Dance of the Damned

They say devils grow emboldened when the seasons shift from light into dark. When the woods take on manners of their own and all the rules of logic dissipate into the subtlest hints of madness. The mind gives life to the unexplained, while the most learned scholar endeavours to reduce the extraordinary to nothing more than a dream.

I never believed in stories of otherworldly creatures.

Parents and nannies often regaled children with tales of ghosts, monsters, and spirits at night, lest they be tempted into some untoward mischief. My mother and father would often leave the duty of frightening my sister and me to our grandparents.

Our grandfather — the superstitious old goat — never went out past sunset and often bolted every door and shuttered every window in his house. His old-world beliefs and enthrallment with the macabre and the occult led him to travel abroad to queer lands. It was during one such journey - in late autumn - that my grandfather made the acquaintance of the woman he would wed.

Rumours had long circulated that my grandmother descended from a line of wise women. The old gal loved to tell tales of how her ancestors communed with spirits living amidst the trees, moors, barrows, and hillocks of the deep forest.

These places held a sense of sacredness. Each governed by supernatural laws mere mortals were obliged to observe. Not doing so offered a sense of impending doom to those venturing within.

Grandmother often spoke of certain rituals the hunters performed in her village. Before daybreak, these men offered prayers, mead, ale, nuts and berries, bone, or furs to the great Forest Lord. To do so brought successful hunts and safe returns. For they had given respect for partaking of the forest’s gifts.

Sadly, her traditions weren’t passed down to my father.

‘You mustn’t venture into those woods, my dear,’ Grandmother warned with deep conviction. ‘Specially not during the hours of dawn and dusk.’

‘I shall be careful, dear mother,’ my father replied.

I knew, however, Father said this to ease his mother’s concerns. He never put any merit in the warnings.

You see, my father was a good church-going man who engaged in morning and evening prayers. He read his Bible and quoted Scripture, made confession frequently, and striving to do the same devotion in his children.

Each autumn, father often rode out to join the local fox hunt. My sister and I often stood watching and waving as he departed. We waited until neither horse nor rider could be seen as they vanished amidst the trees.

As a boy, I feared father would not return and often waited by the window to watch for his horse coming over the hill. For many years, my fears were remained unfounded. Father returned without so much as a scratch.

I shall never forget the day, for it marked the beginning of a sorrow from which our family would never fully recover.

It was late afternoon. The hour our father was expected to come over the hill. His horse weighted down by various furs.

The light autumn breeze carried a sharp chill that bit at my bare skin as I stood upon the porch. Leaves rustled in the birch trees; their branches, like old bones, moaned when they rubbed together.

I watched and waited for hours.

Only, he never came.

At last, Father’s horse lumbered over the hill. Its saddle weighted with furs. Of Father, there was no sign.

For a moment, I could scarcely comprehend what I saw. My body went rigid, and my breath quickened as the stable boy took the horse’s reins.

‘Mother!’ I shouted, rushing into the house. ‘Mother! Come quick! Father’s horse has returned, but father is nowhere to be seen!’

What happened next is something no boy of eight should have to witness. My sister clung to my grandmother’s dress, pleading through her tears to know where Daddy had gone. Exhaustion claimed the poor dear.

Moonlight fell upon my mother like a stage light. The haunting rays seemed to follow her restless steps. I swore her heels might wear grooves into the floorboards. Mother’s small hands worried at the folds of her skirts, then to the golden ringlets dangling near her ears.

Her eyes were rimmed red from weeping. Her lower lip trembled. She quickly pulled the lip behind the upper when she noticed me watching.

‘John, dear,’ Mother said between sniffles, ‘Why not take your sweet sister upstairs to bed? It’s late, and the poor lamb needs the comfort of her blankets and doll.’

I disliked the idea of leaving Mother in such a state, but Grandmother raised a finger and fixed me with a glare. Any protest I might have made halted.

I shook Ericka awake. She rubbed her eyes and groaned.

‘Come, my dear sister,’ I said, doing my best to remain calm. ‘Let me assist you to bed.’

‘Is Daddy home?’ Erika replied, stumbling sleepily beside me. ‘I want to see Daddy.’

I knew not what to tell her, so I remained quiet. Tears pricked in my eyes, yet I would not permit them to fall. For Erika, I had to remain strong.

We arrived at Erika’s room. I helped her into bed and drew the covers around her, carefully tucking her favourite doll beside her before departing.

My room waited for me a mere three doors away. Sleep, however, would not come to me. Instead, I concealed myself at the top of the stairs, unwilling to leave Mother entirely to her grief.

Mother, overcome with fatigue, had allowed Grandmother to lead her to the high-backed chair beside the fire.

Grandmother cradled Mother’s trembling hands, gently rubbing the knuckles with her thumbs.

‘Mina, dear, your hands are cold as death,’ Grandmother said.

‘What am I to do?’ Mother asked. Her voice held none of the tenderness I knew. Instead, she sounded like a frightened child. ‘My heart aches without my love near. Oh, how am I to manage the business alone?’

Her concerns went on and on.

How I wanted to run down the steps and comfort her! Yet I feared maintaining composure. Father would never have abided such a display of weakness.

My hands gripped the railing until my knuckles whitened and my finger grew numb. I hadn’t realized how late the hour had become.

Mother had wandered to the window, where she stood gazing vacantly into the darkness.

At times she would smile.

Then cry.

Then smile again.

It was then that I first feared something within Mother had broken, and that our lives would never be the same.

I could watch no longer. Like a dead man, I made my way to Father’s study. I stared out into the darkness where Father’s path disappeared amidst the trees, and wept.

Perhaps fatigue or shock had deceived my senses, but I could have sworn that two glowing orbs watched me from the shadows.

The following morning, several members of the hunting party returned with constables to retrace Father’s path. Father’s horse was examined for any indication of a struggle.

Searchers combed the woods, moors, and hillocks surrounding the house. They called Father’s name long after daylight faded, their lanterns flickering between the trees.

Even Grandfather joined them after sunset, abandoning the very caution he had so often urged upon us.

The search continued for days. No body was found. No blood. No torn clothing. No broken tack. Father had simply vanished.

What followed was a life of continual hardship.

Mother’s health deteriorated steadily until she could no longer attend to the affairs of the manor. A family friend undertook the management of the manor and secured a cottage for us on the outskirts of a small Cornish village.

Some years later, shortly after my graduation from University, I accepted a position as clinical assistant to Dr. Abernathy, an alienist whose studies focused on delusions, hallucinations, and the effects of prolonged fear and strain upon the mind.

Many of his patients were inmates of the asylum or prisoners deemed of unsound mind. Through such cases, Abernathy studied the effects of distress upon memory, perception, and violent impulse.

He believed certain conditions could reveal the precise moment reason gave way to madness. His methods for provoking such reactions were not always gentle.

I had encountered many patients at the asylum where my mentor practised. Their delusions of grandeur, violent outbursts, and childlike preoccupation held a peculiar fascination for me.

One man under our care believed himself a knight of the Round Table, returned to seek King Arthur.

A woman clung to a doll, tenderly brushing its hair in the manner of a little girl amusing herself upon a rainy afternoon.

Another man, a veteran of the Crimean War, would suddenly cry out that Russian soldiers had breached the ward and were coming for him.

I could not help the rising excitement. There could be end to such peculiar cases.

‘The brain is a magnificent thing,’ my mentor remarked one evening while we gathered our belongings. ‘Place it under sufficient pressure, and it will do whatever it must to protect itself. Even as far as to return a man to the days of infancy.’

No case fascinated me more, however, than that of the mysterious woodsman. Unlike the others, this elderly fellow seldom shouted or muttered to himself. Instead he spent most of his time gazing silently through his window. What occupied his attention, I could not say.

Dr. Abernathy had informed me that the old fellow would often sit for hours, his eyes fixed upon the sky or the woods beyond.

‘He was here long before I assumed my present position,’ Dr. Abernathy said. ‘Apparently, the man once dwelt as a recluse in a small cottage deep within the Cornish woods. The villagers reported him to the authorities after witnessing some rather queer behaviour behind his home.’

‘What kind of behaviour?’ I inquired, my interest increasing with every new detail.

‘That is the strangest thing,’ Abernathy said. ‘The old fellow had once been devout churchgoer, yet at some point began fashioning icons dedicated to the occult. Odder still, he displayed these peculiar objects but once a year.’

‘Once a year?’ I asked.

Dr. Abernathy adjusted his spectacles and shifted the papers in his arms. His fingers worried at their edges before he cleared his throat.

‘Always around the same time.’

I frowned at him. ‘For goodness’ sake, sir, what is it that troubles you so?’

‘Our friend is not always so quiet.’

‘Oh?’

‘Indeed. Once a year, around Midsummer, his behaviour changes entirely. He becomes restless. Sleep seems to abandon him. Somehow, the man manages to collect peculiar objects: bones, feathers, twigs, insects, and whatever other curiosities he might acquire through the window bars. From these, he fashions crude jewellery, macabre ornaments, and strange adornments.’

My eyes widened. A multitude of questions crowded my mind. ‘How on earth does he manage to obtain such things?’

‘We suspect he saves portions of his meals to serve as bait, fashioning crude traps from whatever scraps he can procure. Somehow, he manages to capture rats and birds for his grotesque creations.’

Abernathy fell silent.

I stood stunned. My gaze returned to the Woodsman. Midsummer had yet to arrive, and I saw nothing in his present behaviour to suggest peculiar habits Dr. Abernathy had described.

‘Then comes the dancing.’

I turned back to Abernathy.

‘The villagers reported much the same behaviour before his confinement. They claimed he would strip himself of his garments, kindle a bonfire behind his cottage, and dance wildly about the flames, pounding upon a small drum.’

‘And he to dance, even here?’

‘Every Midsummer.’

Abernathy glanced toward the Woodsman’s room, his expression growing grave.

‘That is what troubles me, John. I have witnessed madness take many forms, but rarely have I seen it return with such dreadful precision. The same season. The same objects. The same ritual. Year after year.’

‘And what happens when Midsummer passes?’

‘He becomes silent again.’

Abernathy lowered his voice.

‘As though nothing had happened at all.’

So enthralled was I in his case, and so eager to distinguish myself in my chosen profession, that I asked Dr. Abernathy for permission to undertake an investigation of my own. To my astonishment, my mentor consented.

I was to begin my study on the morrow!