Authors: James Treadwell
‘Yes yes.’
He swallowed. ‘Who are you?’
‘Told you. Corbo.’
‘Who’s that? What’s going on? Why am I locked in here?’ He bit his lip to stop the rising panic taking over again, and hugged his knees tighter.
‘One, two, three.’
‘What?’
‘Who, what, why. One, two, three. Hard answers. Too much.’
‘What . . . ?’ As he tried to steer his way between bafflement and the horrible buzzing drone of fear, it occurred to him, out of nowhere, that this was a conversation. He was not understanding, the way he normally failed to understand. It was a straw of familiarity to clutch to. His old friend ignorance.
‘Are you . . . are you shut in here too?’
‘Yes yes.’
He swallowed, wiped his dry lips. ‘Why?’
‘Told you. Watch.’
‘Watching what?’
‘You. What else? Water, stone. Not going away
, wraaaaaa
.’ The last sound was a long guttural rattle, like a caw.
‘Who . . . who . . .’ He took a deep breath. ‘I mean what. What are . . .’
The answers had been coming so swiftly that the silence dangling from his suspended question was horribly unnerving.
‘. . . you?’ he finished. ‘What are you?’
There was a clacking sound and another wordless gurgle,
kkrrrrrr
. Gav pushed himself tighter against the door, terrified that it might be moving again. ‘No. Don’t—’
‘Hard one,’ it interrupted. ‘You try. See for yourself.’
‘Wh-what?’
‘What are you? You try. Not so easy
, caaaarkk
.’
He tried. ‘I-I’m,’ he stammered. ‘I’m . . .’
I’m locked in the dark with an invisible beast. I’m lost. I’m alone. I’m special. I’m cursed.
‘I’m frightened,’ he said. ‘I’m so frightened. I’m cold. I’m scared.’
‘Bad time.’
Despite himself he choked a bitter laugh. ‘You could say that.’
‘Get worse.’
The cold crawled up from the stone he sat on, into his spine.
‘What’s happening?’ he whispered.
‘Not much. Talk. Bored.’
He stared hopelessly at the virgin dark, trying not to imagine whatever it was that stood there watching him and yet unable to prevent an image appearing on the black screen. The glimpse of a clawed and withered toe, the grim croaking voice, the clacking of a hard beak. A monstrous bird.
‘No, I mean . . .’
When he was six or seven, there’d been a couple of weeks when he kept being woken up by a crow in his bedroom. He never forgot it. He only had to think about those nights for a moment and at once he was reliving the fear, the thrashing of his arms in the dark to keep the wing-beats away from his head, knocking over his bedside light, groping around frantically on the floor for the switch and, when he’d found it, crouching rigid in the corner, staring at the blunt black head swivelling and tilting as it eyed him from its perch on the curtain rail. And when Mum rushed in, the thumps and bangs and yells having panicked her too, the head bobbed about to watch her, until eventually she said, ‘There’s nothing there,’ and once she said it, it turned out she was right: the bird was gone. His mistake. Even though he couldn’t stop making it, until one night Dad came in instead.
‘I mean . . .’
When he was two – Auntie Gwen had told him the story – they’d all gone on holiday to the beach, the three of them and her. There were crows roosting above the cottage they’d stayed in, and he’d cried every time he heard them call. Every time, Auntie Gwen said, day and night. At first they’d thought he was ill with some invisible and terrible affliction, and put him in the car, where he stopped crying, and took him to the hospital, where there was nothing to cry about and nothing for any doctor to find wrong with him, but as soon as he was back at the little house under the tall pines, he began to scream again. So after two days of their week’s holiday they had come home (except for Gwen, who thought she might as well stay, and then fell in love with the area and ended up never coming back at all).
‘Not here. Not in here. I mean . . .’
Gwenny?
The woman he’d seen, here, the thin silhouette, the right shape and size. And then something had spoken, and after that a chaos of terror and motion and falling.
‘What’s happening with . . . with my aunt? And Marina? Where are they?’
‘Aunt. Marina.’
It took him a while to understand. Oddly, being forced to puzzle out the toneless replies worked as a barrier against the creep of mindless fear. It gave his thoughts something to get a grip on.
‘My . . . The person I saw. Here. And Marina. The girl who came with me.’
‘
Caaaarkkk
, aunt. Sad boy.’
He waited, but it said no more. The silence was as suffocating as the dark. A question, he told himself. Ask a question.
‘Where . . . where is she? Where are they?’
‘Gone. Out.’
‘Out? Where? Why?’
‘House. Waiting.’
‘The house? They went to the house?’
‘Yes yes.’
‘They . . . Waiting? For what?’
‘Witch.’
‘What do you mean, which?’
‘What I said. Listen. Stupid boy.’ There was scratching, hideously loud in the locked chamber.
‘No, sorry. Don’t— Please. Don’t come closer.’
‘OK OK.’
Sorry? He was apologising to this thing? This monster in the dark, this skeletal voice, which he was now sure belonged to the gargoyle blur of bent wings he had glimpsed on the roof of the chapel, descending like the image of death itself as Marina clambered innocently towards the door? His thoughts scattered again. How long had he been unconscious? The patch of light that crept in under the door and spread over the stones, the patch where he sat, was shrinking. His hands clasped each other. He felt the small scratches all over them.
‘Why am I here?’
‘You came. Followed girl.’
‘I mean inside, locked inside.’ The memory was suddenly appallingly fresh. ‘Something hit me. It was pushing me, something rough. Knocked me over.’
‘
Aaaaaark
, Holly.’
‘What?’
‘Holly.’
‘Like in the tree?’ No answer. ‘A holly tree?’
‘Yes yes.’
‘Trees can’t . . .’
‘Crows can’t talk
, caaark
,’ and it coughed out its chuckle again.
‘What . . . you mean . . .’ But Gav couldn’t put this into words. If he tried to say the thought aloud, everything would crumble into madness. Uncontrollable fear waited for him, lapping around his heels. Something else, he thought desperately. Ask something else.
‘Marina,’ he said. There was a confused memory: her scream, a protracted instant of fear, falling. ‘Is she OK?’
‘No no.’
‘What?’
‘No no.’
‘What . . . Is she hurt?’
‘Inside.’
‘Inside what?’
‘Hurt inside. Grief,
krrwwww
. Misery.’
In the silence Gavin listened to his breath, fast and shallow, as if it was about to run out.
‘Misery?’
‘Echo. I say you say. Stupid boy. Bored.’
He tightened his fists and squeezed his eyes shut. He wondered if there was no voice at all. Of course there wasn’t; there couldn’t be.
Oh come on Gav.
It was all inside him, the darkness inside mocking him. He’d brought it with him here. He’d infected Marina with it.
‘Let me out,’ he whispered.
‘Can’t. Told you. Listen.’
‘When? When can I get out?’
‘Come back. Open door.’
‘What? You mean when they come back?’
‘Who.’
‘Marina and, and my . . . And the person. Who was here.’ Gav felt his voice faltering again. Whatever it was that was so wrong, at the centre of it was the shape silhouetted against that unearthly light.
‘Her. Yes.’
‘So when? When are they coming?’
The voice cawed very softly. ‘
Caaaaark
. Can’t say.’
‘Why not? What are they doing?’
For the first time there was a hesitation before the answer came, and he heard a brief shuffle in the dark. ‘Told you. Went up. Waiting. Took half-girl.’
‘The what? Marina?’
‘Yes yes.’
‘And they left me here?’
‘Yes yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Bait.’
‘What?’
‘Bait.’
‘Bait? Like in . . .’ He struggled for something to make sense of, anything, before the gathering cold and dark dissolved him completely. ‘Bait? For what?’
‘Witch.’
‘Which what?’
‘
Kkrrraaaa
, witch. Old witch. Old mad witch. Old old old.’
He dared not fall silent. If he stopped talking there’d be nothing left at all; he’d fall without stopping. It was more like a tomb than a chapel. Silence and blackness and deathly cold. ‘A . . . a witch? Bait for a witch? Me?’
‘Yes yes.’
‘But . . . what’s . . . What have I got to do with it?’
‘Everything,
kkrrwww
. Stupid boy.’
His voice withered to a whisper again. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Learn fast. Bad time.’