Adam Slater - Hunted

‘Wow, that looks like hair,’ Melissa said, and peered at the page up close. After a moment she announced triumphantly, ‘It is hair. The whole picture’s made of human hair.’

‘Ugh,’ Callum said, startled but impressed by her boldness. ‘Don’t touch it. You don’t know where it’s been.’

Even Melissa did not recognise the forgotten names of some of the strange beings in this old, haphazard catalogue. The Great Horned Woman of Gaughall, Peg Powler and Jenny Greenteeth, the Duergar, Jack-in-Irons, the Mostyn Dragon – page after page of ghosts and demons and spirits, some malignant, some benign.

‘There might be something more recent towards the back,’ Callum said. ‘Skip forwards a bit.’

Melissa turned over a sheaf of stiff linen and the scrapbook fell open to a page full of faded brown photographs on thin glass plates with metal backing. There were six on each side of the page, each photo showing nothing but a haunting woodland scene of bare, tangled trees.

Each picture was simply labelled ‘Marlock Wood’, in neat, Victorian script, the ink faded as brown as the photographs. Callum turned the page. Another dozen slides of the same view were stuck on the yellowed linen.

Melissa shivered. ‘These are spookier than the monsters,’ she said. ‘The same picture again and again with nothing in it. It’s like someone was trying . . .’

‘. . . to take a picture of something that doesn’t turn up on the film,’ Callum finished. ‘Yeah. I wonder . . .’

He turned another page, and this time there were twelve pictures all lined up neatly and labelled ‘Nether Marlock churchyard’.

This time it was Callum’s turn to shiver.

‘Nothing in these, either,’ said Melissa. ‘Unless you count empty graves.’

Callum shook his head. ‘It’s the photos that are empty, not the graves.’

He turned the next page. He could tell by the weight of the linen that there were no more photos. This time there was a picture – a pen and ink sketch of two figures in a landscape.

The background scene was unmistakeable – it was Nether Marlock Churchyard, seen from exactly the same angle as the photographs, with the old yew tree in the background. Standing in the foreground were a boy and a dog.

The boy was drawn in stark contrasts: dark, longish hair, his tight-fitting Victorian clothes black as well, and a face as pale and blank as a field of snow. The dog beside the boy, crouched as though it were about to spring out of the page, was so big it still came up to his waist. Its fangs gleamed stark white in the black, impenetrable ink of its fur.

The picture was labelled ‘The Grim of Nether Marlock churchyard’. Judging by the yellowed paper and faded ink, it was at least a century old. But the boy that looked out from the page was, without doubt, the same one that Callum had forbidden to enter the cottage not quite an hour ago.

It was a picture of Jacob and Doom.

Beneath the picture was a handwritten note on lined jotter paper. The handwriting was different to any of the other notes or entries they had seen in the book. Callum wondered how many different hands this book had passed through over the hundreds of years of its existence.

This sketch believed to be made by a local shopkeeper known to the photographer, the note read. After months of failed attempts to capture an image of the Grim with collodion and silver nitrate, this drawing was completed based on an accurate description given to the artist. No more accurate representation is known. The drawing dates to the latter years of the 90s.

‘It’s older than that!’ exclaimed Melissa.

‘It means 1890s, not 1990s,’ replied Callum. ‘Look how old the photos are. They’re on glass plates.’

‘Is that what your black dog looks like?’ Melissa asked.

‘That is my black dog,’ Callum breathed. ‘That’s the exact place I saw it, beneath that yew tree. Only I saw it there yesterday!’

And outside the door an hour ago, he added silently.

Callum turned another page, but now the entries moved on to more recent photographs of other churchyards, and other stories. Then, towards the back of the book, the entries suddenly skipped forward in time and became more or less contemporary. The dates on the yellowed newsprint were no more than thirteen or fourteen years old. Melissa and Callum both recognised the style of the local weekly newspaper, the Marlock Advertiser, which hadn’t changed much in the last twenty years.

Haunted Church Out of Bounds This Halloween, read the headline.

Nether Marlock Church, now an ancient monument, will be surrounded by a police patrol this year over the weekend of 31st October – 1st November. Due to reports of the graveyard being home to a ghostly black dog, Nether Marlock Church has recently become a popular site for Halloween visits. The Advertiser would like to remind readers in the strongest possible terms that ancient monuments can be dangerous. Under no circumstances should this site be visited in the dark, due to uneven ground and the danger of falling masonry. Police officers will be on hand this weekend to remove any trespassers.

Beneath this clipping was another note, a careless scrawl written in blue biro.

Others have seen it too. Who reports these sightings? A record of names will amount to a list of local chime births.

On the opposite page was a photocopied leaflet advertising a themed ‘Spooky Saturday’ at a local pub. The sketch that decorated the advert, a silhouette of a huge dog, looked very familiar. The owner of the blue ballpoint pen clearly thought so too and had commented: Definitely another recent sighting. Artist unwilling to discuss.

‘Is this your gran’s handwriting?’ Melissa asked, awed.

‘No,’ Callum answered. ‘It’s similar, but hers isn’t this spiky.’

As Melissa opened her mouth to reply, Callum heard the click of the front gate. He glanced up wildly at the clock – half past six.

‘Quick!’ Callum hissed. ‘It’s Gran! This has to go back on the shelf. We’ve got a minute if we’re quick. I put the bolt on -’

He glanced across at the door. The bolt was drawn back. Callum swore. He’d only bolted it against Jacob, not a second time when Melissa had come in.

‘Hurry!’

Melissa hauled her chair across the room and jumped on it in one frantic sweep of energy. Callum handed the book up to her and she slid it into place behind the back row of books.

‘Here,’ Callum gasped, pressing the gardening books into her arms. ‘They’ve got to be in the right order. Quick, quick!’

Gran was struggling with the door. Even without the bolt, it was still double-locked, and that gave them precious extra seconds. Callum shoved the books into Melissa’s hands and she banged them into place.

‘Callum?’ called Gran.

‘Wait a sec, Gran, I’m coming!’ Callum stalled.

He gave it ten seconds – just long enough for Melissa to slam the last handful of books into place and leap down from the chair.

‘Coming, Gran!’ Callum cried out breathlessly, and opened the door.

‘Why on Earth did you double-lock the door if you were inside, Callum?’ asked Gran irritably as she stepped inside. ‘There’s absolutely no need to -’

She broke off as she surveyed the scene. Callum, red-faced and breathing hard; Melissa standing guiltily beside the chair that she’d pushed haphazardly up against the wall beneath the window.

Melissa gave Gran a nervous smile.

‘Hi, Mrs Scott. I’m Melissa Roper from Callum’s school. I came to help him with some questions he’d asked about our geography homework -’