Darker Places

Footsteps...

There was a legend - well, more of a story - of footsteps in the forest.

At night, when the temperature had dropped low enough to see your own breath drift away like the soul after death. At night, when the moon played hide and seek with the clouds, the stars their audience.

At night, when the only sound that dared interrupt the silence was... footsteps.

The building had lain derelict for so long the names of the previous owners had been forgotten by the local residents. It was just 'The Building.' Uttering the words implied the capitalisation of its name.

The Building.

Surrounded by nine acres of woodland, a random, rampant mix of oak, willow, ash and beech, it sat, beaten by time. Decades of despair had scratched their wounds across its surface, and the trees had remained to ensure it couldn't escape.

Algae had claimed the small lake that looked as if The Building had bled its spirit out onto the narrow clearing along its side, a toxic smelling mess of scum covered, viscous liquid. Odd bracken that dared to dip its toe in the acrid waters seemed to shrivel, the life sucked from it like sap through a straw.

But, potential can be seen in the darkest of places. The deepest night can precede the brightest dawn. Misery to majesty. Hopelessness to happiness.

Such were the thoughts of The Couple. That's all they were. Again, capitalised by the locals. They were thought to be passers-by who paused in their passing.

Theresa and Richard to the outside world - a world in which the night didn't move and the cold touch on your neck was merely an errant breeze that had lost its way and was settling for a second to take a breath - were buying their first home. Together for half a lifetime, but with work keeping them living apart, they'd searched for an age to find the perfect house. It was a 'fixer-upper'. It had potential. A project.

They didn't know about the footsteps, and would have ignored them if they had. Rational and reasoned. They refused to listen to silly local superstitions designed to scare little children at night. Go to sleep or the Boogeyman will get you. Stay tucked in or the monsters will eat you.

Nonsense and nuisance.

But no-one deigned to tell them anyway. The footsteps in the forest would come visiting. They'd be heard on the slates of the roof. On the gravel of the drive. On the floorboards. In time with your heartbeat. Whilst it still beat.

Richard worked away in Derby. An engineer for Rolls Royce. Theresa lived and worked locally, for an oil refinery. She had horses which demanded time and attention on an evening when relaxation giggled furtively as it kept just out of reach. It meant weekends were the only time when the labour of love that would be their new home could be worked on. It meant work would be intense and draining and felt for days after in the twinges and strains of their muscles.

The trees, over the years had encroached upon their captive. They'd closed in, branches intertwining to create a barrier confining The Building, with roots stretching beneath ensuring its permanent incarceration.