Chapter 15

The slack handful of patrons looked up sharply as the Black Swann’s door slammed behind Edmund. Even he was alarmed by the unintended force. Windows were rattled and dozing dust motes were startled into a spiralling dance. Every person’s face carried the same heavy expression. Tight, wary exhaustion. A fear they no longer had the energy to disguise.

The landlord placed the glass he was polishing down and flipped the cloth over his shoulder. He stepped from behind the bar, his eyes widening at the sight of Edmund.

“What happened?” he demanded. “You look like you’ve run through Hell itself.”

Edmund’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly. The words didn’t know which way to go to be heard. His chest still throbbed. It was slow and it was knowing.

Mrs. Kettering. The panic. The wardrobe. The soil. The rustle.

He swallowed, forcing the words to come out.

“Something… something came into her house.”

Malcom’s expression darkened, and he took a fierce step forward.

“Yes,” Edmund held back his instinct to recoil. He didn’t want to say any more, but knew he had no choice. “She told me to… to run.”

The landlord didn’t hesitate. He marched to the front door and pulled a large, full keyring from his pocket. Quickly locating the correct key, he slid it into the lock and turned it. The bolt was engaged and a chair was pushed under the handle. No one in the room, including Edmund, questioned his actions.

One of the patrons, a wiry man with nicotine-stained hands, rose from his seat.

“Is it time?” he asked.

Malcolm nodded.

The man shrugged, then began closing the shutters by each window, something Edmund had thought were decorative. He moved with the speed of someone who’d done this many times, as did those who joined in to help him. Each seemed to have their place, with none getting in the way of any other.

Edmund stared.

“What are you doing?”

The landlord didn’t look at him. He watched the others at work, ensuring fastenings were fastened tightly, and nothing was missed.

“Locking down. Same as we did the night Tom came back.”

Edmund ignored the way his spine seemed to twist.

“Why? What’s happening?”

“Something crossed a boundary. We all felt it before you came back. Whole village did, I reckon. We get a night like this maybe once every few years. We’re prepared for it, as much as anyone can be.”

He turned then, slowly, to face Edmund.

“And it’s almost always because of someone new.”

Edmund clenched his fists, pressing his knuckles against each other as if fighting with himself.

“Me.”

The landlord didn’t deny it.

A soft, rattling sound ran across the windows, like something skittering quickly. It moved from one to the next and the next, making no sound on the brick work between, as if leaping from glass to glass, aiming for the most disturbing surface.

Edmund flinched. The patrons went still.

Malcolm raised a hand.

“No sudden movements. It listens for those. It knows.”

The sound moved upwards, this time making itself heard on the wall. It scrambled across the roof before making slow, deliberate, circles around the chimney. The flames in the grate became suddenly small, wary of what crawled above them, then disappeared as if blown out.

The warmth in Edmund’s chest respond, beating in rhythm with the sound above.

“Why is it doing this?” he whispered.

The landlord rubbed the bridge of his nose. He closed his eyes tightly and pressed his palms against them. Once he opened them again, the wetness of tears was visible.

“You woke it. Got its attention. You stumbled too close, and now it’s tasted you.”

Edmund clenched his fists tighter, trying to squeeze himself back to a world where none of this existed.

“Tasted?”

“Not flesh,” the landlord murmured. “Not yet, anyway. Feelings. Memory. Hurt. That’s how it starts.”

The room felt smaller with every word.

A soft tapping began at the shutter nearest Edmund’s shoulder. A notice of awareness.

Tap.

Tap.

He backed away.

No!

The landlord stepped between him and the window. He shook his head.

“Don’t answer it,” he said quietly.

“I’m not!” Edmund wasn’t quite as quiet.

“You are, just by acknowledging it.”

The tapping paused. Then, a faint, breathy giggle could be heard.

Edmund’s stomach twisted. He pushed his fingers into his hair and grabbed it, as if it might prevent him from collapsing.

“That’s Jack’s…”

“Not Jack,” the landlord snapped. “Never Jack.”

A long silence followed, inside and out. The pub seemed to shrink around them, the ceiling lowering, the walls inching inward. The wiry man approached Edmund cautiously.

“Have you felt anything? Inside of you, I mean?”

Edmund froze. He looked down at his chest, feeling whatever was inside him gain intensity. He was horrified, expecting to see something bulging beneath his ribs. Nothing did.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Since the tree. And worse since… since Terry.”

The wiry man paled and moved away.

“Then, I’m afraid it’s marked you proper.” He turned to the landlord. “We need the circle.”

Edmund stiffened.

“The what?”

“A grounding circle,” Malcolm said, already striding to the centre of the room, pulling a chair with him. “Sit. Now.”

Edmund hesitated. The villagers were afraid, and were all aware he was the reason for their fear. Scared people will often do anything to survive.

“What does it do? What are you going to do to me?”

“We’re going to protect you, of course,” the landlord replied bluntly. “This keeps the forest from pulling you out of yourself. If you fight us on this, you won’t last the night.”

Something thumped against the roof.

Hard.

Edmund sat.

Malcolm and the wiry man moved quickly. They placed small objects around the chair at equal points. A horseshoe, a sprinkle of ash, a sprig from an unidentifiable plant, a chipped porcelain cup with the bottom marked by an old tea stain and a smooth black stone. Edmund didn’t see where they’d taken them from.

The others gathered around him, shoulder to shoulder and hand in hand. After a few seconds, five broke the circle to step forward, bend and pick up one of the objects each. The circle closed behind them.

The heat in Edmund’s chest twisted sharply, like a muscle contracting in protest. He gasped, clutching at his shirt.

“Hold on,” Malcolm said. “It’ll fight. That’s how you know it’s working.”

Edmund squeezed his eyes shut. His chest pumped hard again, the temperature rising. It was no longer soft and calming. It was urgent. Angry.

Something scratched at the pub door in long, steady strokes. A greeting in other circumstances. A warning in these.

Edmund…

A high squeal escaped him.

“It’s here. I can feel it. It’s going to come in,” he insisted, trembling.

“It can’t,” the landlord said firmly. “It will try, but it can’t.”

The scratching increased.

Let me in…

Edmund’s pulse hammered. The pressure surged inside him, climbing his throat and closing around it, making it hard to breathe.

He doubled over, gasping.

“I… I can’t…”

The landlord grabbed his shoulders, steadying him. He pulled him back upright.

“Stay in the circle! Leave and we all die.”

The table nearest the door rattled violently, its glasses shaking. One, a wine glass, fell to the floor and shattered, the contents bleeding out onto the floorboards. The patrons huddled closer. They stared at each other nervously, and some looked ready to flee.

“Stay firm,” Malcom told them. “You know how we deal with this.”

A low creak came from the doorframe as it bowed inward under an external pressure. It reached the point where it must surely break, bursting inwards in a shower of splintered wood and savage nightmare.

But…

The scratching stopped.

Silence.

Then…

A soft knock.

“Edmund,” said a child’s voice. “Please. I’m scared.”

Jack. It sounded like Jack. He couldn’t leave the boy outside. Not with whatever was out there with him. Edmund felt something inside him crumble. He went to stand, lifting himself a few centimetres from the chair. The landlord shoved him back into the chair with both hands.

“That’s not him! You hear me? That’s not him!“

Edmund’s vision blurred and a high-pitched whistling rose in his ears. The heat surged again, violently this time, radiating out through his limbs, numbing his fingers, loosening his muscles and urging him to stand, regardless of his own wishes. He gripped the chair.

“Help me…”

The landlord slapped his face. It sounded harder than it was but, still, Edmund’s cheek reddened.

“Stay with me!” Malcolm yelled in his face.

The hot coil inside recoiled, but only slightly. He gasped for air that tasted stale. Decayed. The child’s voice outside changed, deepening. It moved from beseeching to commanding. It was not a voice used to being ignored.

“Let. Me. In.”

The last word scraped fingers down a chalk board. No, like bark splitting. No! Like…

The fire flickered wildly. The flames roared, reaching out from the hearth. The windows shook. The whole building moaned in desperate protestation.

Then…

Silence once more.

The warmth inside Edmund ebbed, just a little. Malcolm slumped, his chest heaving. He ran his fingers through his hair, then rubbed his eyes with his sleeve, blinking.

“It’s leaving.”

The wiry man collapsed onto a stool. The other customers staggered away. Some were crying. Others appeared stunned and unable to function, so were led away to nearby seats.

“Thank God.”

Edmund shook uncontrollably, staring at the shuttered door.

“It’s not finished,” he whispered.

Malcolm shook his head.

“Not tonight, maybe. But soon.”

Edmund lifted his gaze, matching his with the landlord’s. He held it for a moment before speaking.

“What does it want?” he asked, his voice cracking.

The landlord hesitated, then, quietly, he spoke.

“What else?” he asked. “You.”

Edmund’s bones became denser inside him, so much heavier after the events of the night. Part of him already knew the truth.

And the forest already knew him.