosity takes me over and I remove the panels once more, stacking them neatly beside me. Wind howls through the gap, seeming to leak in from outside, sending a chill through my body as if the cold of the forest has snuck into my place of refuge. The hole is dark, cold. I get onto both of my knees with my phone torch in hand. As I touch the edge of the strange gap I am struck again by the cold within, my fingertips numbing instantly. I fit my whole head under and grip my phone tightly. Dust particles and a larger space than expected are the first things I notice, a few feet of emptiness beneath the entire house. 

I see a square cleaner than the rest of the floor space almost directly underneath me and drag marks through the dust - the old man’s chest. I laugh at how he could have found it, both impressed and slightly concerned. The cold bites me a little too hard and I recoil, pulling my head from the hole as I grab a panel to board it up once more. In this moment, the childlike curiosity that grips me when the old boy tells stories tugs at the back of my mind. 

Did he check this way? I think, looking back towards the living room.

As my head turns towards the kitchen doorway I dive back into the cold darkness, noticing the pillars of stone over by the fireplace going right down into the foundations of the building. The corner of another box peeks from behind one of these grey plinths. Smiling, I measure the distance from the fireplace roughly in steps, stand with my grandads hammer and make way over. 

One, two, three. It was here…around here anyway

Once the hideous green rug is removed, I begin peeling up the floorboards, imagining the excitement in my grandad’s old face when I present the new chest to him as the first board comes off. Strange, this hole seems darker already. Even colder. 

The second board comes up with a snap and the pale white eyes of a smiling dead woman look back at me, mouth stretching inhumanly wide, yellow teeth bared, gaze locked onto me and somehow, alive. I fall backwards with a scream, tripping over the discarded boards and landing heavily on my back. 

I panic for a weapon, gripping the fire poker from the stand next to me when I can't find my hammer and wielding it with a thumping heart. My knees are weak, my mouth dry. Wind whistles from the hole I cannot see, and I edge closer. As I peek something white comes into vision. I take a deep breath and charge forwards, the cold metal fire poker raised high above my head with both hands, knuckles white on its handle. As I gaze into the hole however, I see nothing more than dead white branches. High above from the skylight over the front room, a branch gently knocks on the window as the storm rages on. I ready my phone torch with shaking hands and look down for more than a passing second, then over to the window spying the great oak that hangs over the house. The roots must stretch underneath. 

A raspy laugh spills out as adrenaline dumps from my body. 

Dead branches. You’re scared stiff by dead branches

Standing in place, I sway. I’m still drunk despite the fright, now embarrassed and concerned that my state has triggered a vivid hallucination. 

Rubbing my head I sigh, dropping to one knee over the hole. Despite the branches I hesitate - the face is still vivid in my mind. Now my head hurts from frowning as I retrieve my phone torch once more. I am at least a step away from the chest, but can just about reach it if I break away some branches and stretch. 

Diving deep into the darkness, my head, neck and shoulders under the house, I grab the chest, pulling it free from the hole. It is heavy. Strangely so. 

For a few passing moments I struggle as my breath fogs from the cold of the break in the floor, sweat beading against my forehead. I use all of my strength to drag the chest out. It thumps onto the floor and I frantically begin repairing all of the panels, nailing them back down very, very firmly. 

The chest opens with a creak, stuffed full with brown parchment, clinking with vials of strange liquid and different types of herbs. Under the letters, deep within the chest, an old navy issued colt revolver lies. The weapon is heavy with strange carvings on the handle. Within the chest there is a jar full of silver bullets with a strange cross-like insignia carved into them also. Picking them up, I manage to load the colt and then smile at the thought of presenting this to my grandad for his birthday tomorrow, the excitement on his face and the stress he will cause my sweet grandma. 

“Unreal” I mutter to myself as I put the colt in my inside jacket pocket.

The letters are dust ridden but I grab as many as possible and put them on the table beside the living room armchair, light a fire, and prepare to read. Somehow, I can make chronological order of them from the dates on the top corner. Fountain pen, nearly worn, but readable. 

18th January, 1860. 

The cold bites harsher than expected, brought on by her presence. Wicked thing she is. The demon has been bound to me since China, my visions of her and the plague she would spread burned into my mind for many nights before. The weapon, against all odds, works. This family of demonic beings will seek revenge for my slaying of their chosen daughter. I could never have predicted she would allow me to leave those godforsaken lands and follow me to England, and yet, I have managed to trap her with the ancient sigil. She now lies beneath the great oak. 

The spell will break for one full night and day, under the highest blood moon, however. We must be ready each time. God willing, fate will put the colt in the hands of my bloodline, and they can rid the earth of her.

Sincerely, Jonathan Hartigan

My eyes flit to re-nailed floor boards, the branch of the tree high above tapping on the window once again. I find myself gripping the handle of the gun tightly, the last thing I remember before a strange, heavy sleep falls on me, a cloak of absolute darkness.

The wooden door to the guest house is thumped loudly three times and I awake clutching the gun. 

Jesus… my head

“Open up you layabout!” the voice of my uncle shouts from the other side of the door. 

The sound of his voice is reassuring, anchoring me back in reality. I pocket the gun and swing open the door. 

“Christ what happened to you?!” he booms. The man is a mountain of bushy grey hair, a large round belly sticking out comically far, his wide, tall frame blocking out the sun. He is in full winter hunting gear, high leather boots, tweed jacket and bowler cap.

“Too much whisky” I say sheepishly - he grabs me in a bear hug and nearly lifts me clean off of the floor. 

“Good to see you boy…get your ass in gear, we’ll go for a hunt after brekky. Shower might be in order too, you smell like a brewery dog” 

Me and my uncle stalk the deep woods, mist weaving through the thick, twisted trees between us. I watch his mountainous silhouette navigate the woodland path, smiling as I remember the expression on his face when I had presented the discovered chest to grandad. Grandad had skipped with delight, breaking out the whisky immediately. Uncle was a practical man who looked on with absolute worry which had made the entire situation significantly funnier to me than it already was. 

“You’re getting him all worked up!” both him and my grandmother had said, making me chuckle to myself even now. I should have felt guilty, really, if only If it wasn’t so funny. The gun had stayed safe in my possession - even I couldn’t justify giving it to a slightly senile man who believed in ghost stories. 

“What are you laughing about back there? You’ll scare off the game” my uncle says in a half whisper, half shout. I can barely see him now due to the mist. A raven caws and flies overhead, just beyond the treetops. 

“I’m not sure that’s our problem” I say back in my normal tone, voice echoing. He chuckles and comes to a stop, breaking out his silver flask. 

“Ahh… I think you might be right boy” he replies, taking a swig as he leans up against a tree. I join him and gesture for the flask. My uncle is a determined man, but hours of stalking in poor conditions had led to nothing, not even a peep of a shot. 

“Maybe tomorrow” I say as I take a sip, something far stronger than I had expected within it. I cough and my uncle laughs, slapping me on the back. In a flashing moment, a strange expression falls over his face, the smile fading as he cocks his rifle. I simply stare at him. 

“Quiet boy” he says. A branch snaps in the far distance, followed by a strange, high pitched laugh that echoes. It sounds like a woman. I look at my uncle and he has an expression of childlike terror on his face. 

“Damn it, he was right” he mutters to himself. I laugh and try handing him back his flask, but he simply arms his rifle and puts his back to the tree we stand under, aiming into the mist. Shaking my head I take another swig from the flask, gazing out. 

“You’re a bit old for ghost stories aren’t you uncle?” I say, genuine confusion now washing over me as my laughter subsides. 

In a flashing moment something rushes from the depths of the shadow ridden mist before me, energy overcoming me despite no footsteps, a strange, unnatural force. I am knocked back several feet and slam into another nearby tree, now deadweight. When I look up I see the face of the woman beneath the floorboards staring back at me, her body suspended by a strange force as she floats there as if suspended underwater. My uncle fires and the bullet passes right through her. Her demonic presence advances in a rage, shadows gathering around her body like the tentacles of some great beast and my uncle is frozen with shock. He attempts to flee but falls clumsily on his back. 

I manage to rise as his screams of terror echo through the woods and my hand comes to the pistol in my jacket. I aim, pulling the trigger. A bullet cracks through the still air of the woodlands and rips into the demon’s head. She falters for a moment, then descends gradually into my uncle, fading into the mist of the forest. A blue light pulses then subsides also, a force from a higher place. My uncle lies still, eyes wide, breathing heavy. 

“Shit, its all real”

“Yeah…don't tell anyone”