"If one of us subsists anonymous from our realm, they have an obligation to be introduced. It is obligatory to remain hidden, and an Unknown may jeopardise our chances of survival."
- Chapter 1, Entry 12- The Imperials Pocket Book, compressed by L.O. Shawside.
The branches whipped past overhead through the sunroof, creating dark shadows that fell through the glass into the taxi and patterned the pale, fading leather seats, crossing and bending over my legs. Outside the windows, the sky loomed unforgiving and grey, I almost feared the days when I wouldn't have an excuse to be my quietly loathing, miserable self so beloved by all, but today the dense air hung low, clotted with water and coloured with future rain. Nobody likes bad weather.
A lark called out overhead, just loud enough to be heard through the taxi's smudged glass over the guttural spluttering of the mistreated engine that coughed and grumbled along.
Strict instructions of staying with the minutely insane branch of a woman that was somehow related to me, the only aunt I had ever known, rang in my head.
I didn't dread it.
I didn't look forwards to it, either.
I was past caring about what would happen to me to be honest. A lack of emotion had crept into my awareness recently and due to said lack of emotions, I couldn't give a fuck about my lack of emotions. Gloom was my new habitat, the heavy yet surprisingly comforting blanket that had been tossed over my head.
"Outskirts of Spott, huh?" An intrusive voice came from the front, glancing in the mirror at me with wrinkled eyes.
A single nod was my only response, purposely angling my head to the window pane and staring, hard.
"Why there?"
I ignored the curious, electric blue eyes.
I admitted that I probably would have been curious, too, if I had been him. Dad's old raincoat enveloped my tiny frame as though it were trying to kidnap it. The threadbare skinny jeans and brown rats-tailed hair most likely made it seem to be succeeding too.
Sure, I would be curious; I just wouldn't be so rude.
The clingy cab air that held lingering cigarette fumes would now be stuck to me along with the old stench of leather. It smelt like a run-down gentleman's club and made my head spin and stomach churn as we bumbled along.
I pressed against the cool handle in the door, squeezing my eyes closed as we turned a corner.
"Holiday with distant family." I said to the still inquiring eyes. Another cloud of dull sickness washed through me. The distance was shrouded in accumulating fog that cast the unknown road ahead in a monochrome light. Rims of fields protruded from the greyness, brushing along the sides of the wheels as they sloshed noisily through murky rainwater from the night before.
O glorious Scotland.
Spott, where I was almost heading, apparently did have kids in, though I had never met any of them. I was never a massive fan of people, especially ones that could be described as 'kids'. The place was small and seemed to be losing tens of people by the year, partly due to my old pal death, partly due to the fact it's an uninteresting place that nobody with half a mind or some form of free will would ever want to stay in. The only real reason people had for staying was either a family business or being too close to breaking point to move properly.
And so the inhabitants wait out their sad lives in the rain.
And it sounded like a dream to me.
"Lovely." He broke into a grin and I frowned, absently tracing a finger across the cool window pane to seem preoccupied.
"My name is Darren by the way." An expectant smile followed that.
I didn't look at him as I replied.
"Essie."
We shared a moment of quiet, once again falling into the lull produced by the sloshing of water against the undercarriage of the old beast as we continued along our journey down neglected roads.
The hills rolled past, large lumps that seemed to go on forever in different shades of brown from the dead heather and mud created by the sheep and cows. My head ached, pain drumming against my temples and I wished desperately I was anywhere else.
Darren was oblivious to the discomfort of his passenger.
"Doesn't seem like the kind of place someone like you would come for a holiday, especially not at your age." He commented. "It's not even the kind of place I would come for a holiday. I'm only here because of you and this place already seems..." he leaned forwards to peer at the sky through the windscreen, "drab."
I snorted.
There was a slight pause in his movements and he straightened his back as he looked in the wing mirror.
I began to turn to see what he saw when we hit a pothole head on. The seatbelt snapped at my neck, jerking my spine until my forehead met with the plastic corner of the seat in front.
Blue flashed through my mind and something that sounded like the scream of sirens sounded in the back of my head for a split second until it was gone.
A jagged cough dragged itself from my lungs as another swerve wrenched me back to sitting, bringing up both of my hands to cradle my neck.
I dropped my head back onto the rest, swearing quietly before closing my eyes again. Pretty shoddy driver for a taxi man.
The stillness came again and I found my fingers tracing the polished wooden door handle frame, drifting across the coloured age rings behind the chipping varnish. There were seven deep scratches spelling out the initials B.L. with jagged scrapes. I spent the rest of the journey pondering on the initials and trying my very best to forget that I was alive.
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My pal Darren spent the next three hours finding his way through the mist and barely dodging the bumps in the road.
What an unpleasant man.
By the time we had reached the roughly cottage-shaped building that sat behind a thick curtain of mist, I had almost thrown up twelve times.
I got out, slamming the car shut and heaving out my suitcase, not bothering to hang around and watch the pre-paid taxi disappear into the fog.
The cool, damp air of the Scottish countryside that I was destined to get to know better in the coming time washed over me and small beads of cool condensation clung to my clothes in tiny drops of fresh. There was oddly no wind, but it was cold enough to make me shiver and wet enough for my next step to land me in a large puddle, God forbid I actually have a reasonable time anywhere I go.
"Esmerelda!" Cried out the woman on the doorstep who was approaching rapidly, seeming to be moving almost too gracefully to be real.
I was too stunned to push the barrel of floaty material and lipstick that was most definitely not my aunt away, too shocked by the fact anyone other than myself had remembered my name. It was remarkable really. There was a startling second of having no idea what to do as the woman continued her descent upon me with a flurry of tasteless scarves pulling me in and hugging me, uncomfortable warmth radiating off her curving frame into me through layers of clothing. She rubbed my back in a more than scary way.
It made me want to be power-hosed down.
The woman held me at arm's length, apparently oblivious to me not having a clue who she was. "You're so grown up! And so beautiful too!" A smear from a rogue tear had displaced a layer of thick foundation.
Peroxide blonde hair fell around her dark eyes in honey coloured strands, dark brown roots peeking out beneath. Her hands gripped my shoulders a little too tight.
"I'm a family friend, honey. I don't expect you to remember me."
She gave a confusingly expressive smile and pointed to a nametag that hung from a lanyard around her neck. 'Claire' apparently worked at a museum, she looked like she could be one of the displays with that amount of eyeshadow; who knew what lied beneath?
She could be a wombat for all I could see.
I touched the place where a clip from her lanyard had pushed in and felt the red crescent on my cheek before following the bundle of silk charity-shop clothes into the cottage.
My bag sat heavily in both the crooks of my fingers and my mind, cutting off the circulation.
The sharp, black eyes of my aunt found mine as soon as I was though the door, emerging from the kitchen with stick limbs waving around for an obligatory hug. Holding her skimpy frame was always scary, but she petted my hair kindly.
"Hey Fran." I murmured into the crook of her neck.
"I'll go get tea." Claire said, practically drifting once more out of the room.
"It's great to see you again, Essie. You've grown so much." The shining eyes held back laughter at the yip I had made at the statement.
"We both know I haven't grown since I was ten."
"Honesty never got us anywhere, honey." She gave a light cackle that filled the room and lead me into the living room, perching on a couch as I dropped heavily onto a beanbag. She hadn't changed at all. I didn't know if that was a good or a bad thing honestly, one time when I'd visited with dad she forgot to turn off a tap and flooded the kitchen. To this day there are still a few watermarks that missed the clean-up in the corners. The only thing that had changed was me, and would soon also be that decorative china bowl in a minute if I didn't try to control where my skinny legs were stretching.
"So what's new?" I asked, "Of course, other than me. There must be something interesting going on in the middle of nowhere for once." I shifted around on the beanbag, trying to avoid the familiar clump in the middle.
She wrinkled her face. "Something's going on with that barn in the woods a couple of miles away but I wouldn't bother with the new people there. They ask a ton of questions. Not your type, I don't think."
"I don't like any type of people."
She nodded in a tired way. "Exactly. They smell funny, too."
"I'm sure it smells hilarious."
"Tea." Claire chimed as she walked in with water that seemed to have boiled in record time.
Fran smiled, "Nice to see that the changes that have so poetically sculpted your life like fate sitting with clay in its hands, long claw-like nails dragging bony and worn fingers through a mess, scarring the matter with craters and caverns, slicing through -"
"Can you not?"
She winked at me.
A comfortable silence ensued as the tea tray was set down and various cups and saucers were passed around. Gossip wasn't a regular occurrence between us, she only really talked with others her age about disturbing things I already thought about too much like what plants would claim a dead body as a human compost bag, so our conversations usually consisted of one word responses from opposite ends of the cosy house.
The cosy house that was supposed to be my new home.
Every time I came here, we seemed to pick up our conversations and the tone that we had left each other in. Not normally any huge greetings or farewells. We got on pretty well in a knowing manner and could always judge the other's mood, or at least we used to. But hey, shit happens. She looked like she wanted to take my hand. There was no pity or worry plaguing her eyes, but they watered with something close to awareness. I forced my muscles to relax, hoping her gaze would flicker back to the caring indifference.
Nothing had changed here, after all. Claire was sitting in the armchair I'd always sit in when I'd read. There was always something to read at Fran's. The house was almost being propped up by the stacks of books over the house. Their piles served as coffee tables, coasters, and doorstops, toppling over the edges of every shelf in sight. Some clearly hadn't been moved in decades.
I tried to pick one from the top of a stack to my right but it peeled away from the one beneath with a sticky sound. I dropped it quickly. Not my problem.
Fran still watched me in silence.
I heaved myself off the beanbag and put my mug on the wobbly table besides the window notorious for toppling over as told by the carpet beneath. She opened her mouth to protest but decided it wasn't worth it, her fingers only anxiously flexing slightly. She tore her eyes away from the fourth leg, slightly shorter than the others, to stare out of the window at something in the distance.
"I'm gonna go and put my stuff upstairs." I said. Claire smiled at me obligatorily.
Fran didn't look at me. "You know where you're staying?"
I scoffed. "Unless this house's grown another corridor."
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I couldn't sleep. I was tired and my throat was scratchy, tickling every time I took a breath, face wet and uncomfortable. My temples throbbed with each heartbeat. The bed sheets were too heavy and too hot; the perpetual fear of a hand reaching out from underneath the bed was keeping me rooted to the mattress, legs stuck in the torturous heat.
It took a long time for me to finally roll off the bed and flick on the lights, the room slowly coming into focus.
It just looked so different from London.
The small window took a shove to swing open, blessing the tiny lavender scented room with cool, damp air that blew the light curtains back onto the cream and white striped wallpaper that peeled at the corners. The clock on the old, wonky wooden dressing table softly ticked beside the old gilt-framed photos, winking in the whispers of white moonlight.
They were probably judging me for not yet unpacking. I had injudiciously shoved all my clothes and possessions under my bed in a state of denial at this whole nightmare scenario that, though having been planned out years ago, still seemed completely unscripted and an unbelievably bad decision. It seemed so final, and I knew my instincts would've been screaming at me since arrival if they hadn't been mysteriously muted a few months ago. I couldn't figure out how to turn them back on again. Oh well. No major loss.
The book was closing on my life that had not yet begun.
And that seemed pretty alright to me.
I wriggled on an extra jumper and hunted around the room for a hair tie, finally managing to keep my dark hair out of my face with a rubber band that had been holding together a pair of converse I didn't think even fit me anymore.
I crept downstairs, avoiding the third-from-bottom step that always creaked like a dying seal with great care. I hopped across the freezing tiles of the kitchen that bit into my bare soles with each step to grab the socks I had left by the sink yesterday, and skidded my way back, managing to bluntly stab myself on the corner of the big, wooden kitchen table as I did. Perfect.
The front door slammed behind me as I left, running my palm along the crumbling walls of the cottage as I walked. Mortar and flints jutted out a few centimetres each in wonky directions and rough shadows were beginning to grow under each grey stone. The watery orange light of sunrise that fought its way through the large fir trees on the other side of the road was falling onto the gravel that crunched as it was displaced under the huge boots I had slid on.
I pushed through the algae-coated gate with a hip and entered the silent garden, rubbing my chilly fingers in the morning wind. In the woods at the end of the garden a bush rustled, sending a bird that was perched silently on one of the low walls that mark the edge of the garden leaping into the air. The low walls, encasing the garden and disappearing into the woods where they crumbled and ceased to exist after about half a mile, looked in even worse shape than when I had last been here a few years ago.
Fran's love for horticulture was reflected in her garden. Various flowers and herbs sprouted from soil holes in the ground, snaking through the grass and between the various signs that tried their best to tell you what each bed contained, the writing long since bleached out of existence or pen ink dribbling down the wooden steaks. They ranged from run-of-the-mill roses to long Latin names that reached a good handful of words long. The house smelt of the flowers and herbs too, it was all very calming and fresh inside despite the clutter, fresh air haunting each square inch other than the kitchen which had adopted the subtle scent of soot and burning after being subjected to the toxic fumes of Fran's cooking so often for such a long time.
My feet were slipping around in the oversized boots and stubbing my toes as I took each step lifting the dense black leather, but the morning was cool and I continued contentedly, passing a tangle of sinister looking thorns. They curled and twined harshly into something that almost resembled a jigsaw puzzle with pieces forced into the wrong places. I peered closer as I passed, catching a glimpse of the pale pink rose nestled peacefully right in the centre of the mess, light catching the rims of the soft petals, unscathed from the usual brown marks of damage. It was gorgeous.
I traced my fingers along the mortar of the wall that crumbled off to the left, scraping my skin slightly and lodging small pieces of granite and flint under my nails. I brushed them off, wishing I had brought a coat to the constant suck, suck, suck of wellies that lodged themselves in the soft surface of the mud.
The trees grew thicker and thicker. The canopy overhead was a crisp sea of different shades of oranges and brown yet to fall, but the floor was dappled with sunlight as if it were still summer. The cool breeze from outside the woods had eerily disappeared almost completely by the time I had been walking for ten minutes.
The world was hushed. I could only hear my feet. A pinecone rolled and bounced off my toe.
Then there was a sudden, abrupt stop to the trees and I found myself in a small clearing. A single felled log sat in the middle, its coarse bark peeling and tattered, cracking off one of the clean-cut ends, sunk a little into the woodland floor. The chill seeped from the old wood into my trousers and dampened my legs as I sat down, filling me with instant regret. Two woodlice scuttled off to my right and down into a new layer of rot. Sunrise peered, just visible over the Scottish hills and through the trunks, sending rays of warm mandarin light dancing through the air and bringing out particles that seemed to shimmer in the morning glow.
There was a sudden, deafening crack that broke the silence.
There was no denying that my shoulders lurched about a metre into the air, closely followed by the humiliatingly low and manly grunt that escaped my throat in shock.
I looked so fast over my shoulder my neck cracked, heart still pounding as I scoured the trees looking for movement, looking for the intruder that-
Crack.
There it was again, and then the sound of stomping and muttering and cursing and then, horrifyingly, footsteps.
A figure emerged through the trees, arms filled with the largest pile of sodden wood humanly possible. I could barely see the boy's face through the twigs. He didn't look at me at first. He wasn't paying attention to where he was going, studying the bark on the ungodly amount of kindling in his arms. Sticks were falling to the ground behind him, but he didn't seem to care, grinding his teeth together a little, eyebrows drawn.
I thought about bolting.
His eyes hovered over the ground, and just when I was thinking it would never happen, they flicked up to look at me.
I cleared my throat and began to shuffle a little as he straightened. I turned away and tried desperately to remember the way I came. It wasn't past that low-hanging branch that was sure, but I quickly moved to it anyway, colour and mild annoyance creeping into my face.
"Leaving already?"
Oh God, I didn't want him to talk to me.
It took me a hell of a lot of mustering to find the strength to reply to the mystery woods man.
"Yeah. I want to live." Oh no, why would I say something like that? I elaborated. "You look like you've killed someone."
Yeah, that probably wasn't the right thing to say, in recollection.
"Whew." He let out a whistle and slowly lowered the branches so his face peered over the top of the stack, still focused on not dropping anything, not looking in my direction. He muttered "Don't tempt me, Ez."
My foot stopped, planting itself with an overly loud, wet squelch on the floor. My mind was spinning, deciding that on hearing a stranger say my name, immediately stopping moving probably wasn't the best decision I could've made.
Even my instincts hate me.
His eyes were glittering.
"Can I-" I tried not to stutter, I really did, "Can I help you?" I squeezed out, allowing a dollop of antipathy to slide under the question.
He was smiling. "That's cold. That was so cold. I thought we were going to have a wonderful future together. Don't you believe in love at first sight?" His mouth quirked up, but only on one side as he talked, displaying a deep, puncturing dimple with its own pool of shadow. "Not even going to give it a try?"
He leaned against a tree, still clutching the wood in bare arms, which must have been horribly cold and uncomfortable but he didn't seem to notice. He was built like he would be good in P.E. which made me dislike him even more. Nobody should be good at P.E., not even this freakish man-boy who looked like he was in the wrong body for his attitude. He really did look like an adult. Not in the sense he had muscles, which he unfortunately obviously did, but the undeniable sturdiness of how he stood. This was contrasted with him suddenly feeling an itch on his face that he tried to scratch with a stray stick from the pile, successfully poking himself in the eye.
"Ow."
"I'm," It felt like his job to speak, but the suspense was too much. "I'm guessing you're one of our new neighbours?"
He laughed and didn't reply, still wincing about the tiny twig that had high-fived his eyeball. It was rude really. Actually, for him to waltz up here in our literal part of the woods, and then, hang on...
"Isn't this private property?"
Very nice. A trespasser not only having the audacity to make me do social interaction when I'd purposely moved all the way to Scotland for my new beginning as a hermit in an almost completely uninhabited area, but also with the audacity to disgustingly misuse my name. Delightful.
I sent him a withering look.
Who did this thieving model think he wass?
He pretended not to falter at my look, beginning to move again. Closer? Who knew. He was just wandering around, depositing half the woods back onto the floor.
"Ez, you know what they say about people who look another in the eye for over six seconds without blinking. They either want to kill you or-"
"Correct. I don't think you're supposed to be here," I tell him, "scrumping."
"I don't think you know what scrumping is."
"Irrelevant."
"It's just some necessary firewood."
An amused look rolled onto his face as he gave a tiny chuckle. He never stopped laughing apparently, everything was hilarious to him.
"So, do you come here often?" He pursed his lips as I began to turn away. "Oh no, come on, roll those eyes back out of your head, you're loving this morning really. Heart attacks for breakfast are good for you, trust me I'm a Scorpio."
"I didn't have a heart attack." I defended but to little effect, judging by the way he stopped walking to turn his head towards me and raise his eyebrows slowly in a way he probably assumed was dramatic comical. It wasn't, but my reaction didn't seem to stop him from living his dreams.
He began kicking the muddy floor with the toe of his boot in an incredibly irritating manner, still watching me with shiny, blue eyes.
"You basically screamed when you saw me."
"I still feel like screaming."
"Oh God, please don't. Come on, Ez, we can figure something out. Let's be besties, I'll let you pick the bracelets, I'll braid your hair, we can tell each other ghost stories."
"I think it's time for me to leave. Or you, actually, whoever you are." My voice was remarkably unwavering.
"Only if you can guess my name."
"That's not how it works, fuck you."
"Maybe later," His dimple deepened. "you walked into that." He added the last bit with a shrug, again accidentally poking his face with a branch and cursing at himself under his breath.
He pointed to himself after my irritated silence. "Matt."
I frowned at him and began to walk away again. "Please leave, Matted."
"Whoa ok there Snappy McInsulting, correct me if I'm wrong, which I very rarely am, but it almost seems like you don't like people too much."
I wanted to make a comment about it being a personal thing, but decided he would have enjoyed that too much.
I made a huffing noise instead that I hoped was effective in proving my point, and with a quick look around, squinting into the ever-brightening frozen grey sky, I walked away. Once I was back within the trees, no longer shivering, blood warm, fingers twitching as I held onto the rough bark of a slim trunk, I looked back over my shoulder.
He was standing still in the clearing, smiling to himself.
With a sharp laugh he dropped all the branches on the spot and stepped over them, he ran a hand over his face with a brief pause, and then disappeared in the opposite direction, becoming lost in the trees.