The May Editor's Pick Writer is Anna Taborska
Please feel free to contact Anna at: annataborska@hotmail.com
THE CREAKING
by Anna Taborska
Alice hurried through the forest, her basket filled with fresh herbs, and small pots of strengthening tonics and soothing balms. She had worked all night, crushing healing leaves and seeds, grinding nourishing roots and dried fungi; mixing her concoctions so that she could bring relief to the sick and ailing as soon as the sun was up.
Partially hidden by trees and thicket, her little house was a good half-hour walk from the village. It would have been easier if people came to her rather than her having to go to them, but some of those she helped were old and frail, others were very sick or busy looking after small children. Besides, the villagers didn’t seem keen on walking through the forest, even during the day. This was something Alice couldn’t understand. For her, the forest meant sanctuary and nurture: it hid her from the madding crowd, and provided her with food and all the plants she needed to mix her medicines and make a meagre living. And what didn’t grow in the forest, grew in the marshes and fields nearby.
Alice hadn’t been blessed with attractive features or an easy life. Her father had died when she was a little girl, and her mother had raised her alone. From an early age, she had learnt how to heal, and how to survive by working hard and keeping herself to herself. Alice’s mother had traded remedies for eggs, milk, flour and the occasional piece of cloth to patch up clothes, and now Alice did the same.
Going to the village had been a frightening experience even when her mother was alive, but in the five years since her mother’s death it just seemed to get harder. The villagers stared at her: adults whispered behind her back and children called her names. Even the people whom she helped were uneasy around her. They were grateful enough for the relief her remedies brought, but Alice could sense that as soon as she’d applied the ointment they needed or handed over their medicine, they didn’t like her hanging around.
The only bearable part of going to the village was the walk through the forest. Of course, Alice was in the forest practically every day collecting berries, fungi, herbs or kindling for the fire, but she loved spending time in the woods without having to ‘work’. When she was strolling among the ancient trees, listening to the birds and the soft, startled noises of small creatures scurrying away in the undergrowth, she felt something akin to contentment.
Today was no different, except for the fact that Alice couldn’t take her time; she needed to get to the village as soon as possible – Maggie Gray was counting on her to help her ailing daughter. The toddler had been coughing for several days now, and none of the usual mixtures of honey and herbs had worked. Alice had had to resort to mixing a blend based heavily on coltsfoot, and that had to be prepared in just the right way or it could poison the little girl rather than heal her. The sooner she could administer the medicine, the greater the chance that the child would recover. So Alice hurried along the path that wound its way to the village.
*****
It was early morning and the sunlight was just beginning to filter down through the trees, but even at high noon the forest floor would be dark – the tall and leafy trees casting a permanent shadow. At her brisk pace Alice couldn’t hear the birdsong that she usually enjoyed. Today her footsteps accompanied her, and the occasional flurry of wings as a bird fled its nest in alarm.
*****
As Alice burst out into the clearing not far from her home, she came face to face with a young deer. Alice froze, her face breaking into a smile, and gazed at the creature in wonder. No matter how many times she came across deer in the forest, their regal grace never failed to bring her joy.
The animal held Alice’s gaze, its mouth moving impassively as it chewed its morning meal. Then a loud creaking sound rang out behind Alice. The deer bolted in fright, disappearing into the undergrowth, and Alice span round, but saw nothing. She stood very still, her heartbeat hard and fast. The sound came again: the wrenching, squealing, rasping sound of wood being stretched and distorted. Again and again the creaking resounded, as if a tree were being pummelled and bent by a strong wind, yet not the slightest hint of a breeze stirred in the forest. Alice wanted to run, but her legs refused to oblige. Instead, she peered into the trees, trying to see what was causing the heavy, rhythmic creak. It sounded like something was exerting a considerable amount of pressure on a large branch, but Alice saw nothing. Trying hard to conquer her fear, she placed her basket on the ground and took a step towards the sound. As she did so, the sound stopped. Alice moved forward a few paces, and the sound came again – this time right above her head. Alice screamed. She grabbed her basket and ran.
Alice kept running until her strength ran out, then stopped and looked fearfully behind her. Of course there was nothing there; what could there possibly be? As her breath slowed and her heart stilled enough for her to hear the forest around her, Alice strained her ears for the horrible sound. She heard only the wind in the trees and bushes, and the stirring of the wildlife around her, and yet the grating, jarring creaking reverberated in her head. She knew instinctively that nothing would be capable of wiping that sound from her mind. The trees and bushes around her seemed darker; the soft, familiar sounds of creatures moving through the undergrowth seemed sinister, unnerving. For the first time in her life, the forest was no longer a haven, no longer a friend; it was something to be feared. Alice realised that her fear was out of all proportion to what had happened, and yet it persisted.
*****
That day, Alice spent as little time as she could in the village, explaining to people how to use the tinctures, balsams and poultices she had prepared for them, rather than staying to administer them. She even turned down Maggie Gray’s offer of a meal, although she did stay long enough to show the mother how to dose the cough mixture for her little girl. Instead, Alice packed away the food and other items that the villagers gave her in return for her services, and hurried home, going out of her way to avoid the clearing with the large creaking tree at its edge. Long before darkness fell she made sure that she gathered everything she needed for the next day, then locked herself away in her house. But try as she might, she couldn’t get the creaking out of her head.
That night Alice dreamt that she was running through the forest. It was dark, and something blacker than the night was chasing her. As she ran, nettles stung her, thorns scratched her and roots tried to trip her up and send her sprawling. Alice ran blindly on and unexpectedly found herself bursting out into the clearing. She came to an abrupt halt, shocked at finding herself exposed and vulnerable to the dark malignant presence that pursued her. She moved swiftly, but silently back into the trees and listened for any sound of her pursuer. And that’s when it came: the bloodcurdling screech of bending wood – the creaking that turned the sweat on Alice’s back to ice. She span round, looking up into the large tree above her. Was that a black shape – a shadow crouching in the branches? Alice screamed and woke up.
For the next few days Alice continued to avoid the clearing and the tree, but her unease didn’t lessen. If anything, it grew. She gathered what plants she needed for her medicines without straying any further from her house than she had to, she did her rounds in the village and hurried back home. At night she dreamt about the darkness that pursued her through the forest, and the creaking. Then one day when she got to the village, she found the villagers in a tense and morose mood. The Tyrell boy had gone missing. His abusive and permanently angry father had last seen him the night before. Old man Tyrell had been drinking in the kitchen with his friends when the boy came in to say goodnight.
“Fuck off to bed, you little shit!” Tyrell’s response elicited peals of laughter from his drunken cronies.
The boy had scuttled off to bed, and that was the last anyone had seen of him. Old man Tyrell had woken up at lunchtime and gone round the house, looking for someone to vent his hangover on. He couldn’t find his twelve-year-old son, so he clouted his wife, and demanded to be fed. Mrs Tyrell had gone out into the yard to call Tommy in for lunch, assuming that he’d gotten up early, made his own breakfast and gone to play with friends. But her son was nowhere to be seen.
“I can’t find Tommy,” she told her husband as she fearfully set his plate of food down in front of him.
“I’ll kill the little shit when he gets back,” he had replied.
Tyrell spent the afternoon drinking, only pausing between drinks to repeat his threat, but by the time it got dark and his wife had unsuccessfully scoured the village for the boy, his protestations had decreased somewhat in their vehemence, if not frequency. A brief torch-lit search of the village and its immediate surroundings was organised, but Tommy wasn’t found.
The villagers quickly did what villagers often do in times of perceived threat: they became suspicious and mistrustful of outsiders. It was into this atmosphere that Alice arrived the next morning. She checked in on the little Gray girl and gave Maggie a fresh pot of medicine for her. The toddler’s cough had lessened.
“She’s getting better,” Alice smiled shyly at Maggie Gray.
“Yes.” Maggie pulled her daughter towards herself, away from Alice, then got a hold of herself and added without much enthusiasm, “Thank you, Alice.” There was an uncomfortable silence.
“I’ll be going then,” offered Alice, adding nervously, “Mrs Pratt is waiting for her bunion ointment.” Maggie got up silently and fetched a dozen eggs from the back of the house.
*****
Mrs Pratt was in a talkative mood. Alice was hardly through the door, when the old woman told her how Tommy had disappeared the day before and how a search of the village had turned up no sign of him.
“Poor Betty Tyrell is hysterical,” Mrs Pratt said with barely concealed delight, “and even old man Tyrell has been out looking for the boy.”
“That’s terrible,” responded Alice. “I hope they find him.
*****
Tommy had risen early the day before, grabbed a slice of bread and a piece of cheese, and crept out of the house without waking his parents. He’d decided on the previous night that he would visit his cousin in the neighbouring village. There was no point asking his parents, as his mother would defer to his father, and his father would hit him with the buckle of his belt. If he slipped out early, he could get back by teatime. His father would be too hung-over in the morning and too drunk in the afternoon to notice that he was gone, and he would be home for supper.
The boy set out across the cornfields just as dawn broke, and was at his cousin’s in time for breakfast. Charlie was thrilled to see him, and his aunt and uncle made a fuss of him.
“Your parents do know you’re here?” questioned his aunt.
Tommy nodded, “Uh-huh.”
“And they let you come all the way here on your own?”
“Uh-huh.” Tommy smiled at his uncle and aunt. He was jealous of Charlie. Charlie’s dad never hit him or shouted at his mother. Charlie’s mum was pretty and always smiling; not like Tommy’s mother, who had frown lines and puffy tear-stained eyes, and was always sad.
Charlie’s father helped the boys to make fishing-rods, whilst his mother made them a hamper with bread, cheese, ham and milk, and then the two cousins set out for the river. The day was warm and sultry; the boys fished and chatted, ate and eventually dozed off in a haystack, waking up when the sun started going down and a chill crept into the air. By the time they got back to Charlie’s house, there was less than an hour of daylight left. As Tommy had a two-hour walk to get home, his uncle and aunt offered to let him stay the night, provided his parents wouldn’t be worried. Tommy told them that his parents had said he could stay over if it got late and could come home on Sunday. He would get a hiding one way or another, so he figured he might as well delay the inevitable.
When Tommy got home, his mother ran to him and hugged him, tears of relief staining her face. “Where have you been?”
Tommy’s father was sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by his drinking buddies, who were helping him drown his sorrows and work out where to look for his boy. Before Tommy had time to answer his mother, his father got up from the table and lumbered towards him.
“I’m gonna kill you, you little shit!” Tommy didn’t know whether to stay or run. He’d rarely seen his father quite so angry. “Where the devil have you been, you little shit?” Tommy cowered back as his father approached, pulling off his belt and brandishing the buckle end at his son. “Go on, tell me! Where have you been, you little shit?” The belt whistled through the air and hit the boy on the side, knocking him off his feet. His mother screamed and ran to defend her son, but Tyrell pushed her out of the way and went to take another swing at the boy. There must have been a particularly homicidal look on old man Tyrell’s face, as his companions stopped laughing, and one of them decided to intervene. Jim pulled himself up drunkenly from the kitchen table, and staggered up between Tyrell and his son.
“Witch took you, did she, boy? Witch took you... to make a potion out of your blood?”
Old man Tyrell paused, belt in hand, confused by the question.
“Witch took you and locked you up, but you got away?” prompted Jim.
“I’ll kill you, you little shit!” Tyrell had regained his momentum and was about to pelt the boy again, when Tommy piped up from the floor, “Yes, sir.”
“Huh?” grunted Tyrell.
“Witch took me and locked me up, but I got away.”
“Who locked you up?” fumed Tyrell. “Are you lying to me boy?”
“No, sir.”
“If you’re lying to me, I’ll kill you!”
“Witch took me and… was gonna… make me into a potion… but I got away.”
“Nobody hurts my boy!” Tyrell turned to face his friends. “You hear me? Nobody hurts my boy!”
“We hear you, Robert.” Jim raised his hand in a placating gesture, but there was no placating old man Tyrell.
“I’ll kill her! I’ll kill the witch!” Tyrell glared at his companions. “Are you going to sit there or are you going to help me?”
As old man Tyrell was the parish constable, they decided to help.
“Who’s he talking about?” Nathaniel Jackson whispered as the drunken party spilled out of the house after Tyrell.
“Alice Goodman, I guess,” mused George Hogge. “Ain’t no one else around here who makes potions.”
“Hang on, Robert!” Jim tried to undo what he’d done, but it was too late. He was pushed aside, and by the time old man Tyrell had finished rousing the villagers, his party was over a dozen strong. They set off to put an end to the witch who’d been killing children, draining their blood and grinding up their bones to make her unholy potions. Old Joe had been living in the village for a long time, and knew exactly how to get to the witch’s house.
*****
Alice had just cleaned up after supper, and was getting ready to mix her medicines for the following day, when she heard the voices. At first she thought she must be mistaken, but the shouting grew louder, angrier. And now she could see the flickering orange light of torches dancing amongst the trees. They were getting closer, and Alice knew she should run, but it was too late, they were already here. A baying mob shrieking and snarling like beasts. “Alice Goodman, come out! Come out now or we’re coming in!”
Alice stood rooted to the spot with fear. Then the door flew open and Robert Tyrell burst in, accompanied by his own personal lynch mob. Alice wanted to scream, but no sound came from her throat.
“Gotcha, you fucking witch!” growled Tyrell.
“You won’t be killing any more children!” someone shouted from the back of the crowd. Alice couldn’t speak, but she shook her head and held up her hands in a vain attempt to ward off the fury that was being hurled at her. Then Tyrell had her by the hair, and she was twisting in pain, being forced out into the night, fists punching her and nails scratching her as she was half-dragged, half-carried out of her house and through the forest.
*****
A punch to Alice’s right eye screwed it tight shut as the tissue swelled up around it. Her left eye filled with her own blood from a gash on her forehead. She couldn’t see, and in her fear and pain she couldn’t sense that the trees around her had thinned and the undergrowth had given way to grass.
“This’ll do!” someone shouted. Alice recognised the voice of John Briggs. Only last week she’d cured the fungal infection on his feet with her garlic and chamomile ointment. He said he’d never forget what she’d done for him. The villagers stopped, and Alice tried to cry out to Briggs, but still no sound came from her cracked, bleeding lips. Alice threw herself forward in an attempt to break free. A violent tug to her hair ripped much of it out and brought on a fresh wave of pain.
“Stay still, witch!” It was Tyrell’s voice. “Hold her, will you!”
“Give it here!” shouted Briggs.
Rough hands held her even tighter, crushing her arms. Then Alice felt something being pulled down over her head. She realised what was about to happen moments before she felt the rope sting and tighten around her neck. Then she was being hoisted up off her feet, the burning pain in her neck unbearable and the breath choked out of her slowly, prolonging her agony. The last thing Alice heard was the horrific, jarring creaking as the branch bent under her weight and the darkness took her.
Anna Taborska was born in London, England. She is an award-winning filmmaker and writer of horror stories, screenplays and poetry.
Anna’s films include: The Rain Has Stopped (winner of 2 awards at the British Film Festival Los Angeles 2009), The Sin, Ela, My Uprising and A Fragment of Being.
Feature length screenplays include: Chainsaw, The Camp and Pizzaman.
Short stories include: “Halloween Lights” (published in And Now the Nightmare Begins: THE HORROR ZINE, 2009), “Picture This” (published in 52 Stitches, 2010), “The Wind and the Rain” (published in Daily Flash 2011: 365 Days of Flash Fiction, 2010) and four stories published in The Black Book of Horror volumes 5, 6, 7 and 8 (2009-2011).
Anna’s short story “Bagpuss” was an Eric Hoffer Award Honoree and was published in Best New Writing 2011.
Anna’s short story “Little Pig” was recently picked for The Best Horror of the Year Volume Four, and the screenplay adaptation of “Little Pig” was a finalist in the Shriekfest Film Festival Screenplay Competition 2009.
Poems include “Kantor” (published in the Journal of Dramatic Theory and Criticism, Fall 1995), “Mrs. Smythe regrets going to the day spa” (published in Christmas: Peace on All The Earths, 2010), “Song for Maud” (published in No Fresh Cut Flowers, An Afterlife Anthology, 2010) and three poems published in What Fears Become: An Anthology from The Horror Zine (2011).
Anna recently finished work on a novelette collection entitled Bloody Britain.
You can learn more about Anna HERE