Adam Slater - Hunted

The others followed almost as quickly. The rough ground of the old churchyard was treacherous underfoot. Callum tried to run and fell flat in two metres, cracking his elbow against the low iron railing surrounding the Victorian grave he’d tripped over.

Ancient monuments can be dangerous . . .

Seconds later Melissa stumbled on exactly the same railing. But Callum was on his feet again and didn’t wait for her. He caught his jacket on the gate on the way out of the graveyard, ripped it free, and stumbled, cursing, down the lane to the road. Stark in his mind he remembered the image of the hand – his own hand - closing over the round brass knocker on Gran’s green door and rapping at it firmly.

He didn’t need a premonition to tell him what would happen next. Gran would open the door. She would think the Fetch was Callum. She would invite it in. And all the charms and magic in the world couldn’t keep the Fetch from crossing Gran’s threshold if she asked it in herself.

And then . . .

Callum sprinted down the lane, gasping for breath. What if he was too late, as he’d been again and again when the Fetch was ahead of him? Behind him he heard Melissa’s running footsteps, and beyond that, the thud of Doom’s paws on the road. He didn’t look back to see how close they were, or whether Jacob was following too. His only thought was to get home.

Faster!

Reaching the cottage, Callum crashed through the little garden gate and raced up the path.

‘Callum, wait!’

It was Jacob’s voice, but Callum didn’t stop. He had no idea how to fight the Fetch, but he knew he had to stop it before . . .

With Melissa on his heels, Callum slammed into the door, twisting the old-fashioned latch upwards. The door flew open and they stumbled into the room.

Gran was standing in front of the fire, her hands on her hips, a worried frown drawing her brows together. She did not look frightened. She looked concerned and frustrated. She was looking earnestly at the boy who stood facing her – a boy only a little shorter than Gran herself, broad-shouldered, in an anorak with a ragged hem identical to the one Callum was wearing.

For a moment, Callum stood frozen in amazement. It truly was like looking into a mirror.

Beware the dark reflection.

And then Callum cried out, ‘Gran!’

The Fetch and Gran both turned at the same moment. Gran’s eyes flew wide and her mouth dropped open in shock and understanding. Seeing Callum standing in the same room as his doppelganger, she knew at once what had happened.

Gran didn’t hesitate. She stepped between the Fetch and Callum, holding her arms out to bar the monster’s path.

‘Callum, run!’

The Fetch reached out with Callum’s arms. But the strength in those arms was far greater than Callum’s own. In its rage, the Fetch’s nails and teeth lengthened, so that suddenly it looked more like a demon than a boy; a parody of Callum, with claws like talons and teeth like the fangs of a prehistoric monster.

With one of these hideous claws it seized Gran by the shoulder, and with the other it grabbed her by the hair. Then it lifted her off her feet, her face frozen in a wide stare of astonishment and horror, and hurled her like a doll across the room. Her body crashed hard against the wall and she slid to the floor and lay still.

‘Callum!’ cried a voice.

Callum half turned. Jacob stood on the path, Doom crouched at his side, growling like a demonic tiger, showing teeth like sabres in the moonlight. Twin trails of black blood dripped like sweat down Jacob’s temples and along his palms. The pair had kept pace with Callum on the road, but the barrier he had thrown up against the spectral boy and his dog still prevented either of them from moving even a fraction over Gran’s doorstep.

‘Quick,’ cried Melissa. ‘You have to invite them in!’

But the Fetch was too fast. Crossing the room in two quick strides, it slammed the door in the faces of the two ghosts. From beyond the solid wood, Doom let out a frenzied howl.

The Fetch stood for a moment, flexing its clawed talons, its alien features settling back into a face that looked like Callum’s, although the fire did not leave its eyes, and in its twisted smile the teeth remained sharp and pointed.

Then it lunged forward with its hands spread, ready to grasp and tear.

Focused only on Callum, the Fetch paid Melissa no attention. With all the strength in her body, she threw herself at Callum and pushed him out of the Fetch’s path.

It was only a distraction – a brief one. The Fetch turned to follow Callum as he tumbled backwards. Melissa stepped sideways towards the hearth. Grabbing Gran’s mug of cold tea, she hurled it at the back of the Fetch’s head. The mug smashed against its skull, but Melissa might as well have hit the monster with a dandelion for all the notice it took.

‘Rowan!’ Callum cried, scrambling out of the way on his hands and knees. ‘Throw the rowan!’

Melissa seized the jar of hazel leaves and rowan berries from the table. Sensing she was about to attack with something more effective than cold tea, the Fetch turned to face her. Melissa hurled the jar at its head, but her aim was less accurate this time. The twigs and berries flew harmlessly past the Fetch’s face and smashed at Callum’s feet. He grabbed a slender twig of rowan as he got to his feet. It was the flimsiest weapon imaginable.

The Fetch stood still, its head tilted sideways, contemplating Callum. It was utterly unnerving to be stared at by his own face, seeing such burning hatred there.

The Fetch licked its lips and smiled. Then stepped forward again, claws raised.

Callum flourished the rowan, and the Fetch stopped, its burning eyes narrow.

Then it laughed, a hideous gurgling sound, as if its throat were being rubbed raw with sandpaper.

‘Pitiful,’ it said in a hoarse voice. ‘Can this world do no better than you as its champion? A frightened child, cowering behind a handful of twigs?’

It had flinched, though. It had backed away from the touch of the rowan as though it feared it. Callum raised the twig higher, even though it felt like trying to meet a switchblade with a safety pin. If only he had a more substantial weapon.

That was it!

‘Melissa!’ Callum cried. ‘The logs – they’re rowan too!’

Melissa snatched up one of the stouter branches piled in the fire basket and tossed it to Callum. He dropped the twig and caught the branch.

The Fetch sneered.

‘A sharpened lance might harm me, but not that stick. Fight with your hands, little boy, not with leaves and berries! Is the strength of your body mere illusion? Shall we test it?’

The Fetch leaped forward, its wicked talons slashing for Callum’s throat. Callum fell back, lashing out, using the rowan branch as a cudgel to strike at the Fetch. The blow connected with the side of its head and the Fetch gave a snarl of pain.

The instant the charmed wood touched its skin, all illusion fell away. Callum’s likeness vanished and the Fetch became itself once more, the skinless creature of vein and muscle that Callum had first seen in the garden. Its lipless teeth were clenched in fury, the naked cords of its throat tensed for attack. The wide, lidless eyes stared wrathfully at Callum.

With the speed of a striking viper, the Fetch seized Callum around the wrist. It moved so fast that Callum realised all the creature’s earlier dodging and weaving had just been to lead him on. With a vicious wrench, the Fetch twisted Callum’s arm until he was forced to let go of the branch, then brought its other hand flashing towards his head. Callum desperately flung his right hand out to block, but he couldn’t get a grip on the slick surface of the Fetch’s body. Almost carelessly, it tossed Callum across the room. He fell hard against the floor.