The Deep, Dark Woods

The small, Northern-Welsh village of Anghenville was, in some aspects, just like any other small, Northern-Welsh village, but in other aspects, it was not. It had, just like other Northern-Welsh villages, a town Council, a library, a cafe, a grocery store, a school, and a number of homes. Unlike other Northern-Welsh villages, it had an enormous mansion sitting atop a hill, overlooking the entire town. This mansion belonged to the noble Bradwyr family; an ancient, rich family, dating back to medieval times who, some say, were more in charge of Anghenville than the Council itself.

For a long time, nobody in Anghenville knew anything about the Bradwyrs; none of us ever went down into the village ourselves, instead sending staff to buy groceries, to send mail, and the like. My family based itself off of Victorian Values. After reading the books in our home library, I decided that I hated Victorian Values. I never understood why we had to stay up on our hill, secluded and isolated from others of our town, because of petty class differences. I began to go to town more and more often, much to the disapproval of my mum.

My siblings always teased me for it, calling me the family rebel, and I always replied that I didn’t go to rebel. I went because I’d discovered that the Elm café on Fifth street served something called a ‘Chocolate latte’, and it was the most divine thing that I’d ever had. I went because the library hosted a writing group once a month.

Most importantly, though, I went because I’d made a friend.

His name was Michael. His dad owned the local grocery store, and we’d met at the aforementioned writing group. He and I got into a heated debate (which escalated into a shouting match and nearly devolved into an all out fistfight) about the hierarchy of economic classes and the pros and cons of a world government.

He won.

Since then, the two of us were inseparable. Michael wanted to be an investigative journalist; he’d already written a few pieces, which I devoured just as fast as he could get them to me.

“You like history, don’t you?” I guessed once, in late January, looking over at him inquiringly.

He looked up at me, surprise written across his face. “Yeah, how d’you know?”

“Every single one of your pieces- that I’ve read, that is- it reads like a bloody origin story. You give so much history for whatever it is you’re writing about that I can barely separate the story from the backstory.”

He laughed. “I like digging, and at this point in my life, history is the only thing I can dig into. ‘Investigative journalist’ sounds great on paper, but it does come with the unfortunate burden that you do actually need something to investigate.” he took a sip of his tea.

I nodded, empathising.

“Mind you, I have been considering writing a piece on that local myth we have.”

My head snapped up. I loved localized urban legends. “What’s this? Local myth? Tell.”

“Oh, you don’t know it? Well, you know that huge, dense, forest? On the west border?” I nodded, and he continued, “Well, according to the story, there’s something in that forest. No one quite knows what it is, but ever since before anyone can remember, there’s been… livestock going missing from farms around it, some people disappearing from neighbouring villages, the like. Some say, if you get near the forest at night, you can hear… noises. Howls, screaming, inhuman, bloodcurdling shrieks, and if you go in, you’re never seen again.”

“Wow.” I rested my chin in my hands. “A monster in the woods. And no one knows what it is?”

“Not concretely, but there are some theories. I heard one claiming that it’s a prehistoric beast that somehow got preserved and woke up a century or so ago. There’s another that says it’s some demon, or a cult worshipping some demon, and they take the animals and people as blood sacrifices. But from what I’ve gathered so far, the most popular, most widely believed theory, is that it’s not just one creature. It’s a whole multitude of them. They say that these things used to be human, but that, for some reason- curse, inherited genetic mutation, what have you- they turned into these immortal, flesh-eating monsters, some sort of mix between a wendigo and a ghoul.”

“That’s insane. D’you believe it?”

“Not all of it, obviously, but…” he shrugged, “every story’s got a grain of truth in it. I want to find that grain.”

“Well.” I stated, “It certainly will be an interesting piece to read.”

“It’ll be an interesting piece to write.” He replied, shooting me a smile.

The conversation then shifted to more trivial things; other writers in the group, upcoming events, gossip, and so forth.

The subject didn’t come up again until about two weeks later, when Michael officially began to research the topic. It was about a week into February, and I was at home, having been detained there for the day. I couldn’t get away from the family antics until about an hour before dinner, most of which I spent in my room, on the phone with Michael.

“My family,” I complained to him as soon as he picked up, “is completely barmy. Never mind all the little interior rivalries and drama, they’re just so… extra! I don’t think ‘moderation’ is even in their vocabularies!”

I heard his stifled laughter despite what I generously imagined to be his best efforts. “What did they do this time?”

“You know it’s Valentine’s Day in four days, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, the adult Bradwyrs have decided that it’s time for me and my sister to find- and this is the word they used- ‘suitors’.”

This time, his laughter was utterly unrestrained. “Oh, wow! Seriously?”

“Yep. They’ve started planning this huge Valentine’s Day ball, they said they were going to invite all these high class people, lords, dukes, what have you, just so Lara and I can find ourselves boyfriends.” I flopped onto my bed and groaned. “I don’t understand these people, I really don’t.”

“You could take someone as a fake boyfriend, just to… I don’t know, get them off your back.”

I considered this suggestion. “I could. Did you have someone in mind?”

There was a short silence before he replied.

“Celia, there’s… there’s some stuff I need to tell you.”

I smiled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, and you’re not going to like it. It’s about your family.”

My smile faded. “How do you mean?”

“I’ve been…” there was a sound of shuffling paper, then he continued, “doing some research, into the history of this town, for my piece, the one I told you about, and I think-” a pause, “I think I’ve come across something big.”

I sat up, cross-legged. “Well, don’t leave me in suspense, what is it?” If you make this a cliffhanger, Michael, I swear-

He sighed. “Well, for one thing, it’s not the kind of thing you can talk about over the phone.”

I grimaced. Cliffhanger it is. “Jesus, Michael, you’re worse than Moffat. Fine, we’ll talk about it in person. I can’t get out of house tonight, it’s too late… what do you think about tomorrow? At the cafe?”

“Yeah, tomorrow.” Michael replied absentmindedly, “Three-ish?”

“Sounds good. Till tomorrow, then.”

“Ta.”