Shadowchild

By Matthew Williams

In 1629 something visited the parish of Feckenham. The events that followed were so terrifying that they never gained their place in the history books.

Now in 2008, something seems to be wrong with Marie Watsons young children.
Her father wont believe her and her mother is nearing the end of her tether.

Marie feels utterly alone.

But is she?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Feb 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524677978

Matthew Williams

In 1999 Matthew Williams began writing a novel; at the time it was no more than an exercise in developing his language and communication skills as he stepped into management in the field of Engineering.It wasn't until 2006 when he found and re-read the pages he had written, that he felt a deep desire to complete the story. The 4 chapters became 25 and after many months of editing and gaining feedback from his friends and family he finally had a manuscript worthy of publication.Writing has become his passion, and The Shady Corner is the first in what he hopes will be many!

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© 2017 Matthew Williams. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/21/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7796-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7797-8 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Part One: The Destruction of Bennett’s Bower

Chapter One: 1629

Part Two: Secrets and Faith

Chapter Two: January 2008

Chapter Three: January 2008

Chapter Four: 1970

Chapter Five: January 2008

Chapter Six: February 2008

Chapter Seven: February 2008

Part Three: The Evil Inside

Chapter Eight: Thursday 21st February 2008

Chapter Nine: Early Friday Morning

Chapter Ten: Friday Morning

Chapter Eleven: Friday Evening

Chapter Twelve: Friday Night

Part Four: Searching for Truth

Chapter Thirteen: Saturday Morning

Chapter Fourteen: Saturday Midday

Chapter Fifteen: Saturday Afternoon

Chapter Sixteen: Saturday Night

Chapter Seventeen: Early Sunday Morning

Chapter Eighteen: Sunday Morning

Chapter Nineteen: Sunday Night

Part Five: The Day After The Night Before

Chapter Twenty: Monday Morning

Chapter Twenty-one: Monday Morning

Chapter Twenty-two: Monday Midday

Chapter Twenty-three: Monday Afternoon

Part Six: Monday Night

Chapter Twenty-four:

Chapter Twenty-five:

Chapter Twenty-six:

Chapter Twenty-seven:

Chapter Twenty-eight:

Chapter Twenty-nine:

Chapter Thirty:

Chapter Thirty-one:

Part Seven: Lillian’s Story

Chapter Thirty-two:

Chapter Thirty-three: 1969

Chapter Thirty-four: 1969

Chapter Thirty-five:

Part Eight: No Way Out

Chapter Thirty-six:

Chapter Thirty-seven:

Chapter Thirty-eight: Tuesday Morning

For my Isabella Louise

My loving wife

My best friend

My world

PART ONE: THE DESTRUCTION OF BENNETT’S BOWER

CHAPTER ONE:

1629

A sinister presence crawled on the cell walls, just as it had for the previous few days, watching the inmates wallow in their own filth like vermin. During this period of observation it would occasionally reach out and touch the soul of a prisoner, focusing on the weak and the dying, granting them the strength to survive in readiness for this day.

The squalid room in which they were kept was constructed from the natural resources found within Feckenham forest, which back in the early twelfth century had covered most of Worcestershire, from Worcester’s fore gate to as far north as the Lickey hills. A dense weave made from felled trees formed the prison walls that housed these petty criminals.

The inmates of Bennett’s Bower were held captive, right beneath the feet of the ones who prosecuted and sentenced them from the manorial courts situated in the upper section of the prison. Trespass against the vert and the venison or possession of hunting weapons or dogs within the forest, these were the crimes for which they were imprisoned. But today was the fourth day since this evil presence had moved in to live alongside them, and their crimes had greatly worsened in severity.

The prison guards had noticed several new corpses in the cell on each of the last few days. With an average life expectancy of just forty-three years and the horrendously unsanitary conditions which the prisoners were forced to endure, death within the prison had always been commonplace, but never quite like this. These corpses were horribly disfigured and most were dismembered; man, woman, child it made no difference. Every person in that cell, without exception, was subjected to rape, sodomy, and violence from the other inmates. Simple criminals serving time for simple crimes had become depraved psychotics, so disturbed they even sodomised the murdered and ate their flesh.

The guards had expressed extreme concerns to the hierarchy of prison governors about the things they had witnessed, but their deaf ears failed to heed these words as a warning. Instead they chose to brush aside the welfare of the inmates entirely, and indeed the threat to the residents of Feckenham forest. As the governors fed like royalty and basked in the relative luxury their positions afforded them, the inmates below acted as one and faced the wall of the cell, each taking their turn to charge at it, kicking with tremendous force. They focused their efforts in the same area, a joint where two sawn boughs met and signs of rot were visible in the wood. Several inmates shattered bones in their feet and legs, collapsing to the floor, incapacitated by their wounds. The prisoners split into groups of four, using the wounded as battering rams, with each impact the wood cracked a little more, shattering the skulls of the sacrificial, reducing the flesh on their crowns to bloody pulp. The assault on the cell wall seemed barbaric to the guards as they looked on from behind the safety of the rusty bars in the door with a justified apprehension to intervene. The single-mindedness of the inmates was as though they were a single entity in pursuit of a common goal. Before long they were free, scattering in all directions, completely unperturbed by the dead they left behind.

* * *

Inside the cell fell silent. An eerie, hollow silence contained by the damp wooden walls. Dozens of bodies littered the ground, most freshly sacrificed for the cause and more visible now that moonlight shone in through the opening in the wall. A single child stood slumped in the centre of the cell waiting as the guards outside rattled the heavy lock. The door made a dull thud as it hit the wall and three guards felt brave enough to rush inside now that this young girl was all alone. Together they drew their broadswords, the slaying of the last remaining prisoner their sole intent. Without getting close, the weapons they held dropped to the ground in unison with their screams, their severed fingers still gripping the hilts of their swords as they fell, held in place by the crushed loop of steel that was intended to protect, not harm.

Two of the men fled clutching their bleeding stumps, the third crashed to his knees, staring at his hand. He trembled in shock with his mouth gaping wide, his grimy pink skin drained to white. The young girl’s fists were tightly clenched; her knuckles cracked as she splayed her fingers and looked up at him, tilting her head slightly to see through her filthy, matted hair. She was calm and relaxed in a way that simply wasn’t right for a child surrounded by such horror and bloodshed. As she stepped towards him her bare feet were bathed in torn flesh, blood oozed between her toes. The guard’s face felt cold in her hands, she leant his head back to see into his eyes; they were rolled over white in pain and that was before she pressed them into his skull with her thumbs. Beneath his screams was the sound of his eyeballs being crushed, the pain he felt was short-lived, he was lifeless and limp in seconds.

* * *

The escaped inmates ran through the densely forested areas that surrounded Bennett’s Bower, soaked to the skin after crossing the narrow moat. More guards chased them from the prison, charging the trailing pack with their broadswords drawn and then slaying them where they stood. Despite the times it was a rarity for these protectors of the king to use their swords in anger as they had the chance to on this night; their over zealous desire would be their undoing.

The nine armed guards easily despatched the first three or four unarmed and weary escapees, but again as one, the others doubled back behind them forming a wall of filthy, wretched-smelling rags, two men deep. The guards readied their weapons for the slaughter of the onrushing mob that encircled them, so many of their number were female or juvenile; they had dismissed any threat to their lives.

What followed could only be described as carnage, so fearless and such was the determination of the group, the guards could each offer only a single flash of their blades before they were overwhelmed. The lucky ones were put to death by their own swords. Timid and frightened captives these savages were no more; this was the curse that the evil in that cell had bestowed upon them, and now they had a feast of fresh meat to satisfy their desperate hunger after living off scraps in their cell.

To die by one’s own sword for a loyal protector of the king could be considered as a less than honourable way to meet your demise, but given the choice, the three that were still alive as the prisoners began to feed would have chosen the blade. That’s exactly what their agonised screams implied.

* * *

Back at Bennett’s Bower the young girl stepped over the corpse of the guard she had murdered, cool and unruffled, she slowly ascended the stairs to the courts above. She was greeted with regarding eyes. Shy of four foot in stature and dressed in heavily soiled rags, her puny frame and withered appearance was all these eyes saw, neglecting to notice the menace staring back.

The small collection of governors and noblemen were sent reeling to the floor, their seats whipped from beneath them with a simple wave of her hand. The men who carried them, unsheathed their rapiers; a far more elegant and decorated sword than those carried by the guards, and they rose to their feet confronting the child. The first nobleman to attack was disarmed and beheaded in a single deft movement, leaving only three armed men and the Lord of Coventry opposing her. A second brave man approached the child, more wary after witnessing the ease with which his counterpart was slain. His lunging attack was dodged effortlessly with a twist of her body and he found his guts spilled as she sliced him from groin to sternum. What was primarily a pointed weapon more suited to thrusting attacks; somehow seemed sharper and more lethal in this child’s grasp.

The Lord of Coventry called for his guards as his last two governors threw their rapiers to the floor and backed away from the child, fearful of her threat.

They won’t come! the girl spoke in an unearthly tone, leaping on to the solid oak table that ran almost the full length of the court. The Lord of Coventry stood tall at the head of the table as his governors cowered in shadow across the room. He expected nothing but death as she walked towards him sweeping the table clear with her blade, his terror heightened as an unseen force held him in place

What is the meaning of this intrusion into the king’s court? he said, trying to mask the fear in his voice.

The sanctuary in which the governors cowered came to life, just as the cell walls had done four days earlier. The two men attacked one another, lacking command of their own actions as the Lord of Coventry was forced to watch them beat each other brutally; their screams of denial an illustration of their lack of control.

Where hides this one you call king? the child demanded an answer, taking the Lord of Coventry by the throat. Lead me to him, she ordered.

I would never betray my king. He gasped for breath, spluttering his defiant response. She squeezed harder for a moment as the struggle between the governors reached a bloody conclusion, the victor left exhausted and in tears of disgust at what he had been forced to do.

So be it, she replied, releasing her grip on him. He choked for a few seconds before clutching hold of his silver crucifix.

Dear God rid us of this evil! he cried out, facing the heavens. The child laughed, demeaning his pleas for help. In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, I order you to release this child, he held the crucifix out in front of him.

Primitive, she said, snatching the crucifix from his fingers, examining it closely. Your faith in such iconic symbols is proof of how weak you are old man. Her voice haunted him as he dropped to his knees and prayed. Tell your king what you have seen here today; tell him this is just the beginning. She tossed the crucifix at him, go now, and take this worthless trinket with you.

You’re not going to kill me? he asked nervously.

Not today, she whispered, stepping aside inviting him to leave. He eagerly accepted the invitation and fled from the court, the terror of the ordeal unlike anything he had ever seen, felt, or endured. He didn’t know if what he had witnessed was demonic or spiritual, but he did know that little girl was human in appearance only and the threat she posed was as real as the ground on which he walked.

* * *

A battle that would last for many months began that night. Under cover of darkness the escaped inmates attacked the settlements in the parish one by one. They used the thick forest as cover and organised their strikes with military precision, observing patiently for days before moving in to feast on raw flesh. This cycle of slaughter and feeding was a hunt that served their most basic of drives while systematically eliminating human life in each area. Word spread throughout the parish and indeed the kingdom via those who slipped through the net. The Lord of Coventry had been allowed to go free to provoke a reaction from the king, but the villagers who were spared were also part of this plan. It was always the diseased and dying that were of little use for food that were set free, their eyewitness accounts helping to reinforce the imminent danger that swept the forest.

In turn, each settlement was either put to the slaughter at the hands of these twisted lunatics, or it was deserted in search of a safe haven by the residents. The parish of Feckenham was slowly dying and its deforestation was promptly ordered by the king. His belief that the evil sweeping his land must be born of the forest was fashioned by the tales that it attacked from the trees. A five hundred strong army was despatched to see this threat put to death. By day the army advanced, destroying much of Feckenham’s natural beauty. By night the prisoners continued to attack any populated settlements, but the pickings had become scarce and their hunger unsatisfied. In starvation these psychotics turned on one another like they had done in their cell; the sacrifice of the weak in their number made them a smaller unit, but helped them stay strong.

Barely three dozen of the prisoners remained on the day the king’s army of five hundred soldiers breached their shelter in the forest. Without the cover of darkness they were overcome with ease, as though the tales about their great strength were merely falsehood bred from the panic of the ones who had survived their savagery. A final assault on Bennett’s Bower in the centre of what remained of Feckenham forest was all that was needed to cleanse the evil in the parish.

* * *

The young girl had remained at Bennett’s Bower, waiting for the impending attack. Inside the court the surviving governor stood as her guard, kept alive by devouring the remains of the three who lay dead since the day of the initial attack. Their bones had been picked clean of flesh, the fact it had begun to rot hadn’t deterred him at all; he was deranged, like the prisoners had been.

The ground appeared to shake as the advancing army closed in, it was just before dawn and the moonlight reflected off the surface of the moat, its pale blue glow shimmered with the gentle movement of the water. The last of the prisoners had extinguished the lives of just four soldiers in their final stand, the odds against the young girl and her single protector seemed laughable, yet she looked out at this vast army with a smile.

Make me proud, she whispered in the ear of her protector, sending him to his certain death. With a rapier in each hand he descended the stairs and charged into battle.

Halt! was the call from the lieutenant. The young girl watched as her protector engaged the army in combat; he matched the prisoner’s tally with his first attack, piercing two soldiers with each of his blades. The army was forced to spread and rush Bennett’s Bower via its moat; the drawbridge was just a few yards wide. Five, six, seven; the body count climbed as he hacked and lunged at the endless numbers that attacked him. Soldiers swarmed into the moat, but none could pass, instead they were dragged beneath the water as they thrashed violently in search of breath. Eight and nine fell before the young girl’s protector was slain by the lieutenant’s musket fire.

It’s over child, he said as the soldiers regrouped. Again, she smiled. He summoned his archers and fifty strong they took aim, releasing a barrage of arrows towards her. She jumped down twenty feet on to the bridge, easily avoiding their flight, the court wall split open as they rained upon it.

This is only the beginning, she replied calmly. The ground beneath the ranks of soldiers seemed to open up, dragging them into the soil. The lieutenant was showered with blood as the sound of fifty muskets fired at once. He turned to see his archers fall to their knees, a thick cloud of gunpowder smoke engulfing the whole area. As it cleared he could see his own men with their muskets still tight in their shoulders, his army had dwindled by more than a hundred men in minutes, and the numbers were still falling as they were hauled into the earth.

How is this possible? he asked, astounded by what he was seeing. As half his men tried to flee, the rest fell under the child’s spell and attacked them. How are you doing this? he screamed at the child. She forced him to his knees with nothing more than a look.

Time is short, she said, looking up at the sky. The black of night was growing brighter with every second.

Carnage continued as the soldiers fought with steel blades and the ground continued swallowing them as they butchered their fellow men. The child placed her thumbs over the lieutenant’s eyes; he prayed for life as he began to feel pressure. There was a sudden surge of intense heat and the girl screamed out in pain, the pressure on his eyes was gone in an instant.

After a few moments, the lieutenant was brave enough to open his eyes; Dawn had broken and shards of light pierced the trees bathing him in warmth, it seemed his prayers had been answered and the girl was gone. A cloud of ash fluttered away from him in the breeze and he spun around to see his army had been completely destroyed. He yelled for survivors, but could barely hear his own voice, his ears still ringing from the sound of musket fire. His army of five hundred had been all but wiped out in a manner he couldn’t possibly fathom. Severed limbs and blood seemed to be all that remained in the child’s wake, but as the sun rose he saw that the moat was brimming with drowned soldiers, each of them floating with their faces beneath the surface. That day marked the end of the evil in Feckenham forest, and Bennett’s Bower was left to rot, as for the lieutenant, he was never seen again.

PART TWO: SECRETS AND FAITH

CHAPTER TWO:

January 2008

The buzzing of his mobile phone bouncing on the desk signalled an incoming message and distracted Simon from his work.

Here she goes again, he sighed heavily, opening a message from his daughter Marie, a picture of yet another blurry image taken in her flat. He shook his head and tossed his phone back on the desk before focusing his attention back on his work. The New Year always signalled a makeover for his wife’s internet business, all the new product lines were out and hours of photo editing and website tweaking lay ahead. His phone danced on the desk a second time, he ignored it reaching for his cigarettes instead, again shaking his head.

For over a year now Marie had been obsessed with the notion that her daughter Preeti was under the spell of something evil that lived in her flat. Simon had his own theories about it, leaning towards the far more rational explanation that she was just attention seeking after the birth of her baby brother.

Marie’s off again! Simon gave the phone to his wife Emma as she shuffled into the room. She looked puzzled, but took it from him.

What? she asked.

She’s sending stupid pictures again, Simon replied, his eyes never leaving the computer screen.

You know you could say good morning before you start with your digging.

Sorry love, good morning, he looked up from his work, spitting the words without feeling. You look like shit, he remarked, noticing her puffy eyes.

Thanks love, that makes me feel a whole lot better, she replied, Marie was on the phone half the night, she said she was going to send some more pictures over.

Emma yawned, stabbing at the buttons on his phone in a random pattern trying to locate the images. Here, you’ll have to show me, I’m no good with these bloody things, she handed the phone back to Simon. He snatched it from her and huffed at the inconvenience. If it’s not too much trouble that is, she added sarcastically.

No it’s not too much trouble, just a waste of fucking time, there’s never anything in the damn pictures! he replied. Emma bit her lip and shook her head. Here, Simon gave her the phone and tried to focus back on his work.

Emma looked closely at the picture, it was blurred and pixelated like always and despite her will to see something as Marie seemed to, she just saw light and shadows so out of focus that she couldn’t even recognise it as her daughter’s flat.

Will you show me the next one please Simon honey, she asked, donning her kid gloves. He held out his hand and took the phone back, glancing at the image for a second, puffing out his cheeks dismissively, scrolling to the image he had earlier ignored. It was a shot of his grandson in his carrycot; it seemed like any other photo taken by a loving mother.

When is she gonna stop with this shit Emma? He held the phone up, thrusting it towards her, just look at this and tell me she’s not screwed in the head, huh?

It isn’t easy for her Simon, being a single mum with two kids, she replied. He fired out a sharp laugh, leaving him with a disbelieving grin across his face.

Look, don’t get me started; just tell me if you see anything odd in that picture. Emma studied the image, tilting the phone trying to see whatever it was that Marie saw.

There, she declared, tapping the screen by the side of her grandson’s image, do you see that? Simon had another look.

No! he replied abruptly.

Look Simon, it’s right there, like a face in the shadow. Simon turned and placed his hands on her upper arms."

There’s nothing there Emma. If you look at that picture long enough you’ll just see what you wanna see, he shrugged, looking into her eyes, implicating her imagination. Now, if you don’t mind can I get on please, he gestured towards the computer.

Fine, I’m not arguing about this again, Emma conceded, turning away, leaving his phone on the desk, y’know I sometimes wonder if you even care anymore, she added aggressively, storming off.

Emma, he shouted after her, but she was already halfway downstairs. Fuck! he whispered under his breath, throwing his head back in the chair.

After more than thirty years of marriage Simon knew to let Emma calm down before he apologised. He looked at the image again, the shaking of his head was involuntary now, it had become routine.

Sceptical, was the best way to describe Simon when it came to the supernatural, he had a desire to see or feel something from its realm, but without proof it was just crackpot stories that his daughter reinforced time and time again with her obsessive behaviour. He was no stranger to the fear that could be induced by the mind, as a child he became terrified of the house he grew up in. It all started the day he and his father opened a hidden cellar section in the family home.

A home that originally dated back to the ninth century, it had changed a lot over the years, but the foundations of the building remained intact. Even a single section of woven lattice work held together with clay, sand and manure known as ‘wattle and daub’ was still displayed behind glass in the lounge.

1969

Simon had screamed the moment his father broke through the stone wall and shone a torch inside the closed cellar, it was probably the first time this room had seen light in a millennium. His scream represented the horror that had been hiding beneath their feet for years, the remains of some tormented soul, just bones still in chains of torture. Simon’s father was quick to shield his son’s eyes, but he had seen enough to change his perspective about their home.

The half timber construction had always creaked and groaned with age, but after he and his father’s discovery; these sounds gave Simon the feeling of something more unearthly than ‘the growing pains of the wood’ as his father liked to describe them. In the darkness of Simon’s bedroom, these noises conjured creepy images in his mind; even the sound of water hammering in the copper pipes haunted him.

What Simon had seen under the light of his father’s torch was later found to be one of three sets of remains trapped in that dungeon, along with many implements of torture. Simon hadn’t seen them all first hand, but he was aware, he was only eleven years old, but he understood just fine.

To this day neither Simon nor his parents really new the truth behind that dungeon; his father had reported the findings to the police. Perhaps it seemed silly, given the quite obvious age of the remains, but who else do you tell when you find something like that? For a week or so afterwards, the house became more like a circus than a home, even in a village with a history as full and aged as Feckenham’s, a find like this was extremely rare. They had archaeologists, the curator from the local museum, and of course the media; local and national. Simon’s friends thought it was a blast; it was cool for them to know the kid whose house was being touted as the ‘house of horrors’ in all the papers and on the television. As quickly as the circus had begun it became old news, tomorrow’s fish and chip wrappings, for everyone except Simon and his family that is. For them this was just the beginning.

Simon’s nightmares began as just flashes in his mind, the image of the skeletal remains restrained to the dungeon wall by rusty iron chains. The black and white photographs in the press were merely a representation of the find, but what Simon had seen was so much more disturbing. He would wake in the night, soaked through and drained to pale; screaming as he had when he’d first seen inside. Night after night, it was the same story. His parents comforting presence after reacting to his screams, helped him feel safe, but once they were gone the protection of his duvet was all that remained. During the day he was his normal self, lively and slightly mischievous, not at all vulnerable like he became at night.

Fear is all he felt whenever he was in his bed, fear of the nightmares he couldn’t seem to block out. He would lie awake for hours, too frightened to dream, his imagination roaming free, turning every noise or movement in the shadows into more than it really was. The idea that the spirits of those once tortured in the house might still be there was the avenue his imagination began to explore. The groaning of the wood sounded like screams from the dungeon and the clunking pipes were the implements of torture. His bedcovers seemed to offer less protection than they had done in his younger years, he felt naked and at the mercy of his thoughts, and it wasn’t long before the skull he’d seen in the cellar had a face, manifested by fear and imagination.

Weeks went by and Simon’s nightmares intensified, with each new image his imagination created, a new doorway to terror was opened in his dreams. He would still wake up soaking wet, but it was no longer just cold sweat he was lying in, his fear now squeezed his bladder dry as he slept. The first morning that he woke with his bed sheets drenched in his own urine, he screamed his usual scream, not realising at first what he had done. That particular day it was his mother who responded to his cries and for probably the first time, it dawned on her, exactly how frightened her young son really was. Once Simon grasped that he had in fact soiled his bed, the guilt on his face melted his mother’s heart. She held him tightly to her bosom stroking his hair compassionately as he wept in both relief and embarrassment.

I’m sorry mum, he whimpered. She wouldn’t listen his apologies, she knew he couldn’t help it, his tears said all she needed to hear.

It’s okay Simon love, really it is, she placed her palms on his cheeks and looked into his eyes as she tried to allay his concerns. Come on let’s get you cleaned up, yeah, she smiled, radiating love and reassurance. His lip quivered; his thankful look still sad and teary.

It was that morning as he bathed and his mother stripped his bed to wash his sheets that he decided he needed to face up to his fears. He lay in the warm water; the ‘Matey’ bubble bath fizzed and popped around his ears. Everything felt safe and calm, and the very notion that any of his bedtime thoughts were real seemed incredulous right now. ‘I can beat this,’ he kept thinking. It was easy at the moment, surrounded by the normal sounds of the day; the washing machine rumbling, his mum and dad’s footsteps moving about the house. ‘You can’t scare me anymore!’ he nodded quietly to himself, smiling confidently. It was all he kept thinking throughout the day, mentally building a barrier in his mind piece by piece.

* * *

Outside the window the sun appeared to fall away behind the landscape more quickly now that Simon waited for it. Darkness flooded the horizon, the grey clouds ensuring the blanket of night was free from stars and moonlight, and still Simon watched, reinforcing his wall with ‘I can beat this’ bricks.

It was a Sunday evening and bedtime was fast approaching. Sunday night was always the quickest of the week, what with school starting afresh the following morning, but today it was like the hands on the clock were at full-throttle, hurtling towards the hour of nine. The visible definition between land and sky faded before his eyes as he looked up the long windy garden, he saw only blackness before him and it nurtured an anxious feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. The thought of being alone in his bed with only his thoughts for company sowed the smallest seed of doubt over whether he could really banish his fear. Time was pressing and he would learn soon enough that he couldn’t, not on this night.

For over an hour he lay awake, the noises of his parents activity downstairs was enough to keep him feeling safe and not alone. He tried desperately to fall asleep, hopeful that he could avoid the inevitable visit from the spirits in his imagination, but the longer he lay wrapped in his duvet, the more his mind wandered towards what he hoped to avoid. Light pierced the darkness as his bedroom door squeaked open, filling him with a cold dread.

Good night Simon sweetheart, his mother whispered, blowing him a kiss from the doorway. He kept his eyes closed, upholding a façade of sleep while his pulse raced, anticipating the sense of loneliness he knew would follow. His mother pulled the door closed; the latch clicking into place was the starting pistol for the night ahead. It was Simon’s time to take a stand. The faint running of water and the sound of quiet chatter filled the void left by the absence of noise from downstairs. He listened closely to his parents conducting their usual bedtime routine as he waited for silence to follow, and soon enough it did.

Just the slightest glow from the hall light crept inside his room, the hush of night lingered in the air with menace, it didn’t matter that the pipes and beams were soundless, he still heard them. Peering from beneath his covers to see nothing but the light under his door while the sounds of the spirits from the dungeon grew louder, he began to shiver with cold. Closing his eyes he checked the barrier in his mind was still secure, but it seemed shaky and unstable; the cement holding the bricks together was little more than crumbling dust. He slid down the bed pulling the duvet in tightly around his entire being, but the cold he felt still had him shivering inside his fabric cocoon, pitch dark was all he could see.

His hope of beating this terror tonight was waning quickly and as he emerged to peer into the room again he was attacked. A ghostly white figure swooped at him levelling his wall and making him scream out in terror. Eyes open or shut, it had no bearing on what he saw, the spirits flew at him, taunting him relentlessly, passing through his duvet to pick at his soul. Footsteps, a loud bang, a click; and the spirits vanished in the new brightness of the room. His parents looked at him from the doorway for a second; he was backed