I suppose I’m glad Amy took her laptop to the campsite. Well, not glad obviously. It’s hard to be glad of anything when I know my life can now be measured in minutes, but thanks to her need to be connected to everything all the time I can tell our story in the time I have left.
I’m currently lying on my back in a hotel room which I am struggling to accept will be my tomb. The bed is comfortable, the lights are bright, the TV on the wall is huge. It all seems so friendly and welcoming. My heart is fluttering like I’ve been running, but it’s just fear. Adrenaline. It’s like my heart’s trying to act as alive as it possibly can, to squeeze a lifetime of beating into these last frenzied moments. It’s finding this as difficult to accept as I am, the fact that I will die here before the dawn slips over the horizon, when there’s really no reason why we couldn’t have carried on for another sixty or seventy years.
But there is a reason. And it’s a reason I need to tell you about, whilst I try not to listen to the desperate thumping in my chest, each rhythmic beat counting down to a grand finale I’ve come to almost accept is now inevitable. Almost. The occasional stab of hysterical fear still grips me, but there’s nothing I can do. Not against them.
They call them the Quiet Ones, or at least that’s what the old man told me. It’s the name the old folks gave to the shapes in the dark, the things that crouch in the shadow just beyond the edge of sight. They are the ones that creep unseen through the underbrush at night and dance beneath the moon away from the eyes of humans.
And so they would have remained, living alongside us in their dark, hidden world, if we had not broken the ancient laws –
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
It was a sunny morning as we drove up. I can hardly believe this was only two days ago; my friends were still alive then. I mustn’t think about how many times we could have turned back, how many words I could have used to change the plan.
I knew there was something wrong with that place. Of course there were no signs, no warnings of any physical kind to prevent us driving off the road three miles before the campsite and crashing off through the undergrowth. I almost feel that we were being drawn there, and perhaps we were. In fact, I’m sure we were.
The car was being scraped and brushed mercilessly by the overhanging trees, and more than once I asked Amy if she was sure this was even a trail let alone a road. She insisted she’d seen a sign of some kind along the road, though she couldn’t describe it. It was like a mixture of confusion and pride alone was keeping her foot pressed on the accelerator. We bumped and jolted along, the two boys grinning widely in the back, until at last the mud-track opened up into a clearing.
The grassy area was maybe fifty feet across, surrounded on all sides by thick forest. Old trees stretched up around us, their old and gnarled branches reaching like twisted fingers into the darkening sky. As I got out of the car, I realised how deathly quiet it was. I could hear nothing of the road we’d left behind, though it couldn’t be more than a mile or two behind us, and no birds fluttered above. It was like the world was holding its breath, or perhaps that the world itself was just…different…here.
I wanted to leave more or less the moment I stepped out of that car and looked up at those horrible trees. I’d looked up the campsite we were actually aiming for and it had showers, a club house, a coffee and bacon sandwich van in the mornings. This was a clearing in a forest, and I did not want to be there.
The boys, of course, loved it. We’d barely stopped before they started pulling the bags out and setting up the camp, almost falling over themselves to be the first to get their tent up. Amy and I watched them with that resigned, world-weary expression female friends of overgrown man-children tend to adopt when they get together and act – well, like overgrown man-children. I remember watching them yelling and shoving one another, enjoying themselves, and not quite being able to shake that horrible sense of foreboding. But nothing I said was taken seriously, and eventually I gave up, resigned to the fact that we were spending the weekend in that dark, quiet place literally in the middle of nowhere.
That night was when it started. We had a fire going, and Tom had his feet too close to it. He didn’t think anything of it, the night was cold and we were all trying to get as close to the flames as possible. But when he stood up to get a beer, he realised his left hiking boot had almost fallen apart. The heat had melted whatever rubbery glue held it together, and the sole was no longer attached. After a lot of laughter, swearing and general hilarity he threw the ruined boot off into the darkness. We didn’t know it at the time, but that was what had sealed our fate.
The next morning Tom was gone. We weren’t worried at first, thinking he’d just gotten up early and wandered off, but then Simon noticed the boot. Melted and ruined. The one Tom had thrown into the darkness. It was sitting, innocently enough, in the tent on his sleeping bag. But there was no sign of Tom.
We all assumed as the morning wore on that Tom had walked into town to buy a new pair of boots. But when he didn’t return by mid-afternoon, what had been a tense atmosphere soon became one of fear. Of course, there was no cell phone reception in that cursed clearing, so we were left with no choice but to search the woods and shout for him. We found nothing. No tracks, no Tom. As the light faded we tried searching with flashlights, but when Amy wandered away and fell into thick stinking mud, losing her flashlight in the process, we abandoned the search. Amy was near hysterical by this point, and I wasn’t far off myself. It was only because I had Simon with me that I was able to cope, and together we took Amy back and got her into our tent. The next morning, we decided, we’d leave in the car and ask around the town, nearly three miles away. Surely that was the only place Tom could have gone.
When I woke the next day Amy was gone. Just gone. On her sleeping bag, as if it had every right to be there, was her flashlight. The one she’d lost in the forest. It was caked in mud, as though it had been pulled from the quagmire by someone and returned to her. I was terrified by this point, but Simon insisted that she must have resumed the search for Tom as soon as the sun rose, and had no doubt walked into town after finding nothing in the woods. She’d known that was our plan anyway, so it made some (though not perfect) sense. We were desperate at this point, on the verge of panic, so I suppose it’s understandable that we weren’t thinking straight. We took Amy’s keys and left for the town; Simon’s face was stony and grim the whole way there. We barely said a word.
No one in town would speak to us about our friends. The villagers simply stared at us, made suggestions about other campsites, acted like they knew nothing. But in their eyes I could see something more. An understanding. A fear. Like they knew perfectly well what was happening but wouldn’t say. Simon said I was being paranoid, and had to drag me out of the police station by force when I lost my self-control and started screaming at the officer behind the desk. He’d barely even blinked, just given me a bland assurance that they’d look into it, without even a hint that he meant it.
The sun was setting by the time we walked with resignation into the little shop by the edge of the village. An old man, careworn and ragged, was about to close up when we arrived. As we silently grabbed sandwiches neither of us wanted, he asked if we were the ones he’d heard were asking about their missing friends. By then I’d given up hope, so those words were like a fire inside me and I almost threw myself over the counter. He smiled sadly, told us there was no chance of finding our friends. He explained to me what I now know; what I didn’t believe at the time.
The Quiet Ones have always stalked us, flitting between the shadows and murky unseen depths just beyond our world. Sometimes, in ancient forgotten places, their world and ours overlap. Out in the dark, untouched wilds, the forests and the mountains, some places remain where the barrier between them and us wears perilously thin. If we keep to our side, they must keep to theirs. But for the unwary fool who strays one dark night too far, beyond the wispy veil of our territory and into the Quiet, only horror awaits. Because the age-old pacts, struck millennia ago by our terrified ancestors, still hold even now. Those who violate their world belong to them; just as it has always been. Tom’s shoe, Amy’s torch. Both carelessly thrown into the darkness, both returned in place of their owners. A terrible balance restored; a terrible bargain fulfilled.
Simon flew into a rage before the old man finished speaking, shouting and threatening like a lunatic. He knocked a stack of papers off the counter as he lunged for the old man, but just then the police officer from the station arrived and curtly demanded that we leave.
I expected Simon to drive us away, to leave the hideous place far behind. But he was incensed, in an impotent fury that stole his reason. I pleaded with him to drive on, but he was just as angry with me for believing the old man’s lies. To prove a point he drove us back to the clearing, and leaping from the car ran into the woods, screaming and daring whatever demons lurked there to show themselves. I was too terrified not to follow, tears streaming down my face, my cries rebounding from the half-seen boughs of ancient trees. Simon was far ahead of me, his hysterical screams echoing into the woods, before they rose in a final horrified shriek and were abruptly cut off. I turned to run and fell in a blind panic. I flailed and thrashed, imagining spiny hands clutching at me, dragging me towards a gloomy otherworld from which I’d never escape. But I got up, and I ran. Somehow I made it back to the clearing, slammed the car into gear and drove away, still crying, heading back to civilisation without looking back.
Shortly after that I arrived here. A cheap hotel by the roadside. Warm and inviting. Thinking I was safe. But then I realised my watch was missing. My left arm was caked in mud, with scratches from where I’d fallen amongst the brambles and roots. I must have left it there. Or somewhere between there and here. The same place the boot had been thrown. The same place the flashlight had been lost. The place where Simon had crossed over and…not returned.
So they’ll be coming for me. I don’t have long. Just enough to warn you.
Remember me, and beware the Quiet Ones.