Chapter 13

Evening can be a time of crisp air, banishing the day’s pollution – both physical and mental – and invigorating the weary. Each deep breath fills the lungs with the anticipation of a night’s rest, after which, a new morning’s perils can be tackled with enthusiasm. Evening can be the promise of relief with the potential for rebirth. Rather than merely the end of the day, it’s the start of the night, the point where one blends into the other. And one cannot exist without the other.

Evening draped itself over Black Thickett like a damp cloth. It clung to every surface, every word spoken and every breath, threatening to suffocate all. Edmund sat on the edge of his bed. His hands were clenched together, his fingers pressing in between the knuckles, and his elbows dug into his knees, leaving white marks that quickly changed to red when he moved. He stared at the wall opposite as though it might suddenly split open, spilling the forest’s secrets. Did he want to know them? Was it safe to?

The internal tranquillity hadn’t faded. If anything, it had deepened. Spread. It was a warmth that pulsed with a quiet rhythm, coaxing rather than forceful, sighing rather than summoning. Each pulse broadened its reach by a fraction, making its encroachment barely noticeable. It made his thoughts sluggish around the edges and smoothed the sharp corners of his panic. He sat in a daze, his mind a mire.

That frightened him far more than the nightmare could.

Outside, the village was quiet. It wasn’t the usual stillness, but, more, the silence of people who were listening for something they did not want to hear. Who knew to hear was to have to answer.

A floorboard creaked somewhere in the hallway.

Then another.

He tensed.

“Malcolm?” he called, though his voice was barely audible. He coughed to clear his throat and tried again.

There was no reply.

He moved to the door and pressed his ear against it. Silence. He stepped back, expecting his heart to be thudding, but no. It had settled into a soft, steady beat, like a companion beside him, offering an embrace. He hated it and he wanted it more than anything.

A sudden thump jolted the wall to his left. Edmund flinched, stumbling back.

“No,” he whispered. “Please, no.”

Another thump, louder. Harder. Enough to make the wall bulge momentarily.

This time, it was followed by the faint, dragging sound of something moved in the wall, which was impossible. Although Edmund hadn’t thought to check the structure of the room, why would he, it could safely be assumed it would be either solid brick or a studded partition inserted to divide up a larger space. Only an animal the size of a rodent would be able to scurry around – and that sound would be of scratching. Of light rubbing against the plasterboard.

He edged closer, his curiosity unaware of the potential for danger. Each breath was shallow, keeping within tight boundaries to prevent extending out and revealing his presence. The wallpaper, faded with age, swelled slightly outward as he neared, warping the surface.

That was not a rodent.

He watched.

The bulge moved slowly, deliberately, in small circles.

A voiced leaked through the plaster.

“Edmund…“

His legs almost gave way, and he grabbed the sideboard, knocking over his mostly empty cup. He felt the now cold liquid splash against his leg. He heard the cup clatter to the floor. His senses acknowledged both, but neither infiltrated further than the topmost layer of his mind and were instantly forgotten.

It was a child’s voice.

Jack’s voice.

“No.” He had to force the words out. “You’re not real. You’re not here.”

Edmund… Come see…

The whisper scratched like fingernails against blackboard, making his skin feel as if it were crawling away from the sound, separate from his body. He stepped backward, shaking his head violently.

“Stop it!“

Another bulge, there and gone, caused a ripple outward as if across water. Or a target. Look here. Come here. I’m here…

A shadow pressed against the wall, small and unmistakable, coming from inside and stretching the wallpaper.

A child’s hand.

Edmund made a sound he had never heard from himself.

“Get. Out.”

His jaw ached from gritting his teeth. Whether that was to contain his fear or prevent anything getting in – or out, he didn’t know.

Another whisper. Softer, this time. A dispirited plea.

It hurts… Come help me… Please…

He burned fleetingly with a fierce, terrible longing, then the calm inside him surged, warm and insistent. It urged him to reach forward. To comfort, soothe and answer.

“No,” he gasped, resisting. “No. You’re not Jack. You’re not… You can’t…”

A sharp pounding shook the door. He recoiled so hard he almost fell.

“Edmund! Open up! Now!”

Mrs Kettering? He darted forward, thankful for the interruption, and yanked the door open.

She pushed past him immediately, her eyes sweeping the room with frantic urgency. Her breathing was harsh, her cheeks flushed.

“Where is it?” she demanded.

“Wh… what?”

“The voice. The sound.”

She wouldn’t believe him. He shouldn’t tell.

“What voice?”

She moved to the wall, ignoring his denial, and pressed her own palm flat against the surface. The hand print was gone, but the swelling remained. Then, on her touch, it shrank, sucked back into the wall as if slapped. The whispering faded.

“That was too close. Far too close,” she hissed.

Edmund stared at her helplessly. His eyes felt sore, the world they were witnessing too much for them. He rubbed them with his fists.

“What’s happening to me?”

His voice was distant. He sounded weak, an infant himself. He could feel madness taking over him. Drawing him down to where breathing was not required and sight was a forgotten luxury.

“It’s testing you,” she said, turning to him. “It does that when it wants someone badly enough.”

He trembled. She meant him.

“Testing?”

She nodded grimly, resting her hand on his arm. He flinched again, beginning to pull away, but she kept hold. He realised he needed the contact.

“The forest seeped into these walls years ago. All the walls. All of the village. So long ago, it’s all legend or myth now. I don’t know the difference. It came through the roots. Through the cracks. It listens. It learns the voices of the lost and uses them.” Her expression became grim. Flat. Warning. “And it knows yours now.”

Edmund pressed a shaking hand to his chest. He could feel another beneath his own. Smaller. He grimaced.

“It won’t stop. It’s inside me.”

“That’s why you don’t answer. Why you mustn’t.” Her eyes bore into him. “If you were to, verbally or not, that’s permission given. My Jack did he same. He answered something he shouldn’t have.”

“I didn’t answer.”

He regretted the way his response had formed itself. It ignored her loss and made him sound as if he wasn’t Jack. He wasn’t so foolish. He wouldn’t make that mistake.

Yet…

Mrs Kettering hesitated, removing her hand to grip its sibling.

“You didn’t speak,” she said. “You didn’t need to. But you felt it. And it felt you.”

“How do I make it stop?”

She looked at him with pity. He felt like a lost dog she was thinking of returning to its owner. Or leaving to fend for itself.

Or have put down.

“You don’t. You endure it until it passes. You pray it does.”

“And if it doesn’t pass? Can it, even?”

Her gaze drifted toward the window and the ominous treeline in the distance.

“Then you are… lost.”

Edmund sank back onto the bed. His arms were loose by his side, any strength in them gone.

“Lost?”

“To the forest,” she said simply. “Like Tom. Like Terry. Like Jack.”

The calm pulsed again inside him, tenderly. An internal caress. He scrambled away from his own heartbeat. Mrs Kettering gripped his arm, firmer this time.

“Listen to me. You can’t be alone tonight. Not for one moment. It’ll come again. It always does.”

“And, if it does?”

She stepped closer, lowering her voice.

“You let someone else hear it first. If you hear it before anyone else… it means it’s chosen you. You’re…”

The words scooped his innards out, hollowing him. A distant sound drifted through the wall. A faint giggle. Mrs Kettering paled, but nodded as he finished:

“Lost.”

“Pack your things. You’re coming with me.”

Edmund didn’t argue, grabbing his coat with trembling hands. His insides hummed in quiet disapproval, possessive, as though the forest itself resented his leaving and needed to voice its condemnation.

They stepped into the unnaturally quiet corridor, and Mrs Kettering pulled the door shut.

Behind them, the wall bulged once more.

And whispered his name.