An almost unearthly growl issued forth from the child’s stomach. He was a wiry little thing, with unkempt brown hair and clothes two sizes too large for his bony frame. Ma had patched his trousers so many times that it looked more like a quilt than anything else, and it was held up by the grace of an old piece of string that struggled for dear life. The child would much rather be bereft of all but the most necessary of clothing, but there was company by the fire and Ma would box his ears soundly if he didn’t at least make an effort at being decent.

Said visitors were the reason for the child’s hunger. Ma was a fine cook, but she seldom had the best ingredients. Every so often, they would catch a starving rabbit trying to get at their garden, and the village children would sometimes go rook hunting. But supper most evenings consisted of a thin stew with whatever vegetables Ma had picked, or bartered for, washed down with watery tea. Not tonight though. The two men who wandered into the village that morning from the direction of Fox Hollow had brought with them a gift even better than gold.

Visitors to the village were infrequent, but not so infrequent as to stir conversation. Every few weeks would see the peddler hawking his wares, and the parish priest made his monthly rounds. The men who worked in the forest, the woodsmen, bark collectors, and gamekeepers, all came through the village. There was no inn, but any traveller could be assured of the hospitality unique to country folk. And of course there were the hunters, but the child was no fool. He knew that hunting was not allowed in Kings Wood. Poachers were more like it, but no-one called them that to their faces, especially not those who brought a fat pheasant with them and were willing to share.

It was this that was simmering in the stone fireplace, along with onions, potatoes, carrots, and Ma’s home-grown herbs. The smell overpowered the bundles of sage, rosemary, lavender and chamomile hanging from the smoke-stained wooden beams. Even Nip, the scruffy cur seated on the faded, homespun rug at Pa’s feet, was panting in anticipation as Ma laid the table. Ladles of rich, hot stew went into bowls usually kept in the old dresser, a loaf of heavy bread was placed on the wooden board, and mugs of mint tea sweetened with black treacle were shared. The child did not care for the smoky flavour, but he knew that Ma had dipped into her rations in honour of their guests.

“Come to the table, you lot. I don’t reckon this food is going to eat itself.”

The child didn’t need to be told twice and nearly destroyed the best efforts of the string in his haste to take his seat. His Da, who had been smoking his pipe in the corner closest to the narrow window, stretched slowly, as grandfathers do, and made his way to the head of the table. Nip, knowing exactly who would be most likely to share some scraps, followed at his heels. The heavy boots of the hunters sounded as they seated themselves next to each other, the older one inhaling the steam wafting up from his bowl with a sigh of satisfaction. Conversation dwindled as mouths were filled in the small, stone room. Eventually the last morsel was eaten, the child having to be shooed away from trying to lick Ma’s pot clean.

“That was a fine bit of stew you’ve made for us, Missus. There’s many a fancy lady in Ellington who would pay good money for a cook as good as you.” The younger hunter was fervent in his praise.

“Nay, my place is here, at the Wood’s edge. And if my stew was fine, it’s only because you blessed us with such a fine bird.”

“No wonder, there’s some bad business afoot in Ellington these days,” the older hunter’s face darkened, as much as could be seen behind his copious beard. “As for the bird, I should dare to hope that my friend and I will be able to bless you with another…oh my…what’s this?!”

The hunters had thought nothing of it when Ma got up mid-conversation, but the child knew. Ma prided herself on her hospitality and would never let such a meal go by without dessert. Sure enough, out came a baked apple pudding, still warm to the touch and made from Ma’s own apples. Pa cut generous slices for everyone, complete with hot custard poured carefully on top.

“My dear lady, you have outdone yourself! Why, this is one of the best meals I have had in many, many years.” The older hunter was fairly dancing with mirth, while his companion could respond in grunts due to a mouthful of pudding.

“You are too kind, sir. Once you two are done, I’ll get your room ready. Thomas won’t mind, he’s working the fields down at Beadowhold and shan’t be back for some time. I reckon you’ll be wanting to retire early if you’re bound for the Barrows in the morning.”

“The Barrows? Whatever would give you that idea, Missus?” The younger hunter looked confused as he wiped a bit of custard from his flannel shirt.

“Are you not passing through the old road to the Barrows from Fox Hollow then?” There was a tone of something in Pa’s voice that the child could not make out.

“Of course not, my good man. Why should we do such a thing? No, if we’re lucky tonight, we’ll have at least a brace of pheasants come morning, and we shan’t mind sharing one with you,” said the older hunter with a laugh.

The shift in mood at the table was subtle, but not so subtle that it went unnoticed by the child. Da cleared his throat. Pa glanced to the looming darkness outside the window with an audible gulp. Ma stopped with her spoon halfway up to her mouth.

“Surely you’ll not be thinking of going into the woods tonight?” asked Ma incredulously.

“But of course, why do you think we’re here? I have it on good authority that the gamekeeper’s boy is down with the croup so he’s obliged to stay at his side. We shan’t pass up such a chance.”

“Wouldn't go that way tonight, were I you.” Da had been a more or less silent observer to the conversation so far, but now he made his presence known in his slow, deliberate way.

“But why?” pushed the older hunter, a tinge of frustration in his voice. “The conditions are perfect for pheasant shooting. They’ll be harder to catch once the full moon comes.”

“Bad night.” Da would not be induced to say any more, and the two men shared a dismissive glance, amused by what was clearly some kind of country superstition.

“We can take care of ourselves,” said the younger hunter, glancing at his twelve-bore resting against the wall by the heavy wooden door. The rest of the meal was finished in silence, Ma clearly wanting to say more but not daring to. Once the table was cleared, the two hunters got their jackets and guns, and prepared to set out. The open door let a chill into the otherwise cozy room, while the fire kept the darkness out.

“Keep the fire burning, dear lady. We’ll be having roasted pheasant for breakfast!” called the older hunter, his joviality returning as they set off.

“Aye, the fire always burns tonight,” muttered Da as Pa helped the hunters light their lanterns and kept watch as they disappeared into the woods. Then he lit the lantern hanging above the door, making sure that there was enough paraffin to last the night, before shutting everyone in.

“Boy, I reckon your belly’s as full as it’s going to be. Time to get up to bed, no dilly-dallying now. And don’t forget to say your prayers. Here, take your candle.” Ma shooed the child upstairs and listened as he climbed the narrow staircase.

The child set the candle on the nightstand, its tiny flame casting long shadows around the room. Every so often, the light would flicker and the shadows would dance. He changed into his nightshirt, which looked more like a nightdress on account of it belonging to his absent brother, and got into bed. Usually, he would dive under the ragged blanket and be asleep in the time it took a rooster to crow, but he was restless tonight. He pressed his eyes up against the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the two hunters as they made their way through the woods, but all he saw were the lights from the other houses, and the complete darkness of the woods.

 “Come away from there, lad, lest you see something you shouldn’t.” Da’s voice commanded. “Your Ma sent up an extra candle.”

The child jumped, startled, and pulled away from the window. He had been so engrossed in searching for some sign of the hunters that he hadn’t even heard Da come up the stairs.

“Da, why’d we have to come in by last light tonight? A couple of the lads wanted to go looking for glow-worms later.”

“Don’t play the fool with me, boy. You know full well tonight is its night; you don’t go wandering when it walks. There’ll be just as many glow-worms out tomorrow night.”

“Bah! That’s nonsense, Da. Somebody made it up.” The child spoke with the authority of one who only believes in what their own eyes have seen.

“’Tis not, and don’t you go testing things you know nothing about.”

“Have you ever seen it, Da?” challenged the child, sure of his answer.

“Seen it? Nay. But I have been seen by it. I was like you when I was just a slip of a boy, laughing at those who jumped at shadows. My own Pa told many stories at the old table downstairs, and I listened well enough, but I never understood how grown men could believe in such rot. The forest was more my home than the old, stone house, and I didn’t much like being told to stay away. So one year, on a night just as this, I told myself that I wasn’t afeared of a story and I snuck out after my Ma and Pa went to bed. I very nearly didn’t make it back.”

“Tell me, Da,” begged the child.

“Alright,” said Da, with a sigh, “but only because I don’t want you making the same fool mistake as I did all those years ago.”

The old man’s gaze shifted, and he was lost in thought for such a long time that the child began to suspect he had fallen asleep with his eyes open. Finally, he came to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Move over, boy, and listen carefully. I don’t want to repeat myself, for ‘tis hard enough remembering it once. I shan’t do it another time.” The old man’s voice brooked no argument. “I was a boy only a year past your age, and I hated being caught within these stone walls. Oh, she’s a fine house, and don’t anyone ever tell you different, but my place was outside with the squirrels and the hedgehogs.

My Pa hailed from the slums of Old Town. He came here one year with his own father for the hunt, took one look at your grandmother, and decided right there and then that Old Town held nothing for him. He had precious little schooling, and knew even less about farming, but he was as strong as an ox and didn’t think twice about lending a hand where one was needed. Before long, the people of the village had taken him in as one of their own, and my Ma took him as her own too.

He would sometimes go into town to do whatever odd jobs he could find down at the shipyard, and he’d take whatever we had managed to grow. The farm out back wasn’t big, not like some of those others I’ve heard tell of around Thornbury. But people said my Ma held sway over the plants and, without doubt, her turnips were some of the best in the parish. Other than helping my Ma, I was pretty much left on my own, even when my Pa was around. You know how it is.”

The child most certainly did not know how it was. The family made their living off the land, and the livestock it sustained. There was always work to be done, and the child only rarely had time to go off wandering on his own adventures. However, he had no desire to interrupt Da’s story, so he kept quiet.

“Back then, this place weren’t no real village, though that’s what we called it. No more than about ten or eleven houses stood on the land in those days. The Millers moved here right before you were born on account of Old Man Miller’s accident.

I could count the number of lads and lasses in these here parts on one hand, and there weren’t many ways of us getting into trouble. Most times we’d head to the Beck to fish for graylings, and trout if we were lucky, but there ain’t any more of that on account of the Beck being so dirty now. Fishing is a patient man’s game, maybe that’s why we’d hardly ever catch anything. Or we’d go into the woods to the old bathing hole. The water was as cold as winter’s ice at night, and we’d dare each other to jump in.

But on this night we were always warned to be in by last light, just as you were, and many a tanning of hides was promised for tardiness. It irked me to no end, being used to going wherever I pleased. I pestered my Pa something awful, for I could see no reason for such silly superstitions, ‘specially when everyone I knew had neither seen nor heard anything. The only answer I ever got was that it had always been so, and so it would continue to be.

Of course that weren’t enough for me, just as I know ‘tis not enough for you, so that year I made up my mind to find out for myself. I waited patiently until the sounds of talking ceased, earlier than expected since we had no visitors that year. I found it strange that no-one came, but that was just a passing thought in my head. Ma looked in on me on her way to her and Pa’s room, and I kept as still as could be. Then I made my move in the silence after their door closed.

There was a vast oak tree outside my room, long gone now thanks to my Pa, and I could just reach one of its outstretched branches from my window. I slithered down the tree, as quick as a cat, and hid with beating heart to see if my escape would be found out. It was not, and I crept silently among the handful of houses, each one with a lantern blazing outside and people shuttered inside. None lay in darkness, and I knew that their dwellers would ignore me even if they heard my footsteps. Every now and then the bleating of a restless sheep was carried on the wind.

At first, I wasn’t sure where to go, but I got it in my head to visit the bathing hole, following the sound of the Beck. The moon was high, and I was sure of my footing, having gone that way a hundred times before. It weren’t more than ten minutes before I came to the clearing where a huge rock in its path had turned that section of the Beck into something of a pond. Being outside made me feel as free as a bird, but I was also chilled by the night air, and so I decided against testing the waters. Instead, I propped against a great boulder and wondered why I hadn’t thought to bring my fishing line with me. It was then that I noticed what I clearly hadn’t before. The woods were eerily silent.

That shouldn’t be. The woods were full of life at night. More than once had my friends and I been taken unawares by the screech of a barn owl. On the rare night we could bring ourselves to be quiet, the rustle of badgers and foxes could be heard among the dried leaves. But now, even the ever-present bats seemed to have deserted the place. For the first time, I started feeling a tiny bit of uneasiness. The scurrying of a rat would have been a welcome relief as fear gnawed at me. Something felt wrong. It was as though the entire forest was straining with anticipation, of what I couldn’t guess.

Then, in the midst of the silence, I heard a branch break off to my left. That was nothing out of the ordinary in the woods, but the sound carried extra weight that night. I could feel my heart trying to escape my chest, and everything in me told me to run, but I was frozen to the spot. The sound came again, and again, faster and closer each time, for all the world as though something large was rushing towards me. I finally came to my senses and took off as fast as my legs could carry me.

My mind was racing. I’d heard of bears, but I knew full well that there were no bears left. Maybe I was letting my mind play tricks on me. And then, from a short distance behind, came the sound of a splash. Something was crossing the stream! I doubled my efforts, even though my muscles were on fire. I could feel whatever it was gaining on me, but I dared not look back.

I finally burst from the woods. The Miller’s cottage wasn’t yet there, and I knew that trying to rouse anyone at Oakmere would be useless, so I raced towards the light from the lantern still burning brightly at our door. Only when I had jumped the low fence and banged madly on our door did I dare look back. I saw nothing. There was once again only that eerie silence. At that very moment, my Pa opened the door, armed with his shotgun, and gave me a look I had never seen before. An angry growl came from the tree line, and my Pa grabbed my arm and had me in the house before I even knew what was happening. My Ma descended upon me, pulling me to her bosom, thanking God for my return with one breath and cursing my foolishness with the other. My Pa was silent, his face a warring picture of anger and worry, as he placed more logs on the fire.

Old Nip, our young Nip’s great-grandpa, barely looked up from his place by the fire, unamused by all the goings on. All of a sudden, he lifted his battle-scarred head and his ears pricked. Then he slowly got up, my Pa’s eyes on him the whole time, and ran to the door. He bent his head and growled, never one to back down from anything. We half expected to hear a knock, but none came. Without warning, there was an unholy ruckus outside, from the direction of the Whitlowes. First came the splintering of wood, then came the screams. Oh, not of people, no one in their right mind would set foot outside.

“Stay away from the windows!” yelled my Pa as I stood up to check what was going on. So wild was his voice that I sat back down at once. My Ma held me so close that I thought my ribs would break, and Pa’s grip tightened on his gun. Old Nip let out a mournful howl and retreated to his place, for once choosing sense over bravery. The rending of wood sounded twice more, once at Mossgill, and then at Pinfold Cottage. No one slept that night, not even after the sounds subsided. My Ma brought down some blankets, and we huddled around the fire until morning.

The coming of dawn brought with it a terrible sight when we finally dared venture out, along with a few of our neighbours. I remember everyone being stunned into silence. The doors to those three barns had been destroyed. Not a sheep, calf, or chicken survived, but only a few were missing. The floors were littered with carcasses, their bellies wide open, one or two with their heads struck clean off. Whatever had done this had killed for the sake of killing. My Pa, and a few of the other armed men, followed the trail of blood, feathers, and the occasional bone, to the edge of the woods. I followed closely behind them. Even though it was daylight, none dared follow any further.

It was a long while after that before any of the lads were allowed to go into the woods alone. After a time, life went back to what passes for normal in the village. We’re hard folk, and we know how to weather storms, but no-one who was there ever forgot that night. Not an animal survived, and sometimes I think I wasn’t meant to survive either. I keep going back to that moment it was chasing me and I raced into the light. It never followed. I keep thinking about those barns too, and how they were the only ones that weren’t under the protection of the lanterns, because they had never needed them before.

I learned a lesson that night, boy, and it’s one I’ve never forgotten, for it near cost me my life. Now you may think it’s naught but silly superstition, just as I did all those years ago, but it’s all too real, and one way or the other it demands to be fed.”

“But what is it, Da?” the child’s shining eyes looked up at his grandfather with the confidence of the very young that the adults around them hold all the answers.

“I don’t know, child,” the old man’s brows knitted in concentration, “I heard a tale once from one of the other village lads, who had heard it from a passing peddler. Long before my time, maybe even hundreds of years ago, there was a rich merchant who did his trading out of Brackenmere. There’s only so rich a man can get without being a bad sort, and this one was about as bad as they come. Every so often, he’d travel the county looking for new business. One day, he ended up coming this way and took quite a fancy to a young maid in the village.

She cared not a whit for his attention. She was a country girl, from a long line of country women, and she was made for country life. It’s a hard life, boy, but it’s our life, and I wouldn’t trade it for all the bright lights in Ellingford. Anyway, our gentleman wasn’t one to take no for an answer. He decided that the maid would be his one way or the other and made plans to spirit her away at night, but it’s hard to keep a secret in a place such as this. Someone got wind of his plan and warned the maid of what he intended to do.

On the night he meant to take her, she fled into the woods instead. The evil man cursed the villagers something awful for helping his prey escape. He went after her. A few men from the village went after them, but the man was in such a frenzy that they soon lost sight of him. They found her the next morning, her neck broken, perhaps from a fall or perhaps from his own hands. Of him not a trace was ever found. Some say he escaped to the Barrows and went into hiding. Some say he went mad with rage and that rage turned him into a beast that comes back every year in search of his lost prey.”

“What do you think, Da?” The child found the thought of a man turning into a beast both frightening and exciting.

“I think ‘tis a pile of rubbish,” said the old man, with a derisive snort of laughter. “Some things cannot be explained, child. Maybe it is a beast. Maybe it’s the spirit of the forest itself. Or maybe what it is doesn’t matter. It’s been here as long as anyone can remember, and I reckon it’ll still be here long after we’re gone. Now, enough of this talk. Go to bed and do not go near the window.” Just to be sure, the old man secured the shutters himself.

The child did not go to the window, but neither could he sleep, especially as he still heard muffled voices coming from downstairs. He knew from past years that the adults of the home would keep the fire lit and remain awake until the first rooster crowed. He wondered if that was always the case, and how much had changed since the days of Da’s story. Finally, curiosity got the better of him and he crept silently out of the room and to the top of the stairs, not daring to go any further. The house was old, and the stairs creaked as they often do in old houses. He strained his ears and could just make out the low tones of the frightened adults.

“Do you think they’ll ever be found?” the woman’s voice trembled with a mixture of fear and worry. “Perhaps they’ll make it to the Barrows. They seemed a nice enough sort.”

“Perhaps, but I’ve never heard tell of any who have gone into the woods on this night,” responded her husband. “There’s naught saying they’ve got to pass back this way. Still, so many years and never a word.”

“Aye, but that doesn’t mean anything, does it? The county is a mighty big place.” A tiny note of hope crept into the woman’s voice.

“Neither you nor I believe that, Ma. You know in your bones that we’ll never see hide nor hair of them again.” The man’s response was gruff but final, as though he didn’t see the point of hope.

“We should have tried harder. We should have done more to stop them.”

“What more could we have done?” questioned the man. “Tell them of the thing that walks the woods on this night? They would have laughed in our faces. We did what we could. We didn’t make them go.”

“But still….” The woman trailed off, unsure of what to say.

“Hush, daughter. Someone always comes, and someone is always lost. That is the way it must be, or else God help us all. It may not be only the animals that suffer.” The old man interjected, glancing up at where he thought the child was sleeping.

Da’s voice left no room for argument, and the child understood. Whatever ‘it’ was, it needed to be fed, and someone always came. The who or why didn’t matter, as long as they came. If they didn’t, the village itself would feel the wrath of the thing that walked in the woods. Better the loss of an outsider than one they would mourn as their own. The child crept back to bed as the first rooster crowed. It had been satiated. Best to sleep when it did and pray that next year someone came.