***
Their journey back to the lodge was mostly a silent one, excepting for the odd, uncomfortable, attempt at conversation.
“So? What was the name of the house again?” Martha asked. She was tired of the stagnant silence.
“Kilt’s Cove,” Percival replied, shortly. He was in no mood to converse with her; he liked the stagnant silence.
“What an odd name.”
“Don't get me started,” he replied, rolling his eyes.
“I have been out on this road a thousand times,” Martha waffled. “I have never seen the gate before. I swear this place is new.”
“Ridiculous! It can’t have just appeared out of nowhere.”
“I'm not saying it just appeared,” Martha sighed.
“Look. To suggest that there is a mystery here is nonsense,” he alleged. He glanced at the short, round woman by his side. “You must be mistaken. It’s all the answer we need,” he finished with a condescending smile.
“Don't you dare tell me what I need,” she barked back. “I’m not mistaken. And I’m not making it up. Someone built the house without anyone else knowing, is what I meant.”
“Yes, well. We're almost there now and we shall see how...”
“How what?” Martha asked when Percival lapsed into silence.
When he failed to respond, Martha followed his line of sight. Through the thinning trees she spotted the poorly-named cottage. It looked ordinary. She couldn’t see fathom what had stolen his attention.
“What’s wrong with you?”
Percival didn’t speak. He simply gestured with a finger toward a large tree. Martha stared in the direction he indicated. There, hidden behind the trunk was a tall, thin man dressed in a black suit.
He was lurking whilst watching the front door of Percival’s cottage. The peeping-tom was quite unaware he had been seen.
“Who is he?” Martha whispered.
“He gave us the keys to the cottage. Never gave his name. He smiled too much, an odd fellow.”
“Odd? You don’t say,” Martha noted. “Why is he spying on you?”
“I don't know. Maybe you should go ask him?”
“Right then, I will,” she countered. With a surge of confidence she marched up to the loiterer.
Percival cursed her under his breath. He didn’t want to have a confrontation, or cause a scene. However he couldn't very well keep hiding now. He too marched forward, trying to look as dignified as possible. He dreaded to think what impression his ripped coat and muddy clothes would give.
“You there, pervert! What do you think you’re doing” Martha bellowed.
The man did not move a muscle. He didn't even get a shock as she shouted at him. He just stayed very, very still. Martha had cleared the gap and was standing a few feet behind him.
“Are you deaf?!” she shouted. Percival arrived at her side. “He's a rude bugger, Percy.”
“Language, Martha. That’s not very lady-like,” Percival retorted, raising an eyebrow in disapproval. “Come along now. You’ve been rumbled, turn around. There’s a good fellow.”
Again the man failed to turn. Martha looked to Percival. She nodded her head, silently communicating a plan to seize him. Percival replied with a frown. Silently he declined her invitation to accost the key-giving voyeur.
“Right! That's enough,” she blurted. Martha stepped forward and grabbed the man's shoulder. She yanking him backwards forcing him to turn and face them.
The man's body was empty… Not full of muscle, bone and blood. He was a vacant sack of skin. His body fell to the floor in a torrent of rippling flesh. The hollow man collapsed, air forced from the cavity inflated his hood-like head. Martha screamed and turned to run. Yet something stopped her from moving. Then she screamed even louder.
Percival wanted to look away from the man’s crumpled body. He wanted to turn around but he was too afraid. He could sense that something was behind him.
Martha, at his side, was frozen to the spot. Her wide unblinking eyes and short gasping breaths only perpetuated the fear charging the air.
The sound of breaking twigs, snapping and cracking, scratched against his nerve. He had to turn around, but he lacked the courage. He needed to see what was approaching, to defend himself. From some unknown source he found a burst of bravery. He span on his heel.
His vision was instantly filled with a dark, rough, black cloth. The coarse fibres scratched his skin. His nose and mouth filled with the scent of mulch and decay. He heard Martha scream again. She was fighting, struggling to free herself. Then, suddenly, silence fell like an executioner’s axe.
Percival panicked, scared by the abrupt stillness. He thrashed against his capturers as their hard, bony fingers fastened his hands and feet with rope. He felt a length of wood slipped between his bonds. Then, gruffly, he was hoisted into the air and carried like a hunter’s kill.
His mind tried to search for an explanation. Why would anybody want to kidnap him? Taken hostage in the English countryside was not something even he had planned for.
He attempted to communicate. When his words instigated no response he called out to Martha. His cries were eventually answered, though not in the way he hoped. A hard and heavy object collided painfully with his cloth covered head.
His mind burned hot and white. His fear and discomfort, along with everything else for that matter, faded effortlessly into tranquil blackness.
TO BE CONTINUED...
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Book 3
Morrowshale
Coming soon…
About The Author
Once upon a time Benjamin Feral was minding his own business, sketching out designs for a new sculpture, when his mind inadvertently happened upon a story.
At first he tried to ignore the film playing in his imagination; understandably-mistaking the vivid pictures for a flight of fancy. How wrong he was... Benjamin's nights became sleepless as his dreams were overrun with characters and their adventures. Despite the incoming-tide of ideas he went about his daily-grind and brushed-off the thoughts as nonsense.
Unimpressed with this dismissal, The Imaginings spilled into his waking life. Daydreams overwhelmed him at every turn. The story demanded to be heard...
Eventually Benjamin decided something must be done to alleviate his rascally-thoughts. He tried to tell the tale with the creativity at his disposal; namely drawing, painting and sculpting. Alas his efforts were fruitless. It seemed no amount of clay, pencils or pigment could capture the world he envisioned.
It was then, amidst the gloom of frustration, that he considered another possibility. What if he painted with words? He discredited the notion almost immediately. He had no idea how to construct a story. His grasp of grammar was rudimentary at best (and that's being generous).
His options dwindled as the daydreams intensified. At last he put pen to paper...
Unsurprisingly the first draft of his story was little more than a poorly-worded pamphlet. Not satisfied with this creation he spent the following years working in a coffee shop by day and teaching himself to write at night. Years passed and many versions of the story were penned as he learned to overcome his dyslexia. Though the iterations were numerous each improved upon the last and in the process of writing he fell in love with the words he once feared.
Now his story is ready to be heard. The world of Darkfern is a living, breathing place. The land Benjamin has created is filled with imaginative and believable characters; all of who want their lives to be told.
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