Four diminutive figures in children’s raincoats standing out in the field of maize, while the rain threw itself down upon the ground. Not one of them moved saved for a slight swaying as they were buffeted by the wind. Each had mask for a face, as tough but brittle as china, with deep holes for eyes and mouths, and no features beyond. Eyeless they stared towards the town, standing between it and the chapel, and their dread gaze forewarned any from approaching. Some claimed that the figures were moving closer with each dawn, yet none could say for sure that they had seen any real signs of progress. No one approached the figures either, but neither would they walk around them. The chapel hadn’t been used for a decade, and its bell would only ring if a wind strong enough blew around the edifice and up to the belfry. When they did ring the peal was irregular and jarring. All who heard those tangential chimes closed their shutters, and bolted the doors. It didn’t matter that they knew not what they feared, it was enough to be afraid. On that last night the bells had chimed again, but this was different; fear in the town had given way to terror. The bells rang out in sequence now, and the old folk of the town knew it as ‘the nine tailors.’ This was the sign that someone was going to die that night. Behind each locked doors there was the sound on incessant prayer. None would rise from their knees until dawn broke. That is except for Simeon Seth, the son of the blacksmith. Like his father he had grown up in the heat of the smithy and had, like the shapeless ore, became toughened against the throws of nature. While his father hadn’t broken from his vigil by the forge, Timothy had left the heat and unlatched the back window, then climbed out into the night. Timothy would be cautious, regardless of his bravura, and circled around the masked figures, unmoving in the cold air. Someone, he knew, had to be in the chapel, ringing the bells against the night. More than one person, trying to scare the town. The smith’s son would call the bellringers out and free the town from their superstition; his father would be proud, and the folk grateful. As he reached the door the errant child-hero looked back, to see if any had followed him from the town, he was disappointed that no one had. Only the childish figures stood out there in the field, their eyeless stares fixed upon the town. Timothy pushed the chapel door open, the creak of the door was echoed afar, but in the shadow of the antechamber he was unable to see the hardened clay-faced children turn to face the chapel. The door closed behind him and the shadows engulfed the boy. As the sun rose the next day there was another empty eyed figure standing in the field of maize. Its china face covered in the smuts and dirt of the forge. (For JB Wokowski, who will appreciate the Nine Tailors)

They came at night, always at night. Always there. Always just out of sight. They flitted through town like leaves on a breeze. Little fingers tapped on windows, four little voices called, play, play. They’d be there and then gone, vanishing for maybe a month, maybe a year. But they always came back. Lily had heard them before. Back then she’d always been afraid. She’d shoved her fingers into her ears and waited for them to leave, like she was supposed to, like she’d been warned. But that day she’d been punished for something her little brother had done. When she’d tried to explain, her mother had refused to listen. The sharp edge to her mother’s words still stung, as did the unfairness. As she lay in bed, she heard the call – play, play. She knew she should cover her ears, stay in bed. Her parents would be mad if she broke their rules. They’d already punished her for doing nothing at all. Before she knew it, Lily was tiptoeing down the stairs. A moment of doubt slipped in as she fumbled with the lock, but defiant anger beat the hesitation away. When she opened the door, no one was there. “Hello?” she whispered to the empty dark. Can we come in? “Yes.” She knew she’d made a mistake once she saw them, once it was too late. They were shaped like children, sounded like children, but where their faces should have been were expressionless white masks with gaping black holes for the eyes and mouth. Lily took a step back as they moved towards her. Her heart flung itself against her ribcage. Hungry, whispered one. Hungry, the others agreed. Her hand shook as she pointed towards the kitchen. The biggest of them wore a different mask with the scarred and cruel expression of an angry witch. The witch gave a single nod. Lily watched as the others drifted away, not towards the kitchen but the bedrooms. She tried to cry out. The witch raised a finger to her painted lips and the sound stuck in Lily’s throat. From the depths of her cloak, the witch withdrew a mask. Join us. Lily took a step back. Hungry, said a voice from the top of the stairs. Lily turned to find that blood now dripped from the mask’s gaping black mouth. Wait, commanded the witch. The witch pushed the mask towards Lily. Join us, the witch repeated. Tears pricked Lily’s eyes as they swiveled between the bloodied mask and the witch. She wanted to scream, but sound still refused to leave her. Pressure built within her chest. Her heart beat so violently its thumping filled her ears. Join us, said the witch a final time. Hungry, said the others from the stairs, their empty black eye holes trained on her. Hungry. Five little voices called out play, play as little feet skipped through blackened streets like dead leaves on the wind.

The dry twig snapped under the sole of Mark’s boot, the cracking sound echoing through the trees. Freezing in his tracks, he darted his eyes around the shadowy glade like a startled harvest mouse. Moments earlier, he had followed the long snaking skid marks, scorched onto the country lane, and had stepped through the large hole in the hedgerow, where shredded branches were bent inward, directing him to the dark wood beyond. Hopefully, to where his older brother, now missing for three days, would be found. As the eerie silence returned, a chill rode up Mark’s spine and ice coursed through his veins. He continued onward. A few steps further on, he suddenly caught something in his peripheral vision and, once again, abruptly stopped. He turned to face what he could barely make out to be a weak red light emanating from the darkness on his left. It was an offside brake light on a black transit van, which had been wrapped around a large oak tree. Mark rushed over to the vehicle and immediately noticed the deep lacerations along its body work, the metal of the chassis exposed. He bent down and crested a hand over the war wounds. It must have been going like a bat out of hell, he thought. He jumped up and desperately tried to peer inside. But the glass all around was tinted opaque, including the windscreen. He tugged on the driver’s side handle, but it wouldn’t respond. Then something on the windscreen drew his attention. Markings of some kind. Symbols. Circles with petal-like ovals stemming from the centre to the edge. Each one the same as the last. Then it dawned on him. He knew exactly what they were. Apotropaic marks. Daisy wheels. Hexafoils. He had seen them before, carved into the timber frames in his grandfather’s barn. Then he remembered the old tales. How folk in the 16th century used the symbols to try and keep evil spirits and beldams away. He took a step back, distancing himself from warning signs. Then all of his senses suddenly burst into life. He suddenly became acutely aware of the presence standing right beside him. It was so close he could feel its warm breath on his neck. Its scent was the putrid flesh of a dead animal. Mark’s heart beat a tattoo as he slowly turned to face it. Inside the back of the transit, something stirred under the swathes of tarpaulin. Someone. Mark’s older brother. Barely alive. Ebbing away, he was conscious enough to hear the sounds outside. He had heard them before. Three nights ago, when his inebriated workmate had fled the safety of the vehicle, never to return. Right before he tried to conceal himself by blacking out the windows with a spray can and then etching the hexafoils into the dried coating. They were sounds of ripping. Shredding. Snapping. Sounds that confirmed something awful was happening outside. In the place they called ‘Witch’s Wood’.