Scary Stories - Twist in the Tale Series

Misty Hollow

Chubby twelve-year-oldlegs clad in tight shorts scurrying down the lane. Round, redface, hot in the morning sun. Panting, panting. Tie askew, shirtbuttons undone. Satchel, full of books and pencils and lunch box,banging heavily against his back in time to his jogging run.Timmy is late for school again.

The twisty, bendy lane makes the journey longer than it need be.It forms a long U, curving round... that place. There's ashortcut - if only he dare take it. But, doesn't his mother'svoice echo in his ears? Hadn't she warned him as she'd packed himoff, straightening his tie and smoothing his hair: "Don'tyou go through Misty Hollow, Timmy, keep to the lane"?Hadn't she told him, "It's a bad place, and I want you tokeep away from it"?

If only he hadn't dawdled and delayed. He hadn't meant to belate, but it had seemed like he had hours when his mother hadseen him off early this lovely sunny morning. Hours in which asmall inquisitive boy can explore the many delights the tree-linedcountry lane leading to the nearby village where his school issituated has to offer. Timmy has the healthy curiosity of anytwelve-year-old, and the way to school abounds with much toinvestigate. Perhaps too much.

The water-filled ditch, teeming with wildlife, at either side ofthe lane had waylaid him for far too long. Skimming water-boatmen,darting upside-down across the still, shallow water, theirpassage leaving tiny ripples in their wake, and shoals of fattadpoles beneath the surface, revelling in their fish-like stage,soon to exchange tails for legs. Sticklebacks aplenty peeringshyly from the weeds and tiny creatures in abundance, many hecould not put a name to, swarmed and thrived, hunted and werehunted and acted out their lives for the pleasure of thefascinated boy.

He'd fashioned a boat from leaves and twigs and set it to sail onthe water, crowing with delight when a dragonfly alighted on itto pilot his makeshift vessel. Then he'd sunk his painstakinglyconstructed craft with a carefully directed pebble, which wasreally a torpedo fired from a German submarine. Tiring of theditch, he'd scaled a small tree, scuffing his already muddiedshoes, to examine a bird's nest, which alas proved to be empty.He had stood, still as a statue, observing a fearless squirrelpreening itself, its bright button eyes watching him as hewatched it, until, no longer able to maintain his immobility, hehad made a sudden movement and startled the little animal into afrantic scramble up a safe tree. A busy wasp's nest had beeninvestigated from a judicious distance with the aid of a longstick, until its inhabitants had become intolerant of his pryingand driven him away.

Thus he had dallied, his destination forgotten. The lane was awonderland, full of marvels for a questioning boy, every steprevealing something new and worthy of attention. Why worry aboutschool, with so much to be delved into?

Some internal clock - he didn't possess a watch - had eventuallyadvised him that time was frittering away. Even so, he hadn'tbeen able to resist the few minutes necessary to examine a gailycoloured caterpillar mechanically munching a leaf, or a spider atbreakfast on the succulent victim of its sticky web, or the raresight of a lonely kestrel soaring high above. Finally, theclangour of his built-in timepiece could no longer be ignored.Panic filled him, he had no time left to waste, school was stilla long way away, and he must hurry, hurry.

He just couldn't be late for school, not again. Mr Drake, Timmy'styrannical teacher, would surely keep him after classes this time- he'd threatened as much last time. There would be extra work todo, a long, loud lecture from Mr Drake and a letter outlining thereason for his detention to give to his mother. The thought wastoo much to bear. He really must get to school - and quickly.

Timmy pauses for breath, his plump cheeks puffing for air. Hisheaving chest subsiding, his gaze goes to the fence skirtingMisty Hollow. If he were to cross the Hollow he could cut out thebig U of the lane entirely and rejoin it where it straightens outagain. In effect, he would then be going in a straight line andavoiding the lane's long detour. By taking that route he wouldstill be late, but not very. Mr Drake might not even notice, andhe would escape detention. But to take the shortcut would be todisobey his mother, and that, in his young experience, invariablyresulted in a sound tongue-lashing. His mother's temper was amatch for Mr Drake's any day. On the other hand, if he were toarrive back home late for tea with the explanation that he hadbeen kept back as punishment for unpunctuality he would catch itfrom his mother anyway. He couldn't win!

One more look at the lane stretching in front of him and theprospect of the distance yet to cover decides him. Timmy jumpsthe ditch and lands heavily by the fence. Grasping the top rail,his foot on the lower rail, he hesitates once more. His mother'svoice is still loud in his ears - she had really meant it whenshe told him to keep away from the Hollow. As if his mother isthere in person castigating him for his disobedience, he pricksup his ears and sheepishly looks round. By some magic skill onlyadults have, his mother always knows when he has done somethingwrong. He can almost feel her watching him. He really ought to doas she had told him.

But this is silly! He tells himself on the point of dismountingthe fence and returning to the lane. Mother isn't here, andthere's nobody to tell her. How can she possibly know if he goesthrough the Hollow? If he evades the wrath of Mr Drake and getsback home at the usual time, she will be none the wiser. She'llnever know he disobeyed her. After all, it's not his fault thatthe lane goes miles out of his way. Anyway, what is there to fearat the Hollow? It's just a dip in the ground. Nothing to worryabout there. His mind is firmly made up now, and he climbs thefence.

Feeling quite rebellious and brave, Timmy drops down at the otherside of the fence and pushes through the thick hedge that screensMisty Hollow from the lane. He is the intrepid explorer now,fearless in the face of the unknown. What him, scared of a rottenold hole and a few old wive's tales? No way! It's true, theHollow has a reputation as a place to avoid, but no one says why.It has acquired a bad name for reasons nobody could, or would,explain. If spoken of at all, it is in hushed tones, as if to sayits name out loud could somehow hurt you. Even his own motherlowered her voice when she mentioned the place. He, however, isabove and beyond all that. He is not daunted by rumour andsuperstition.

Even so, he pauses inside the boundary of the Hollow. It issuddenly very quiet. A few yards away at the other side of thehedge and the fence the birds were singing; here they are not. Acloud comes over and covers the bright sun. A breeze blows and achill descends. Timmy backs into the hedge - was that the wind ordid he just hear a voice calling him?

Timmy realises that his eyes are tight shut. He opens them. Thecloud has gone and the sun is shining again - though it's stillvery quiet... too quiet.

Stop it! Look around. What is there to be scared of?

Immediately in front of him is a narrow stretch of scrubby groundthat falls steeply after a few yards to form the Hollow itself.Misty Hollow is simply that: a hollow, a depression in the land,said once to have been a small lake, now dried up. Whereas thearea around the Hollow in contrast to the lane side of the hedge,apart from a few dispirited bushes, is barren and bleak, theHollow itself is full of low-growing trees and shrubs. It alllooks innocent enough.

Why is it so quiet then? Why does it feel like everything isholding its breath? And why put such a strong fence and such athick hedge around the place as if to hide it away?

Timmy takes a few steps forward. All he has to do is go down andthrough the Hollow, up the other side and over the fence there.He will be back on the lane again then and quite close to hisdestination.

Nothing to it.

So why is he dragging his feet?

A few more steps and he is at the very edge of Misty Hollow andlooking down into it. Now he is closer, Timmy sees that the treesthat crowd its bottom are twisted and stunted. Their gnarledtrunks seem to grow out of that which gives the Hollow its name -the mist. For, though the sun has been up for several hours, athin blanket of swirling grey fog laps round their knobbly stems.It is said that it is always misty here. Perhaps the ground isstill moist from the long-gone lake and the sun never quitepenetrates the close-spaced trees? Or perhaps it is hidingsomething?

Timmy shudders, for the sun has deserted him again and it hasbecome wintry all of a sudden. Reluctantly, he begins to descendthe steep bank. Carefully now - the ground is spongy and damp.

Halfway down he pauses. It really is quiet - eerily so. It's coldtoo, and he hugs his school blazer tightly around himself as achill crawls up his spine. Is it the cold that makes him shiver,or a sudden dread?

Almost at that point where it is too late to turn back, he takesa few reluctant steps further down the slope. The mist laps athis shoes with chill tendrils, then, as he slowly progresses on,at his bare legs, wrapping round them like a cold, wet blanket.

Committed now, he takes the last dragging paces to the bottom ofthe Hollow. He stops again. The cloudy layer of mist reachesmidway up his body now. To an observer it would seem like he wascut off at the waist - if there were an observer to see him. Thetrees in front of him look forbidding and threatening. They areskeletal and ghostly and it is shadowy among them as if they arehiding something. The mist slops and eddies around them like alive thing giving them the appearance of distorted, knobbly handson skinny wrists reaching out of dirty water imploring him tocome among them.

No longer brave, but somehow compelled to carry on, Timmy walksforward. It is as if the mist is sucking him further into itself,parting in front of him to let him through, but closing up behindhim to prevent any retreat. Droplets of condensation gather onhis clammy skin and run creeping down his exposed legs like coldinsects. He is entering the trees now and it is like the sunnysummer morning never existed, for here it must always be winter.It is dark and dingy here, and the deeper he progresses into thetrees, the darker it becomes. The trees grow thicker and closertogether with each step forward, as if they are crowding in onhim, joining with one another to surround and enfold him in theirwoody embrace.

The worst thing is the quiet. The closely spaced trees lock outthe outside world, and the mist absorbs any sound that might getthrough. Even his own footsteps are muffled and distant as ifthey belong to someone else, and the sound of his breathing comesfrom a long way off. It is almost as if there is someone elsethere among the trees with him, as if he is no longer alone.

Was that a sound... someone calling?

No, it couldn't have been.

A bit further. The mist seems denser here, it's creeping up hismidriff now.

Surely that was a voice?

Timmy stops, his ears cocked, his senses taut.

Over there, where the trees grow thickest - wasn't that amovement?

Timmy stands rock-still. Is someone there - or is it just themist piling up against the trees giving the impression of afigure there?

Yes. It's just the mist. There's nobody there.

Timmy lets out the breath he hadn't realised he was holding. Hemoves on, deeper into the Hollow. The trees are closer togetherhere, and the mist is definitely thicker and deeper - it isdrifting around his chest now.

He must be in the middle of the Hollow by now. A little bitfurther and he will reach the other side. Not far to go now. Soonbe safe and warm at school.

"Little boy."

Again...

"Little boy."

No mistake this time. That was a voice. Very quiet and whispered,but certainly a voice. Calling to him from the trees.

"Little boy," the voice calls again.

Over there, by that big tree, the mist is swirling and parting. Adark shape - hard to make it out. Yes - it is - there's a figure...someone there.

It is a man. An old man, tall and bent and grey, wearing a longbrown coat. He gestures to Timmy; long bony fingers beckon theboy to him.

Timmy stands rooted to the ground, staring at the old man. Hewants to run, to run screaming through the trees, but somehow hecannot. There's something about the old man - something in hiseyes... His eyes - they seem to shine from his dirty face. Timmyfeels paralysed, glued to the spot.

The old man continues to beckon. There's a smile on his dirtyface.

Timmy feels drawn towards him and repelled by him at the sametime. He wants to escape, to run and run, but yet he wants to goto him. His eyes - what is it about his eyes?

The boy trembles, torn between running and going to the old man."You must not talk to strangers," his mother alwaystells him. He's only an old tramp, though. What harm can he be?He doesn't look like he would hurt a fly. Yes, only a tramp,wanting a bit of company. But what's he doing here, in this cold,dank place? And why does Timmy feel so frightened?

"Come here little boy," the old man says, his voicesoft and hypnotic and somehow full of promise, a long, grubbyfinger beckoning the boy to him. All the will seems to drain fromTimmy and he feels himself walking to him despite the great fearinside him. It is as if he is being dragged by some magneticforce too powerful to resist. All the time warning bells clanginside his head telling him to flee far away from this place, yethis feet still take him closer to the old man. As he approachesever nearer to the beckoning figure and sees more deeply intothose strange, powerful eyes the last vestige of Timmy's self-motivationvanishes along with all desire to escape. He wants to be with theold man, to go anywhere and do anything he should wish.

Timmy is standing right up close in front of the old man now andhe can smell the dirt on him. He towers over the small boy andsmiles down on him, his eyes holding him pinned like a butterflyin a glass case. "You're a nice plump little boy, aren'tyou?" the old man says, his voice barely above a whisper,though Timmy hears every word deep inside him. "I've waitedsuch a long time for a little boy like you to come along. Such along, long time."

The old man holds out a filthy, bony hand, and Timmy, mesmerised,takes it, powerless to do anything else. In some far distantcorner of his mind the boy senses he is being led into a denseclump of trees where the mist is thickest. There, in what must bethe most secluded part of the Hollow, the old man stops and drawsTimmy to him.
"Yes, you really are a nice plump boy," the old mansays in his whispering voice, "and I'm so very hungry."He smiles, showing rotten teeth, and it is as if by smiling hereleases some of the hold he has over Timmy. He is aware again;aware that he is standing in a clump of trees with a dirty oldman who smells terribly and there is no one else around. Awarethat there is something in the old man's smile that makes himwish he were at school, or at home, or anywhere but here. Yet atthe same time he feels strangely excited and expectant. The oldman's smile seems to offer thrills and pleasure and forbidden,unknown delights.

"I've been here so long waiting for a little boy like you,"the old man says, at the same time stroking Timmy's hair, thenhis face, then his lips. He gently pulls the boy closer to himand his hands caress and fondle and explore his young body. Justfor a moment Timmy snaps out of the trance that binds him. Justfor a moment he knows that from now on he is never going to bethe same again. Just for a moment his legs have the strength tocarry him far, far from here. Then the moment is gone. He is lost.

"Yes, there's such a lot I can do with a nice plump youngbody like yours." The voice is far away in some distant,dead place. The slobbering, sucking sounds are part of someother, alien world, not the one of schoolbooks and playgroundgames. The things that are happening to him are really happeningto someone else.

Something is drained from Timmy. Something is taken away from him.He is a lifeless husk, an empty shell. For a time there isnothing. No feeling, no senses - no life. Just a blankness - adarkness.

Then something flows into the emptiness. Something dirty, filthy,disgusting. Something very, very old. And he is Timmy no more.

All is still. The mist swirls, thins, and recedes from the clumpof trees. Two figures stand there, one a young boy, the other anold man. The boy straightens his clothes, looks up at the old manand smiles an old, old, smile then turns away. He pushes his wayout of the trees, turns again, gives one last look at the oldman, then scampers off, his satchel swinging.

From the trees the old man watches him go until he disappearsinto the mist.

He tugs his dirty long brown coat tightly around himself to keepout the mist. He casts his mind out, searching, seeking. No oneis near. No juicy young boy is within his influence. He huddlesdeeper into his coat and prepares to wait. It will be a long timebefore anyone comes, but he can wait. Timmy is very patient.