The Thieves

By Vincent Lerigo-Smith

Haunted by a feeling of being watched, Ed struggles to sleep through menacing dreams. Childish suspicions, perhaps, but they are true. Hiding in time the Thieves are watching him, waiting for the moment when they can snatch

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maple Publishers
• Release date: Jul 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781915492135

Book preview

You’re in Deeper Than You Think

Eden is South of Reality,

Reality is North of God.

Between East,

And West,

Lies creation:

The shadow of a dream.

Witzend reservoir stretched out in front of Ed, an inviting blue sea. But in the distance a dark shadow was sweeping towards him, draining the colour from the landscape. Black phantoms winging across the water, until the crows circled overhead, stealing the sun from the sky, calling to the great lake to rise and fly with them.

He felt silly, dressed in the little blue shorts and Popeye tee-shirt, childhood clothes stretching and straining across his adult frame, soaked with water thrown from the oars of the careless fisherman. The one with the clock face.

The reservoir was restless, waking from sleep. Ed heard a voice behind him, distant, an echo in time. Déjà vu.

Run, Ed, run, as if your life depends on it. His father’s voice.

Ed turned to run, as fast and as far as he could but his furious legs carried him nowhere and he watched his faraway home shrinking into the distance. Then he was turning, being turned, towards a giant.

He surveyed the almighty statue, his heart racing at the sight of its restless transparent skin, shimmering like water running over glass. The giant opened its cavernous mouth revealing a tongue of sparkling sand with a boy building a sandcastle in its centre, breakers curling towards him. A boy dressed in blue shorts and a Popeye tee-shirt. A little Ed.

The waves crashed over the fragile child, who laughed merrily as they washed him down the giant’s throat, tumbling visibly through him, before splintering into rainbows of light that soared into the sky and were swallowed by the ravenous crows.

A resonant voice cut through Ed, as breath laced with the stench of decay billowed his hair, hot as a desert wind.

Hmm, youth tastes so good, so much time ahead. The sweetest time.

Ed could not help but stare at that enormous face and into its empty black eyes. So deep he might drown.

No, this can’t be real. I’m not here. This isn’t happening, said Ed.

The giant licked its lips and spoke again.

My son, you are already in deeper than you think.

Ed’s sanity was decaying, falling into the infinite pit of the giant’s eyes.

Now, Ed. Are you going to look where your heart longs to look? Where your father told you never to look? Are you prepared for what you might see?

No. Never. I don’t want to.

Wrong answer, Ed. It’s time. You tried to hide but destiny has found you! The giant roared a shattering laugh, obliterating the remnants of Ed’s fragile mind and uncloaking the terror lurking within.

I’ve always been hiding but now I’ve been found. Oh God, I’ve been found. There is no escape…

No, Ed. No escape.

Gigantic hands enwrapped him, tearing him from the spot to which his primal fear had rooted him, dragging him towards the water, where fate had been waiting for forty-five years.

His mind fought desperately to rebuild the fortress of his sanity.

This is not happening. It’s not real! NOT REAL! he screamed and closed his eyes in useless defence. But he could feel himself being dragged and when he opened his eyes the reservoir was creeping ever closer, its water rising as the giant dissolved within, and Ed was melting with him. The crows’ cries were loud, as they waited to consume the last morsels of Ed’s mind.

Ed felt himself being shaken like a ragdoll, violently tossed from side-to-side.

Leave me, please leave me. I don’t want this. I want to go home. HOME! pleaded Ed, childlike. His voice quivering.

Then another voice, loving and unexpected, floated like an angel’s sweet song through the madness of his world.

Hey, come on, it’s alright, Ed, come back to me now. But that sweet voice sounded so far away. He closed his eyes again and in the blackness drifted white phantoms until a red light, the glow of blood vessels under an incandescent blaze, burst into his world. The phantoms scattered to hide.

Ed gradually opened his eyes and a face emerged. Mel’s smile greeted him.

Welcome back, honey!

Ed had upset a glass of water over himself as he fell asleep. Mel had placed the glass on the bedside table and was busy mopping up the spill with a flannel.

You were having quite some nightmare, Ed. Are you alright?

Ed rubbed his weary eyes, adjusting them to the comforting and familiar surroundings. With relief he breathed the sweet night air and the pace of his heart stepped down.

Yes, I’m fine thanks, love, it was just a stupid dream.

He kissed his wife gently on the cheek to reassure her but struggled to reassure himself.

Maybe it was just a dream? But maybe it wasn’t.

And that tremulous voice reverberated in his thoughts like thunder in a cave.

Are you going to look where your heart longs to look, where your father told you never to look? Are you prepared for what you might see?

He knew he would. He had no choice because destiny had found him after all.

Goodnight, love, said Mel and kissed him on the head.

Good night, darling, replied Ed.

Melanie turned over, drifting quickly into sleep, but Ed remained stubbornly upright, caught between two worlds: the one he loved and a dark foreboding one creeping ever closer.

A world he had been running from his entire life.

***

For years Ed had been scrubbing Witzend reservoir from his memory, but it was a stain that would not fade and now it was invading his professional life. He had to look; it was his job to ensure that everything was shipshape and watertight.

His logical mind tried to reassure him that it was just a reservoir, that the only things to see were the vast expanse of water and whatever had been carelessly discarded in its depths. Tyres, fishing line, bottles and cans. But the early hours don’t respect logic.

‘Nothing else? Are you going to look where your heart longs to look…?’

Ed’s ghosts were hiding in that stain. Those same phantoms that terrorised him as a child, when he walked down the long dark lane from his friend’s house, forcing him to break into a run and never look back. The reason why he hated entering dark rooms, lest eyes should emerge from the shadows. A nagging feeling that he was forever being tagged by something unseen. Once, he’d outgrown his fears but now his fears were outgrowing him. Paranoia? An extra sense? Or the onset of madness?

He lay awake, nervously scanning the room, glancing at the clock marking the passing hours, its ticking reverberating in his mind like a spider trapped in a jar. One thirty am, a long way from the golden light of dawn. Fear was eating into his thoughts like termites burrowing into wood and he tried to rationalise why… Anxiety. It’s my first big job in years, since David was three and he is now eight. Yes, I’m simply scared that I’ll fail… This is the big one, a chance to put my career back on track. I can’t blow it.

No, son. NO! echoed in the room. He sat upright, searching for someone to connect that voice to, but there was only the stillness of the night.

Besides, it couldn’t be. It was impossible. His father was gone but still that voice returned, hanging in the air like scent on an old jacket pulled from the back of a forgotten closet.

Never return there, Ed. Witzend reservoir will pull you into its depths. Its still waters run mysterious and deep. I implore you never to go there. NEVER!

Harry’s drowning was tragic, but the inquest delivered a verdict of accidental death: a poor swimmer who toppled overboard his boat, too far from the shore. Ed wasn’t convinced, imagining raging water dragging his father down in giant grasping hands, on that terrible day: August 6th, 1989. He recalled the time frozen on his father’s smashed watch dial: 1:50 and saw the face of the grand clock tower reflecting in the water too; clock hands arranged like a terrible grin, mocking his father’s passing.

Ed always struggled to accept Harry’s death as an accident, just a twist in the meandering path of fate, and now he felt fate retracing its steps. An invisible force, pulling in his sleep to torment him. He looked to the bedside clock once more: ten to two. The man with the clock face was back, smiling. I really should get a digital clock…

Ed was eighteen in the year his phantoms really emerged. Wardrobe doors crept open in the night, stairs creaked under advancing footsteps, mirrors showed shadowy reflections. Nights when he lay awake, eyes darting around, afraid of what lurked in the shadows but unable to resist a peek. On such nights, his father’s voice would be the last thing in his mind, lulling him to sleep.

They’re only shadows, son. Close your eyes and sleep and finally his weary eyes would close.

So, Ed sought solace in his studies, pursuing his dream of becoming a civil engineer, occupying his mind until evening came and the shadows in the world became one long shadow: day yielding to night.

Did the sun swallow the shadows by day, or do the shadows swallow the sun at night? He never knew.

***

The birds were stirring, as the first rays of amber light filtered through the blinds, their sonorous songs lifting Ed’s spirits momentarily, but as his mind began to awaken in the new day, a burgeoning malaise, lingering over him for the past year, sneaked in. One dark shadow swept aside by another: a feeling of disenchantment developing ever since that upstart Chris had arrived two years ago as head of the division. His new boss.

Perhaps Ed was not losing his sanity, only his sense of direction; watching it head the wrong way. He would have to work with… No! Work for Chris and Chris would make sure he understood it. Chris Davidson, bringer of bad dreams. The antithesis of the phantoms which came to Scrooge; they promised a reward for change, but Ed saw change and no reward.

Exhausted from his lingering thoughts, Ed felt sleep calling once again, but not before he moved the jug of water from his bedside table to the dresser on the other side of the room.

Water had lost its taste.

Chapter 2

1884 – Destiny

Destiny:

A self-fulfilling prophecy,

Or a prophecy fulfilled?

In 1884, Witzend valley was a beautiful and unspoiled place, with a sinister reputation.

Framed by low mountains in the distance cultivating pine forests that grazed the sky, the wide valley sported woodland of oak, ash, beech, and elm, with luscious open pastures in the basin. The river Witz gently meandered its way through thickets of reeds at the embankments and lilies crowning the shallows. Anyone strolling through the land, sunlight slanting through the trees and sweeping across the meadows, as birdsong filled the air, might feel they had found Eden.

Night-time swept aside the pastoral bliss of the day under a blanket of a billion twinkling stars cloaking a haunting and secretive place, where foxes barked, bats flashed out of the darkness, and owl shrieks pierced the unsettling night. Not even the brightest moon could lift the eerie sense of foreboding, casting long shadows, creeping through the trees like giants stalking prey.

Witzend valley was a fateful place. People drowned in the river, or got confused and disorientated in the woods, dying from exposure or starvation. Many simply just disappeared leaving no trace and no explanation. The valley acquired a reputation as a haunted and troublesome place to be avoided, particularly at night.

All of which suited the landowners perfectly because it kept people away and that should have made it easier for them to build their new reservoir on the site. But then the squatters arrived, a group looking for somewhere to hide themselves away. Somewhere most people would be too afraid to visit.

Encountering Terra Altor in the daytime, ambling about the village, would be a pleasant experience. Smartly dressed in the fashions of the day, courteous, polite, and generous with their money, they blended easily with the local population. They just liked to live by themselves, close to nature and secluded. As for what they did at night, people didn’t ask, for what you don’t know can’t hurt you. A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing.

Under the cover of darkness, beneath the unbounded sky, they slipped into their ceremonial habits: black hooded gowns, some marked with a silver band to denote a leader, a high priest. Then they practiced their rituals at their altar, a big black bejewelled box, like a giant treasure chest, chanting prayers to their merciful god, Kronos, asking him to bless their time and protect them in the coming days of reckoning.

For them, time was the force to be worshipped. Nothing exists, if not in time, and nothing survives it.

***

Some people’s curiosity cannot be constrained and the valley’s sinister reputation did not deter William Davis, a local reporter and enthusiastic photographer. William was irrepressibly inquisitive and Terra Altor drew his attention like iron filings to a magnet.

There has to be an interesting story, he thought, otherwise why would they be there? William did not believe in coincidence; that was too easy, too convenient. He had a compelling urge to profile and photograph them, to capture their place in history but most of all to understand what attracted them to their home.

William too worshipped at the altar of time, with a passion for restoring clocks. Items discarded and unloved, which he painstakingly repaired, feeding his sense that each hypnotic tick connected to an unseen dimension.

He’d seen Terra Altor’s encampment from a distance and now, sitting at home, surrounded by the metronomic beat of clocks, William was researching the sect in the few scraps of news he could gather from local papers. There was little to read, but he did learn of the landowner’s desire to drive them off, so that they could build a reservoir, and the sect’s reluctance to leave.

It would be good to get them before they are gone, he thought, sensing their time would be fleeting.

So, on a glorious summer day in 1884, William set off, carrying his tripod, plates, and a notebook tucked into his pocket, keen to uncover something unusual and newsworthy, hoping he could at last produce an article to delight his editor; an accomplishment which had so far eluded him.

As he walked towards the sprawling camp, flowers scattered over the fresh pastures filled his nostrils with sweet scents, but the trees seemed to whisper a dark secret.

Go home, William, leave while you can…

He stopped, feeling uneasy, but this was no day for irrational fear, so he carried on, until startled by a real voice behind him.

Hello, William. We were not expecting you so soon.

William turned to see a man, tall and powerful, accompanied at either side by two elegant and graceful women. The man was dressed in simple grey cotton trousers and a white linen shirt, which had begun to yellow. The women wore long fur coats pinched at their waists by a leather belt with a gleaming golden buckle.

The women smiled broadly at him, stirring feelings uncommon in him. He felt aroused, and words came clumsily.

How, er, how do you know my name and how could you be expecting me?

"Everyone knows you, William, you are quite the local celebrity with your photographs, newspaper articles, and of course, your clocks. It was only a matter of time before you came here. Tell me, how many clocks do you have now?" said the man.

Fifteen, if you count them all. Ten, if you count those working.

So much time on your hands! replied the man and he laughed heartily.

Yes, I suppose.

I am Seth, he said, extending his hand, which William took. Now, what do you want from us?

To write an article about you and take some photographs for my paper, if you’ll permit me.

What is there to say, William, and what is there to see? We are simple people, living off the land. You will not have much to write about, or much to observe.

Maybe, but why have you chosen to live here?

I suppose that’s a reasonable question. Take your pictures first, meet our people, and then we can talk.

Glancing around, William could see many opportunities begging for his lens.

Yes, first I’ll take some photographs.

William visited various parts of the encampment, carefully positioning his camera and tripod to capture people posed outside their haphazard homes of different shapes and sizes. Some were simple canvas tents, rigged over roughly hewn branches, but there were more elaborate huts with thatched rooves built with stones scavenged locally and long grasses, which had been dried. A substantially constructed and large hut stood in the centre of the camp, made from stones and with a crudely tiled grey roof.

The people he encountered were friendly, inviting even, coming out to talk with him and readily posing for photographs. He felt relaxed, not an intruder but a guest.

***

William was a gifted photographer, his experienced eye was drawn like a hawk to the unusual, and one family particularly aroused his attention. The man’s face was striking, a long scar snaking down his chin, and he owned a thick black mop of hair. His wife was slender with auburn hair trailing down to her waist and noticeably she was missing the tip of her left little finger. Their daughter sported elegant lengths of cascading blonde locks and striking eyes, deep blue oceans inset in her pale freckled face, iridescent and sparkling. They readily posed for him and accepted his directions.

Can you bring the perambulator to the front of the picture, directly in front of you, please? he asked the girl. Perfect, now hold still, until I say.

That was one of his most memorable photographs, exquisitely capturing a moment in time that would resonate across the centuries. Every detail rendered perfectly in the plate of the camera: the girl’s twinkling eyes, the striped hood of the perambulator, the elegance of the woman, and the calm assurance of the man. An assurance which spoke of power.

William was carefully packing away plates and equipment when the two beautiful women gracefully walked towards him, their long strides and belted waists emphasising the sway of their hips.

I am Cassandra, and this is Cleo. Seth would like to talk with you now. Both smiled warmly, which William returned in a boyish kind of grin, before following them into the large building in the centre of the camp, his footsteps clacking across the rough stone floor and echoing in the surprisingly large space.

They are so beautiful.

In the centre, perched on a carved oak frame, was the altar. A black rectangle, 8 feet long, 6 feet wide and 3 feet high, ornately decorated with gold and something like pearls, except they seemed to radiate light more than reflect it. The frame was on wheels and tracks of dirt across the floor suggested it was often moved outside. To William it looked just like a treasure chest from the pirate tales which captivated his imagination as a child. He felt a strange sensation near it, like it wanted to tear him out of time.

Cassandra spoke. Sit here, William. She patted a simple oak chair with a brown leather cushion opposite Seth. William sat down and produced his notepad and pencil, preparing to write.

Why is this land of such importance to you and the people here, Seth?

Everyone has places which are special to them, William; locations which are important to their beliefs. This land has a deep connection with time and we believe that Earth’s time flows through this point, the time in which all things live. Disturbing this land will disrupt the flow of time, and time is the heartbeat of life itself.

This jarred with William’s rational beliefs.

Why is this land special? Truly, it is beautiful, but it has no magic powers. There is no such thing as magic.

Our beliefs may seem simple to you, outdated even, but understand that we will fight to keep this land unspoiled, for us and future generations. This place belongs to everyone, not just a group of greedy landowners, who will exploit it solely for their own gain, and in that act destroy time on Earth itself.

William, paused, sensing he needed a more delicate approach, or he would not get his story.

Can you tell me more about your beliefs?

Our beliefs are sacred. You would have to join us and be part of us.

I cannot do that. I am here to learn about you, not to be part of you. I’m here to do my job, as a journalist.

Seth shook his head. Our beliefs cannot be shared with outsiders.

Intrigued by the passion in Seth’s voice and feeling the altar’s incredible energy straining to connect with his mind, like a tightrope stretched taut, he wanted something deeper, more meaningful. Maybe the altar was the key. What is that? he asked, pointing to it.

Seth paused before answering, obviously exercising caution. That’s just our altar which we use in our rituals, nothing more.

William wasn’t convinced. Does it have any special powers?

No special powers, William, no powers at all.

Really?

Truly! replied Seth, trying to close the conversation.

William looked towards Cassandra and Cleo, their pretty mouths curving into beguiling smiles. They strolled leisurely towards him and he inhaled their exotic beauty. He could not help imagining them stripped of their coats to their naked flesh and he began lusting after them.

Something in their eyes toyed with his thoughts, and they winked playfully, teasing him. His heart fluttered and thoughts of the mysterious altar evaporated like water on a hot iron plate. There was a greater desire owning his mind.

William’s lust was growing into a burning passion, making him feel uneasy, his mind drifting away from its original purpose – come here, get a scoop, make his editor happy.

He sat for a few moments, quelling his thoughts, trying to find control, until Seth broke the silence.

I think it is time for you to leave now, William.

But I have so many more questions, things I need to know.

I have said all I can say. If you want to know more, join us and take our oaths.

Something told William that further probing was futile and he rose from his chair, hoping he could at least write an article around the photographs.

I suppose I have everything I need for my story. Thank you.

Very well, William. Thank you for coming. Cass, Cleo, will you please show William out?

Cassandra and Cleo escorted William, walking at either side of him. Thank you for coming, William, they said, and pinned his cheeks between two tender kisses, stirring his emotions into a cauldron of passion.

Goodbye, he muttered, quietly, and hastened from the encampment, an unusual energy skipping into his stride.

Walking home, his longing for the two women consumed his mind. He mentally undressed them and imagined his hands tenderly stroking their smooth flesh. He saw them, naked, on the altar, calling to him.

A power was growing over him, and something inside him told him he should resist, but he longed for temptation to hold out its persuasive hand.

And he would take it and be dammed.

Chapter 3

Thoughts in the Darkness

Be careful what you wish for,

It might just come true.

William’s room was dark, the heavy curtains shutting out the feeble light of the slender crescent moon. Ticking clocks created a cacophony which would have driven many people to madness, but William liked it. Silence only served to amplify his loneliness.

Lying in his soft bed, William’s thoughts kept returning to the women. He imagined their soft hands touching his skin, their hypnotic scent, and their sweet voices whispering in his ear; make love to us William. We want you. His thoughts were drifting to heavenly places when his editor’s voice intruded, crashing the party.

Give me something interesting, William, it has been too long. Far too long!

But he knew he had nothing. Nothing at all, of the people, of their rituals, of the altar, or of the women. God, those women…

Imagine if their coats just fell open…

William needed more and he needed it now.

He flew from his bed, tossing the sheets aside like a fly realising it had one last chance and frantically fleeing from a spider’s web. The clock ticks became intense and that pulse, tick, tock, tick, tock, was timing his thoughts: find the altar, make love to the women, find the altar, make love to the women...

Passion was driving through him, stirring his soul. He had to have them.

Shadows began forming in the darkness because the darkness always cloaks something deeper. In a corner of the room, emerging from the gloom, as deep and dark as a cave, the women appeared, loosening their belts and slowly teasing apart their coats, before letting them slide tantalisingly to the floor. Smooth porcelain skin glowed with soft white light. Feeling a strange force tugging on him, William turned to his side and saw the altar. Its lid was creeping open and red light was spreading out like flames crawling across the room. The faces of the many clocks flashed brightly in the eerie glow, their hands spinning wildly. Loud chimes followed, like church bells calling the faithful to their knees. The room became a riot of light and sound