Gutted: Beautiful Horror Stories (32 page)

“Not yet, Colin,” Uncle Lucian says. “Story first. You can’t have forgotten.”

He hasn’t, of course. He remembers every bedtime story since the first, when he didn’t know it would lead to the next day’s walk. “I thought we’d have finished,” he protests.

“Quietly, son. We don’t want anyone disturbed, do we? One last story.”

Colin wants to stay where he can’t see and yet he wants to know. He inches the quilt down from his face. The gap between the curtains has admitted a sliver of moonlight that turns the edges of objects a glimmering white. A sketch of his uncle’s face the colour of bone hovers by the bed. His smile glints, and his eyes shine like stars so distant they remind Colin how limitless the dark is. That’s one reason why he blurts “Can’t we just go wherever it is tomorrow?”

“You need to get ready while you’re asleep. You should know that’s how it works.” As Uncle Lucian leans closer, the light tinges his gaunt face except where it’s hollowed out with shadows, and Colin is reminded of the moon looming from behind a cloud. “Wait now, here’s an idea,” his uncle murmurs. “That ought to help.”

Colin realises he would rather not ask “What?”

“Tell the stories back to me. You’ll find someone to tell one day, you know. You’ll be like me.”

The prospect fails to appeal to Colin, who pleads “I’m too tired.”

“They’ll wake you up. Your mother was saying how good you are at stories. That’s thanks to me and mine. Go on before anyone comes up and hears.”

A cork pops downstairs, and Colin knows there’s little chance of being interrupted. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I can’t tell you that, Colin. They’re your stories now. They’re part of you. You’ve got to find your own way to tell them.”

As Uncle Lucian’s eyes glitter like ice Colin hears himself say “Once . . . ”

“That’s the spirit. That’s how it has to start.”

“Once there was a boy . . . ”

“Called Colin. Sorry. You won’t hear another breath out of me.”

“Once there was a boy who went walking in the country on a day like it was today. The grass in the fields looked like feathers where all the birds in the world had been fighting, and all the fallen leaves were showing their bones. The sun was so low every crumb of frost had its own shadow, and his footprints had shadows in when he looked behind him, and walking felt like breaking little bones under his feet. The day was so cold he kept thinking the clouds were bits of ice that had cracked off the sky and dropped on the edge of the earth. The wind kept scratching his face and pulling the last few leaves off the trees, only if the leaves went back he knew they were birds. It was meant to be the shortest day, but it felt as if time had died because everything was too slippery or too empty for it to get hold of. So he thought he’d done everything there was to do and seen everything there was to see when he saw a hole like a gate through a hedge.”

“That’s the way.” Uncle Lucian’s eyes have begun to shine like fragments of the moon. “Make it your story.”

“He wasn’t sure if there was an old gate or the hedge had grown like one. He didn’t know it was one of the places where the world is twisted. All he could see was more hedge at the sides of a bendy path. So he followed it round and round, and it felt like going inside a shell. Then he got dizzy with running to find the middle, because it seemed to take hours and the bends never got any smaller. But just when he was thinking he’d stop and turn back if the spiky hedges let him, he came to where the path led all round a pond that was covered with ice. Only the pond oughtn’t to have been so big, all the path he’d run round should have squeezed it little. So he was walking round the pond to see if he could find the trick when the sun showed him the flat white faces everywhere under the ice.

“There were children and parents who’d come searching for them, and old people too. They were everyone the maze had brought to the pond, and they were all calling him. Their eyes were opening as slow as holes in the ice and growing too big, and their mouths were moving like fish mouths out of water, and the wind in the hedge was their cold rattly voice telling him he had to stay forever, because he couldn’t see the path away from the pond—there was just hedge everywhere he looked. Only then he heard his uncle’s voice somewhere in it, telling him he had to walk back in all his footprints like a witch dancing backwards and then he’d be able to escape.”

This is the part Colin likes least, but his uncle murmurs eagerly “And was he?”

“He thought he never could till he remembered what his footprints looked like. When he turned round he could just see them with the frost creeping to swallow them up. So he started walking back in them, and he heard the ice on the pond start to crack to let all the bodies with the turned-up faces climb out. He saw thin white fingers pushing the edge of the ice up and digging their nails into the frosty path. His footprints led him back through the gap the place had tried to stop him finding in the hedge, but he could see hands flopping out of the pond like frogs. He still had to walk all the way back to the gate like that, and every step he took the hedges tried to catch him, and he heard more ice being pushed up and people crawling after him. It felt like the place had got hold of his middle and his neck and screwed them round so far he’d never be able to walk forward again. He came out of the gate at last, and then he had to walk round the fields till it was nearly dark to get back into walking in an ordinary way so his mother and father wouldn’t notice there was something new about him and want to know what he’d been doing.”

Colin doesn’t mind if that makes his uncle feel at least a little guilty, but Uncle Lucian says “What happens next?”

Colin hears his parents and his aunt forgetting to keep their voices low downstairs. He still can’t make out what they’re saying, though they must think he’s asleep. “The next year he went walking in the woods,” he can’t avoid admitting.

“What kind of a day would that have been, I wonder?”

“Sunny. Full of birds and squirrels and butterflies. So hot he felt like he was wearing the sun on his head, and the only place he could take it off was the woods, because if he went back to the house his mother and father would say he ought to be out walking. So he’d gone a long way under the trees when he felt them change.”

“He could now. Most people wouldn’t until it was too late, but he felt . . . ”

“Something had crept up behind him. He was under some trees that put their branches together like hands with hundreds of fingers praying. And when he looked he saw the trees he’d already gone under were exactly the same as the ones he still had to, like he was looking in a mirror except he couldn’t see himself in it. So he started to run but as soon as he moved, the half of the tunnel of trees he had to go through began to stretch itself till he couldn’t see the far end, and when he looked behind him it had happened there as well.”

“He knew what to do this time, didn’t he? He hardly even needed to be told.”

“He had to go forwards walking backwards and never look to see what was behind him. And as soon as he did he saw the way he’d come start to shrink. Only that wasn’t all he saw, because leaves started running up and down the trees, except they weren’t leaves. They were insects pretending to be them, or maybe they weren’t insects. He could hear them scuttling about behind him, and he was afraid the way he had to go wasn’t shrinking, it was growing as much longer as the way he’d come was getting shorter. Then all the scuttling things ran onto the branches over his head, and he thought they’d fall on him if he didn’t stop trying to escape. But his body kept moving even though he wished it wouldn’t, and he heard a great flapping as if he was in a cave and bats were flying off the roof, and then something landed on his head. It was just the sunlight, and he’d come out of the woods the same place he’d gone in. All the way back he felt he was walking away from the house, and his mother said he’d got a bit of sunstroke.”

“He never told her otherwise, did he? He knew most people aren’t ready to know what’s behind the world.”

“That’s what his uncle kept telling him.”

“He was proud to be chosen, wasn’t he? He must have known it’s the greatest privilege to be shown the old secrets.”

Colin has begun to wish he could stop talking about himself as though he’s someone else, but the tales won’t let go of him—they’ve closed around him like the dark. “What was his next adventure?” it whispers with his uncle’s moonlit smiling mouth.

“The next year his uncle took him walking in an older wood. Even his mother and father might have noticed there was something wrong with it and told him not to go in far.” When his uncle doesn’t acknowledge any criticism but only smiles wider and more whitely Colin has to add “There was nothing except sun in the sky, but as soon as you went in the woods you had to step on shadows everywhere, and that was the only way you knew there was still a sun. And the day was so still it felt like the woods were pretending they never breathed, but the shadows kept moving whenever he wasn’t looking—he kept nearly seeing very tall ones hide behind the trees. So he wanted to get through the woods as fast as he could, and that’s why he ran straight onto the stepping stones when he came to a stream.”

Colin would like to run fast through the story too, but his uncle wants to know “How many stones were there again?”

“Ten, and they looked so close together he didn’t have to stretch to walk. Only he was on the middle two when he felt them start to move. And when he looked down he saw the stream was really as deep as the sky, and lying on the bottom was a giant made out of rocks and moss that was holding up its arms to him. They were longer than he didn’t know how many trees stuck together, and their hands were as big as the roots of an old tree, and he was standing on top of two of the fingers. Then the giant’s eyes began to open like boulders rolling about in the mud, and its mouth opened like a cave and sent up a laugh in a bubble that spattered the boy with mud, and the stones he was on started to move apart.”

“His uncle was always with him though, wasn’t he?”

“The boy couldn’t see him,” Colin says in case this lets his uncle realise how it felt, and then he knows his uncle already did. “He heard him saying you mustn’t look down, because being seen was what woke up the god of the wood. So the boy kept looking straight ahead, though he could see the shadows that weren’t shadows crowding behind the trees to wait for him. He could feel how even the water underneath him wanted him to slip on the slimy stones, and how the stones were ready to swim apart so he’d fall between them if he caught the smallest glimpse of them. Then he did, and the one he was standing on sank deep into the water, but he’d jumped on the bank of the stream. The shadows that must have been the bits that were left of people who’d looked down too long let him see his uncle, and they walked to the other side of the woods. Maybe he wouldn’t have got there without his uncle, because the shadows kept dancing around them to make them think there was no way between the trees.”

“Brave boy, to see all that.” Darkness has reclaimed the left side of Uncle Lucian’s face; Colin is reminded of a moon that the night is squeezing out of shape. “Don’t stop now, Colin,” his uncle says. “Remember last year.”

This is taking longer than his bedtime stories ever have. Colin feels as if the versions he’s reciting may rob him of his whole night’s sleep. Downstairs his parents and his aunt sound as if they need to talk for hours yet. “It was here in town,” he says accusingly. “It was down in Lower Brichester.”

He wants to communicate how betrayed he felt, by the city or his uncle or by both. He’d thought houses and people would keep away the old things, but now he knows that nobody who can’t see can help. “It was where the boy’s mother and father wouldn’t have liked him to go,” he says, but that simply makes him feel the way his uncle’s stories do, frightened and excited and unable to separate the feelings. “Half the houses were shut up with boards but people were still using them, and there were men and ladies on the corners of the streets waiting for whoever wanted them or stuff they were selling. And in the middle of it all there were railway lines and passages to walk under them. Only the people who lived round there must have felt something, because there was one passage nobody walked through.”

“But the boy did.”

“A man sitting drinking with his legs in the road told him not to, but he did. His uncle went through another passage and said he’d meet him on the other side. Anyone could have seen something was wrong with the tunnel, because people had dropped needles all over the place except in there. But it looked like it’d just be a minute to walk through, less if you ran. So the boy started to hurry through, only he tried to be quiet because he didn’t like how his feet made so much noise he kept thinking someone was following him, except it sounded more like lots of fingers tapping on the bricks behind him. When he managed to be quiet the noise didn’t all go away, but he tried to think it was water dripping, because he felt it cold and wet on the top of his head. Then more of it touched the back of his neck, but he didn’t want to look round, because the passage was getting darker behind him. He was in the middle of the tunnel when the cold touch landed on his face and made him look.”

His uncle’s face is barely outlined, but his eyes take on an extra gleam. “And when he looked . . . ”

“He saw why the passage was so dark, with all the arms as thin as his poking out of the bricks. They could grow long enough to reach halfway down the passage and grope around till they found him with their fingers that were as wet as worms. Then he couldn’t even see them, because the half of the passage he had to walk through was filling up with arms as well, so many he couldn’t see out. And all he could do was what his uncle’s story had said, stay absolutely still, because if he tried to run the hands would grab him and drag him through the walls into the earth, and he wouldn’t even be able to die of how they did it. So he shut his eyes to be as blind as the things with the arms were, that’s if there wasn’t just one thing behind the walls. And after he nearly forgot how to breathe the hands stopped pawing at his head as if they were feeling how his brain showed him everything about them, maybe even brought them because he’d learned to see the old things. When he opened his eyes the arms were worming back into the walls, but he felt them all around him right to the end of the passage. And when he went outside he couldn’t believe in the daylight any more. It was like a picture someone had put up to hide the dark.”