LORE HOUSE
“Remember this please, none of this is real.
It’s only how I feel”
1
Zach hated to walk this way to school, but this morning the circumstances left him with little choice. The kids who had stolen his lunch money last week had been at the corner of the high street, lurking and threatening people as they went by. They weren’t choosy about who they stole from either, with many of the kids in his class falling victim to their bullying needs. It wasn’t even about the money, or what little they actually got; they did it simply because they could. It would have been fine if Grace was with him, he thought, as she always gave him the feeling of combined strength.
He was sure they wouldn’t take anything if she were here. Their agenda so far seemed to have some moral boundaries, excluding girls from their reign of terror. Together they would have crossed over to the other side and walked to school like they did most mornings, chatting and dreading another dull day at Braxton Hill Comprehensive. But Grace was off to the dentist, something she was extremely excited about, as she’d told him the day before when they walked home together. Grace was his neighbour, living two doors down, and she was his best friend.
They’d been friends for what seemed like forever, though in truth it had only been two years since Zach and his family had moved into the neighbourhood. He was a little shy at meeting new people, which was fine, because Grace was more than happy to come up to you, shake your hand, and invite you over for lunch. She was taller than Zach, though he’d begun to think he’d grown a little more in the past few months. When they walked side by side now, he noticed she no longer seemed to tower over him.
They would walk the same route every morning to school, stopping at the store for Mars bars and KitKats depending on what mood they were in; unless Grace was in one of her “more savoury moods,” in which case they would stock up on crisps and nut bars.
But this morning Grace was dentist‑bound, which left Zach walking to school by himself. Opting to forgo being idiotically brave, he’d chosen to go the long way to avoid the bullies, which he hated to do. Not just because it took him twice as long, but because it took him down Henley Avenue, which presented the notorious Lore House, an old crumbling ruin which every kid in school would tell you was either haunted, or where a murderer lived, or that it used to be an old mental asylum. Depending on who you talked to, and how inclined they were toward the frightful. The Lore property was a grand Victorian house that dominated the south side of Henley Avenue. Even walking on the opposite side of the street was no good, as the house seemed to pull you in with its iron fences that curled at the tips like long, twisted bony fingers reaching out. Zach hated it; he hated the street, the house, and how it made him feel.
He didn’t think he was a nervous person generally, but there was something about the street and that old house that really unnerved him. The dead trees in the yard and the old car rusting away in the driveway did nothing to improve its appearance or his suspicions of what lay within. He wasn’t sure about witches or ghosts, but he knew something unpleasant lived there.
No kids lived on Henley Avenue either, as far as he knew; and the other houses, though less creepy, weren’t the most welcoming he’d ever seen. Zach quickened his pace, hoping his twelve‑year‑old legs would not give up on him. The last time he’d come down this road had been with Grace, on the last day of school before the summer holidays. In their free spirits they had decided to come down the street, altering their usual route home in the excitement of summer freedom.
The street led to a cut‑through to Ash Park, one of the best parks in town, as it normally accommodated an ice‑cream van, and subsequently, children high on sugary creamy wonderment causing riots on sunny days.
He remembered how they had been caught up in talk of plans for the summer. Grace was going to France for the first week and had invited Zach to come with her, her parents eager for her to bring a friend. Zach had never been to France before, and excited though he was, he’d sworn he wouldn’t be eating any frog’s legs. They had stopped suddenly outside the Lore House as Grace complained of something in her shoe.
No one really knew why the house was called the Lore House; it was one of those things passed on in each retelling. The most popular story was that it used to be an old orphanage run by an evil spectre of a man who would lock the children in rooms no bigger than cells, starving and torturing them into soulless zombies. Grace had taken off her left shoe and was tapping it on the pavement to remove any stowaways when they heard an almighty cry.
At first Zach thought it was a cat in distress, as he’d often heard cats in the alley behind his house crying and calling to each other in the night. But Grace stood up in alarm. Suddenly they heard whispers coming from the right side of the house. Another scream pierced their bright sunny afternoon. It was still hard to tell if the noise came from an animal or a person. Then there were shouts, and Grace had gone up to the gates, as if to be closer to the action, or in Zach’s thoughts, danger. He had tried to get her to come away, but she said she’d seen something in one of the windows, a huge shape, she insisted.
He stepped forward to pull her back when suddenly a huge black dog jumped from the bushes and leapt towards the fence, crashing through the stinging nettles and leaves. It barked and snapped, saliva flinging through the bars from its slobbering mouth while they both jumped back in alarm. With that, they had turned and run to the end of the street, not looking back but hearing the dog’s bark follow them all the way, accompanied by hostile screams and shouts from someone, or something.
Now Zach was here on his own, and he horribly remembered that day and missed Grace not being just an arm’s length away. He quickened his pace going past the house, mindful not to look at it at all. The gloomy sky above him was promising rain.
An old Ford Fiesta came trundling up the road, its exhaust giving off a black plume of smoke in its wake. Zach waited for it to pass before he crossed over. He didn’t want to linger down this road longer than he had to, but something made him turn back. He looked up the pavement and there, lying on the floor on the opposite side of the road, were some of his school books. He suddenly took off his backpack, Kermit the Frog grinned up at him, his mouth the zipper, which had come undone and allowed his books to tumble out. No doubt as he’d hurried past the house, he thought.
Annoyed, he quickly crossed back over and went to retrieve his books. While picking them up, he looked up at the old Lore House. Smoke was coming out of the chimney stack perched precariously in the middle of the roof which, to Zach, looked like it would topple over at any moment.
A giant black bird took off from the roof, a huge feather falling to the ground over the fence. Smoke, he thought; that means someone does live there. Packing the books into his bag and securing the zip, he started off again when suddenly a flash of light caught his attention. Looking to the left, he saw the giant wooden door to the house close, the glass window at the top catching the sunlight like a huge eye. Was someone leaving? Despite being afraid, curiosity kept him rooted to the spot. A sudden bang startled him, so loud that a bird in the tree next to him took flight with a disgruntled hoot.
He suddenly heard the sound of faint music, old music, like the type his grandma would listen to whenever he stayed at her house. It was haunting music, warbling over the bushes towards him. Zach stepped back and stole a quick glance around the hedge.
He saw an old figure shuffling down the drive to the side of the house. He couldn’t make out the features very well, though Zach guessed him to be very old, and he was wearing a strangely styled hat. He heard a door open and then the patter of feet. Suddenly the huge black dog came into view. Noticing; if not smelling. Zach, it barked furiously, a strange bark that ripped through him and echoed dimly all around. Without looking back, Zach fled from the house and ran all the way to the end of the street. He barely dodged the number 45 bus, causing the driver to sound his horn. He ran past other kids on their way to school and came to rest outside the school gates, where he stopped to catch his breath. He promised himself he would never go down that road again, with or without Grace.
Flight or Fight
2
The day dragged on, dull and uneventful, the kind of day that seemed to stretch itself thin just to spite him. Science had been a blur of diagrams and droning explanations, algebra was a battlefield of numbers that refused to behave, but it wasn’t only the lessons that made the hours crawl. Grace’s empty seat beside him had left a hollow in the day. He hadn’t realised how much he relied on her running commentary, her whispered jokes, her ability to make even the worst lessons feel survivable. Misery loved company, and without her, he’d had to face the misery alone.
She was supposed to return after her dentist appointment, but she never appeared. He imagined her at home, curled up on the sofa with a blanket and a packet of crisps, watching something ridiculous on TV. Toothache or not, she’d make the most of a day off.
When the final bell rang, Zach felt the relief ripple through the class like a collective exhale. He packed his books slowly, delaying the inevitable moment when he’d have to face the homework his teacher had piled on them. More fractions. More equations. More torture. He slung his bag over his shoulder and joined the stream of students spilling out of the gates, already deciding he’d stop by Grace’s house before heading home. Just to check on her. Just to see her.
He turned the corner, and walked straight into the group he’d gone out of his way to avoid that morning.
“Watch it!” snapped the biggest of them, a round‑shouldered boy whose bulk made him look older than he was. His eyes didn’t quite meet Zach’s; they drifted slightly to the left, as if he couldn’t bear to look directly at the person he was threatening.
For a moment, Zach thought the boy must be talking to someone else. But then two of the cronies rolled their bikes in close, hemming him in with metal frames and muddy tyres. No mistake. He was the target.
“Sorry, I didn’t see you there,” Zach said, his voice catching on the words. His mind flicked through escape routes like a deck of cards.
“I’m hard to miss,” the boy spat. “Maybe you wanted to bang into me. Maybe I’m not important enough for an excuse me… huh?” He leaned forward, breath pungent, eyes narrowing. “Maybe you wanted me to have a little chat with you. Teach you some manners.”
“Lots of maybes there,” Zach muttered before he could stop himself. His mouth always betrayed him at the worst possible moments.
The boy straightened, looming. “Maybe I just punch you in the stomach and take your bag, eh, wise‑ass?”
Zach swallowed hard, feeling like a cartoon character about to be flattened.
“What’s going on there, Collins?” a voice called from behind.
Mr. Langley stood at the school gates, hands in pockets, watching them with that calm, steady expression teachers used when they were about to intervene. Geography teacher. One of the few who didn’t make Zach want to claw his ears off.
“Nothing, sir,” one of the lads said quickly, all innocence and wide eyes.
Zach didn’t wait. He shoved past the bikes and bolted down the pavement, heart thudding. He risked a glance back. Collins looked furious, spinning his bike wheel in frustration as Mr. Langley approached. A lecture was coming, and Zach wasn’t sticking around to hear it. He ran until he reached the traffic lights, which took an eternity to change, then disappeared down the street.
He wanted to get home quickly. The sky was already bruising into evening, clouds gathering like a warning. But he couldn’t take his usual route. If the bullies decided to follow, their bikes would catch him in seconds. And he absolutely wasn’t going down Henley Avenue again. Not after what he’d seen there. Not today.
He turned onto Rosebank, a quiet cul‑de‑sac lined with neat bungalows and tidy gardens. Cats lounged on low walls, blinking lazily at him as he passed. The air smelled faintly of damp earth and cut grass. He slipped down the side of a house with a huge caravan under a flapping tarp, found the narrow gap in the fence, and squeezed through into the overgrown alleyway beyond.
Not many people knew about this cut‑through. It was technically someone’s driveway, which made it risky, but it sliced a huge chunk off the walk home. Zach moved quickly, stepping around old carrier bags and the shattered remains of an oven whose metal innards spilled across the mud like a gutted creature. The alley narrowed, funnelling him toward the dead‑end he knew was coming.
The only way out was up.
He looked at the tree rising before him, its branches reaching over the fence like skeletal arms. Wedged into the trunk, as if the tree had grown around it, stood an old black lamppost with an iron frame and a glass lantern. Somehow, despite the usual vandalism in places like this, the glass remained intact. As if people sensed it was needed.
Right on cue, the lamp flickered to life, glowing a warm, fragile orange in the deepening gloom. The branches above curled down like a giant withered hand, as though trying to swallow the lamppost whole.
He began to climb. He’d done it once before with Grace, she’d made it look easy, laughing as she swung herself over the fence. Thinking of her now steadied him, just a little.
Halfway up, he glanced back. He could still see the caravan through the rain, though a huge bush blocked most of the view. He thought he heard something, a rustle, a footstep? The rain thickened, cold and heavy, drumming on the bare branches and soaking his hair, his clothes, his skin.
He looked over the fence. The drop was bigger than he remembered. Much bigger. The alley on the other side opened into a back lane of garages, abandoned cars, and a sagging sofa being slowly eaten by rats. The street beyond led almost directly to Grace’s house.
Then he heard voices.
He pressed himself into the trunk, trying to vanish into the bark. Through the gaps between houses; he saw the gang drifting down the street, shouting, laughing, smashing a bottle against someone’s wall. Their hoodies kept the rain off; they didn’t seem to care about the weather.
A bark split the air behind him.
Zach twisted, heart hammering. Nothing. A dog from one of the houses? No. This bark was deeper, stranger. The Lore house dog. That awful, guttural sound that had haunted him since the morning.
Another bark. Closer.
A shape moved at the far end of the alley.
Too big to be a dog.
Rain blurred everything, turning the world into streaks of grey, but he could make out a figure. Tall. Dark. Shuffling. The sound of the dog now seemed to come from below him, but when he looked down, the ground was empty.
He edged forward. He’d rather face Collins than… whatever this was.
He looked back again and froze.
The figure was clearer now. The same hat. The same coat. The same sunken eyes he’d seen at Lore house. Drifting toward him like a skeleton pulled from the mist, with withered hands hanging from the sleeves.
Zach’s breath caught.
He edged along the branch. He had to get down. Now. The barks stretched unnaturally, as if time itself was being pulled thin. The figure lifted its head.
Zach slipped.
The world flipped. The ground slammed into him with a crack like splintering wood. Air blasted from his lungs. For a heartbeat he lay stunned, suspended in shock, then pain erupted through him, sharp and total. His elbow had taken the brunt; his leg twisted beneath him.
A raw, broken scream tore out of him.
Home
3
“Sure, go on up, he’s been awake a while now,” he heard his mother’s muffled voice call from downstairs, followed by hurried footsteps racing toward his bedroom door. No knock. Typical Grace, he thought, as she came bounding over to his bed.
“Wow, would you look at that. The cast goes all the way up to your waist!” she said, inspecting his leg like a doctor. “Give me a pen, I’ve got to sign this.”
He stretched over, grabbed the felt tip he’d used earlier on a crossword his mum had given him, and handed it to her. She dropped something on the floor beside her jacket and took the pen.
“Careful, please. I know your strength,” he said as she set to work on his cast.
“How much pain are you in?” she asked, concentrating on her drawing.
“Not much now. They gave me these tablets to take regularly. Though Mum said she didn’t want me getting addicted to them,” he replied, sitting up a little. The TV blared from the other side of the room, Batman swinging across the screen.
“Careful, you’ve jogged me…” she muttered. “…this will have to be a skull now!”
“Sorry,” he said, trying his best to stay still. “How are you anyway?”
“Oh, fine. They sorted my teeth out, but they gave me something too, some painkiller, and Dad said he didn’t want me going to school after, so I stayed home with him all day and helped him work.”
It was now Sunday. Grace had come by yesterday, but his mother had said he was sleeping. They had spent nearly all day at the hospital getting his cast made up. He’d heard Grace when she came over later, and had tried to get her attention from his window as she left, though she hadn’t seen him. He was still unsure how he had gotten home that day; everything was hazy.
He remembered lying on the ground with rain spluttering across his face, strange sounds around him, a white mist thickening the air. Then suddenly he was in his living room with his mother frantically on the telephone; then in the hospital waiting room with people rushing around him. His timeline of events was strained, snatches of moments and blurs of time moulded into one big smear of memory.
His mother came into the room.
“All done with your soup, love?” she asked. Despite it clearly being a broken leg, she had set about treating him for a wide range of imagined ailments. This resulted in bowls of soup, pillow‑fluffing, extra jumpers (“to keep out the cold, luv”), and a strange liquid in a black bottle that tasted like he was swallowing rusty pennies.
“That’s a lovely, uh… skeleton, Grace,” his mother said, picking up the tray beside his bed and noticing her contribution to the cast.
“Thanks. I’m taking art lessons now at the Grange,” Grace replied, not taking her eyes off her work.
“I can see it’s money well spent, dear,” his mother said. “If you need anything, either of you, just shout.” She left with the tray.
“So, what happened?” Grace asked, signing her artwork carefully near his toe. An upside‑down Mexican sugar skull grinned up at him.
Zach told her everything he remembered, from the morning when he’d first passed the house. Grace was a good audience; she gasped in the right places and got angry when he told her about the bullies.
“Those guys are gonna get what’s coming to them one day!” she said, looking off as if filing the thought away for later use.
“So do you think it was the old man from the Lore House?” she asked, fiddling with the bottom of her jumper.
“It looked just like him, well, from what I remember. But even though I heard the dog barking, I didn’t see it at all,” he said.
“Odd! I heard they were going to tear down that old house last year and build, like, four houses on the land. But for some reason it never happened. I can’t believe someone actually lives there.” She paused, imagining horrors. “They must be mad. It’s a scary place.” She looked back at him. “But how did you get back?”
“I… urm… can’t remember that part,” Zach said, slightly embarrassed. “It is weird…” he added quickly, “…and now I’m stuck with this cast for ages. They gave me some crutches, but Mum wants me to keep off them for a while.” He stuck a finger down the cast to scratch an itch.
“When you’re better, we should go investigate that house, you know. See what’s inside. Maybe we can get in the back way,” Grace said, completely serious.
“Are you nuts? I’m not going back there. And I’m not using that shortcut again either,” Zach said, reminding her it was she who had shown him it in the first place, and perhaps implying she should share some responsibility for the state he was now in.
“Oh, it’ll be fun. At least you didn’t get set on by that Collins kid. I think he’s moving away soon anyway, think his parents are getting divorced or something,” she said.
“Pity!” Zach replied. They both laughed.
“So, lots of TV for you in the next few weeks?” she said, crossing the room to turn his set down.
“Well, maybe. But it gets boring after a while,” he replied.
She spun toward him, as if waiting for a cue.
“Which is exactly why I brought you this,” she said, returning to the bed and picking something up from the floor. She handed him a large ornate book.
It wasn’t like the books he’d seen in the bookstores his dad dragged him into whenever they went shopping, not that he minded, he loved to read, he just didn’t like the crowds. This book was more like the ones in the school library: imposing, leather‑bound, as thick as his arm and as dusty as his room. Its bright red cover bore the words Fractured Fairytales indented in a fancy font. He couldn’t see an author’s name.
“Where did you get that?” he asked, slightly suspicious. Grace had a habit of, in her words, “borrowing” things.
“I found it in my loft last weekend. Mum wanted me to get the Christmas decorations down—” Zach made a noise to interrupt. “—I know, I know. It’s only October, but you know what mums are like. Anyway, I was having a nose about, like you do, and I found this in one of the old boxes. It’s excellent, with these strange pictures in it, though I’ve not had a proper look.”
She opened it and placed it, not very gently, on his lap. Zach felt the weight of the leather and the metal corners. The pictures were indeed interesting: sketches, the kind that looked like they were drawn to show movement.
“So, I thought, while you’re getting better, you can read through this and let me know if it’s any good. Odd though, I flicked through and there are lots of empty pages at the back, like it’s unfinished,” she said. “But like I said, I didn’t really investigate it too much.”
Zach found the blank pages; there were quite a few.
“Maybe that’s what they did with old books,” she said matter‑of‑factly, “in case they needed to add something once it was made.”
“Hey, look, this story is about a boy called Zachary!” he said, pointing.
“Ooooh, weird. I wonder if there’s a girl called Grace in there too!” she said, leaning closer.
“Maybe. Where do you think the book came from?” he asked.
“I’m not sure…” Grace said, scrutinising the book with renewed interest. “I asked Mum and she didn’t know where it came from, but she said I can have it. Probably got it in a charity shop or something.” She fixed her ponytail, which had come loose.
“Do you want some lunch?” he asked, knowing Grace was always hungry and never one to turn down food.
“Ah, would love to, but I have to go to my grandparents this afternoon. Dad wants to pick things up for the car‑boot sale we’re doing next week.”
“Are they the nice ones?” Zach asked, remembering her two very different sets of grandparents. Grace had told him once how her mean grandmother had whipped her with a tea towel for dropping a cup.
“Nah, it’s the nice ones, so I don’t mind going,” she said. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re alive at least. Let me know how you get on with the book. I’d forgotten about it until yesterday and found it poking out from under my bed. Know you like to read,” she added, glancing at his huge bookcase.
She slid off the bed and stroked his cast on her way past, admiring her artwork. “Call me later, though. I should be back around seven,” she said, lingering in the doorway and pulling on her jacket.
“Okay, have fun. I’ll let you know if sad old Grace turns up in the book, probably as a witch,” he said, winking.
“Meanie,” she said, and slipped out the door. He heard her going down the stairs two at a time, shouting goodbye to his mum.
II
It was not until later that he got to investigate the mysterious book. He must have fallen asleep after Grace left. These drugs must be pretty strong, he thought to himself. His mother had obviously come in and moved the book onto his bedside table. A fresh glass of water was evidence of her activity, along with an extra blanket now resting upon him. He heard her downstairs in the kitchen, singing along to the radio. Probably preparing dinner, he thought.
He reached across for the book, trying not to lift his leg off the bed as he turned. His fingers felt their way toward the leather and, though the room was dark, he could have sworn the book moved slightly toward him. A small vibration of life. It was getting dark outside, so lifting the book onto his lap he turned on the lamp beside him.
Dinosaur silhouettes danced across his ceiling, the old lamp from his childhood still determined to follow him into his teenage years. Zachary opened the cover and looked at the first page. A huge square seemed to stretch down into the book, as if pulling him inward. He blinked, trying to adjust his focus. It must be an optical illusion, he thought, and blinked again to disperse the fuzziness. Looking closer, he realised the lines of the shape were actually words that spiralled down into a centre point. They were so tiny they were almost indecipherable; each line stacked upon the next. Most strange.
They seemed to be English mixed with a few unfamiliar characters, but he could not make out what they said because of the handwriting. He turned the page, hoping for a clue. One name stared back at him: Edward T. Reynolds. He turned to the next page with a crinkle of old paper, none the wiser. The smell of aged pages and the damp scent of Grace’s attic reached his nose. Outside his window he heard alley cats fighting. Night had crept in and the evening stars had begun to shine. Zach shivered under his sheets.
To whomever reads this book be warned, there is more entailed than words adorned.
Within these pages lies a truth, one that is found in innocence’s youth.
Monsters, myths and things to frighten, can lead to fear that terrorises and tightens
around you in the dead of night, it seeps inside with death and fright.
So be brave and true upon this quest, a resourceful heart will need no rest.
To see what is there and what resides inside you,
Strength and courage come to but a chosen few.
Zach reread this several times before he understood what it meant. He had never read a book with a warning before. He had seen censored books at his local library, tantalising titles that for some reason had been banned at some point. The notion had always made him laugh. They are just words, he had thought. How can words hurt anyone? Yet the warning seemed to leap off the page at him now. The calligraphy looked as if it moved, the words shifting toward him as if by magic, dancing before his eyes. Intrigued, Zach continued turning the pages.
He flicked again to the back of the book to see the empty ones. The blank pages looked as if they had doubled since before. At the very back, the page before the cover held three letters:
לאר
Zach had seen these types of characters before. He had seen them when his grandma took him to church when he was younger. He knew she had been Jewish, and he figured this was Jewish writing. She had died last year, though no one had really told him what had happened. His mum had simply sat on his bed and told him she had gone, and that she would no longer be around.
He had not asked about death, or heaven, or what happens when someone dies. His mother had taken his silence for sadness, since he and his grandmother had been close. Though comforting, she had not explained anything to him. The truth was, Zach had so many questions, but he did not know where to start.
So, he had kept silent, internalising it all. He had seen the writing in the prayer books around her house and on some of the framed pictures on her walls. Also, in the church they had visited many times. She would have been able to read this, he thought. A cold chill settled on his shoulders as memories of her rose up. He looked toward the window to see if it was open. It was closed.
Zach snuggled further under his sheets, letting the warmth envelop him. He turned back to the beginning of the book, skipping past the strange drawing and the author’s page. There were chapter names, handwritten like the rest of the book. The first one was a single word: Afraid. This book was certainly unusual, he thought, closing it suddenly. He decided he needed to pee. He had been holding it for a while, because the last time he had gone to the bathroom it had taken ages with his cast. The slightest movement in his room seemed to summon his mother up the stairs, and he did not want to bother her again.
He put the book down on the bed and slipped onto the floor. The cast made a thud on the wooden boards, and Zach waited to see if his mother would come up. Nothing. He looked over at the phone on his desk and saw the red light glowing, indicating someone was on the line. She must be calling his dad, he thought. His dad worked strange hours at his office, something to do with international time zones, though Zach did not really know what he did. He only knew he liked it when his dad worked from home, because he would make Zach pancakes for breakfast.
Edging toward the door, Zach stepped out onto the landing, forgoing the crutches, though not without difficulty. He made his way to the bathroom, passing the pictures of his uncle and grandmother that hung at the top of the stairs. He turned on the bathroom light. It flickered and popped with a flash. Damn, he thought. He would have to pee in the dark.
The moon had risen and cast its glow through the window into the bathroom. Zach finished up and returned to his bedroom, much colder for the effort. The book was propped against his pillow, open at the start of the first story. Zach stopped in the doorway, looking around his room. This was getting strange now, he thought. He definitely had not left the book like that.
He moved closer to the bed and stared at it. There was a strange picture at the top of the page, etched in black ink, again with a sense of movement. He picked up the book and got back into bed, lifting his leg with both hands. His elbow twanged with pain, reminding him that it was not just his leg that had been injured in the fall.
Well, it is just a story, he thought, and it will be a while before dinner.
So, he began to read.
Afraid
i
Zachary was not frightened of this part of the woods. The trees looked exactly the same as they did on the brighter side of the clump known as Reedbuck Forest. The same flowers grew in the tiny pockets of light that filtered through the dense canopy above, and the same smells rose from the shifting leaves as he trudged slowly around collecting bits of wood. It was the lack of life that unnerved him. On the sunny side of the woods, animals always made their presence known, though they kept out of sight. Birds called to one another, hedgehogs rustled through branches and fallen leaves, and once in a while he would notice the opulent eyes of a fox staring out at him from some hidden place. But here, in this claustrophobic patch of the wood, there seemed to be nothing. Only dense air and the wind pushing its whistling way through the bones of the trees around him.
For these reasons, Zachary rarely came this way. His daily chores, which partly consisted of collecting wood for the fire, often led him into the woods, where he would usually disappear for hours at a time even though the task itself was relatively quick. Today though, deep in his own thoughts, he had wandered to the darker side of the thicket, his feet carrying him with little sense of direction.
He liked being on his own, which was fortunate, as his parents seemed to treat him more like an uninvited guest than a member of the family. Many people, if they heard his description of his parents, would tell him he was imagining it, and some might even call him selfish. It was not that his mother and father did not love him, he knew they did, and he was not mistreated in any physical way. Thankfully so, as there were many children his age in the village who were often the outlet for their parents’ disagreements. Zachary was merely misunderstood and could never communicate well with either of them, though not for lack of trying.
Being twelve years old limited the ways he could express his unhappiness, so for now he decided that distance and isolation were the best remedy. In his own mind his imagination could take flight. His father would look at a tree and see wood for a fire, but Zachary could imagine the trees in different shades of colour that moved and talked as he stepped by, whispering magical verses. Peculiar entanglements of vines and branches could be doorways to amazing worlds, or birds high in the sky that looked tiny from where he stood would be gigantic up close and could swoop down to carry him off on a noble quest. His imagination usually led him to places that were anywhere but where he was.
Today, he had wandered off in one of these daydreams and found himself in the area of the wood that reminded him of the deadness of the cemetery back in the village. The stillness, so loud in his ears, seemed to hold the expectation of a bird’s call or an animal darting out of sight. But there was nothing, only the dampness, the darkness, and him. He noticed a huge pile of logs that were excellent for firewood. He generally picked pieces that would not need chopping, saving himself a task later on.
He moved toward the pile and opened the bag he carried on his shoulders, the one he used to collect the logs. Inside were pieces much larger than the few scattered before him on the ground. An old tree had fallen recently, splintering itself on the crop of rocks at his feet. As he knelt to pick up the wood, he felt a drip on his head, followed quickly by another. He looked up and noticed it was beginning to rain. He actually liked the rain; it had so much more life than the sun, he thought. But within minutes, what had seemed a mild shower had turned into a torrent of water, each drop stinging his head painfully. His ears and nose burned as he looked for shelter.
Zachary moved quickly. He knew he was too far into the centre of the woods to make it home without getting soaked, and he wondered how bad the storm must be for it to be this harsh even through the trees that normally offered protection. He charged on, losing his sense of direction more than once, until he came to an area that looked like a small cave, slightly hidden, with a clearing in front of it. Without thinking twice, Zachary dashed for the cave and soon began brushing the rain from his clothes, which had pooled in the creases of his jacket and bag. The cave felt warm compared to the cold rain raging outside.
He took off his jacket and rested the bag against the rock. He sat on a flat area and watched the rain outside, shifting from vertical to horizontal sheets, a lost victim to the will of the wind. In the distance he heard the slow rumble of thunder, and a few minutes later noticed a bright flash of lightning. Had he missed the first? Like the woods he was stuck in, the storm did not worry Zachary. He enjoyed violent changes in weather. There was a predictability to calm, mild days that irritated him on some level. Realising he might be here for a while, he decided to get more comfortable and look for a cosier part of the cave.
Glancing to the other side, he noticed what appeared to be a tunnel that at first glance was not noticeable. It seemed to blend into the rock, yet when he moved closer, Zachary saw it curled around a corner leading deeper inside. On the floor near the opening were odd bits of straw scattered about, leading off down the tunnel.
Though curious, Zachary turned his attention to his feet and untied his laces, stretching his toes in the loose, damp boots. He tied them again, making sure they were tighter than before and considerably less wet. He ran his fingers along the laces to drain off the excess water. Pushing himself up, he moved to where the straw led and disappeared around the corner.
He was right. The passageway zigzagged left and right, cutting off all light that filtered in from the darkened sky outside. He fumbled in his pocket and found the box of matches he carried in a small tin that contained other treasures such as a silver button from his father’s coat, a smooth rock, a large coin, and some red thread. He struck one match and let the flame quiver in the tunnel, flickering off the stark, unforgiving walls that surrounded him. It spluttered out too quickly.
As he struck the next one, his mind flashed to his house, specifically the drawer where he had taken the matches from. His mother’s face loomed in his imagination, her reaction vivid. Her face merged into the granite and vanished. Looking at the ground, he noticed more straw at his feet, and he also sensed that the air had changed. Zachary had read enough stories where people always did the wrong thing in dangerous situations and never listened to the inner voice that was now urging him to turn back.
The adventurous naivety of youth mixed with the rationality of someone twice his age. He had begun to believe that the voice supposedly looking out for him always shied away from anything that took him out of his comfort zone. Zachary had come to regard this inner voice as his opponent.
He pressed on.
It was a smaller cave. He realised that as soon as the sounds of his feet across the dusty floor echoed off the walls in a suffocating fashion. Gone from the passage, he had entered a small room-like section, no bigger than his own room at home. The cave was not very high, probably twelve feet, and the harsh rocks from the tunnel had a more rounded appearance here, as if someone had scooped out a giant section with a spoon. The air was heavier and warmer too. His little match continued to flicker with the breeze coming from behind him. He could still hear the rain thundering outside. Water dripped somewhere off to his right.
And on the floor, sleeping, there was a monster curled up in a ball.
ii
At home they had two animals that pottered around the house. Snowflake was his sister’s cat, a shabby excuse for a feline that strutted around with all the smugness of an animal ten times its size. Its shabby appearance was not through any lack of love that his sister, Rachel, poured onto the tiny beast. Snowflake merely tried his best to get into every area that was out of bounds for cats like him. He also contended with Zachary’s dog, Hep, who rarely let Snowflake become accustomed to his inflated status and never seemed to forgive him for being merely a cat.
The love Zachary had for his dog was not overly shown in the way other boys he knew behaved with their animals. Zachary would sneak Hep extra helpings from his own dinner, walk him in the woods for hours, and give him a bath when he began to smell worse than usual. But he understood that he did not need to be around him all the time for them to share a connection.
He knew, in his own little world, that the constant war with Snowflake was Hep’s purpose, and something he needed to stay outside of. Hep’s fur was short, with a silky sheen that shimmered in the sunlight when it was not covered in mud. The hair on the monster before him was neither short nor shimmering in the pale dimming light of his match. He watched as the gigantic mass rose and fell with each breath. Focused on the creature, Zachary did not notice the match burning low until it singed his fingers. He dropped it to the floor, the noise enough to rouse the monster.
After fumbling in the box for another match and successfully lighting it, Zachary took a step back. The monster had sat up in a rigid position and stared straight toward him. He would be dead by now, he figured, if the creature was the bloodthirsty kind he had read about in fairy tales. But he remained cautious.
“Hello,” he said, proud that his voice did not tremble.
The monster stayed where it was.
“Do you like the dark?” he asked, hoping for any response.
The creature blinked. With the new light, Zachary noticed how close its head was to the ceiling, as if it were hunched. He could see two small eyes, very close together and beady, and a mouth hidden somewhere beneath the arrangement of fur, waiting to leap out in surprise if the creature roared. It looked a little like a bear, with giant claws as sharp as the knives his father kept in the shed at home. Its white fur was tangled and scraggly in places, with darker patches scattered across its body.
He might have mistaken it for a bear in the dark if not for the shape of the creature. Its oval frame had an otherworldly quality, and its head and ears had a strange shape, the ears spiking upward like a cat’s. He stood there, unsure what to do. He began to talk more normally, seeing if he could get any further reaction. All the creature did was blink and continue to stare, its body heaving up and down as it breathed.
Time passed, and Zachary edged closer, deciding against touching it, but with each question he stepped a little nearer. Nothing. No further reaction, until eventually the monster lowered itself again and seemed to return to sleep. Zachary decided to leave. He knew where the creature lived, and for today that was enough.
He said goodbye and made his way back outside along the tunnel. He felt bad that he had nothing to give the monster, but what could he have offered? Food? He had brought nothing for himself, and his stomach gurgled to remind him of that fact. It was still raining when he reached the opening, though less heavily now.
Zachary picked up his bag and stepped out into the fading storm. After a few feet, something made him turn around. At the entrance to the cave stood the monster, watching silently.
“I am sorry I did not bring you anything,” he said. Something wavered into his mind about his mother saying you should always take something to someone’s house if you are a guest. The monster continued to stare. “If I had some food I would give you some, but I do not, I am afraid.”
Still staring.
Shifting his bag on his shoulder, he suddenly remembered. He dropped the bag to the floor and opened it. While out looking for wood, he often came across things that, along with the branches, would be tossed into the bottom of the bag. Sure enough, a handful of nuts he had thrown in some time ago tumbled out. He placed them in a small pile on the ground and stepped away.
He was not afraid of the creature. It had seemed quite docile toward him in the cave. Looking up at the sky, he realised it was not the storm that had stolen the light. It was getting very late indeed, and he needed to get home. He looked over at the monster. Still staring.
“Well, goodbye Mister Monster. Thank you for not eating me,” he called, and started off into the forest, giving the creature a final wave, certain he was on the track that led to his house. Surreptitiously glancing behind, Zachary noticed the monster was beginning to follow him.
Crashing through the woods, Zachary picked up his pace. Intrigued by how far the creature would follow, his own hunger and fear of a reprimand from his father forced his legs to travel at twice their usual speed. The monster still followed. Zachary found his way back to a familiar trail, past places where he had stopped to pick up wood earlier that day. He reached the edge of the forest with his house in the distance and looked behind him. The creature was gone.
He was a little upset, wondering if the monster would be all right. Silly really, he thought. He is much bigger than I am, and probably lived much longer. I am sure he can take care of himself.
He liked the monster. He liked how it could not, or did not, talk, but expressed everything through its eyes. He realised he had never actually seen the creature move at all. It had followed him for a while, but whenever he looked back, it had always been standing still, staring. Well, perhaps I will go and see it tomorrow, he said to himself.
He raced up the path that led to his house, dumping his bag by the back door. Clambering up the stairs, Zachary went to the bathroom and quickly washed his hands and face, then changed into warmer and drier clothes. He went in search of his mother, but more importantly, some food.
If he had looked closer before setting off toward the house, Zachary would have just made out the monster lurking among the denser trees at the edge of the wood. He would have seen it stare back with its small dark eyes. And if he had been closer still, he would have seen, and smelt, the blood the creature was wiping from its mouth, caught in the dark shaggy strands of its fur.
Havoc and Consequence 