A Nest of Nightmares

Marilyn closed the book, not wanting to read of Martin’s inevitable, and terrible, end. He kept animals, she thought idly. What if he had been a farmer? How would the spirit of the land have destroyed him then?

She looked out the window and saw with relief that the children were playing. They’ve finally given up their hunt, she thought, and wondered what they were playing now. Were they playing follow-the-leader? Dancing like Indians? Or horses, she thought, suddenly, watching their prancing feet and tossing heads. They were playing horses.

Marilyn woke suddenly, listening. Her body strained forward, her heart pounding too loudly, her mouth dry. She heard it again: the wild, mad cry of a horse. She had heard it before in the night, but never so close, and never so human-sounding.

Marilyn got out of bed, shivering violently as her feet touched the cold, bare floor and the chilly air raised bumps on her naked arms. She went to the window, drew aside the curtains, and looked out.

The night was still and as clear as an engraving. The moon lacked only a sliver more for fullness and shone out of a cloudless, star-filled sky. A group of small figures danced upon the snowy ground, jerking and prancing and kicking up a spray of snow. Now and again one of them would let out a shrill cry: half a horse’s neigh, half a human wail. Marilyn felt her hairs rise as she recognised the puppet-like dancers below: the children.

She was tempted to let the curtains fall back and return to bed – to say nothing, to do nothing, to act as if nothing unusual had happened. But these were her children now, and she wasn’t allowed that sort of irresponsibility.

The window groaned as she forced it open, and at the faint sound the children stopped their dance. As one, they turned and looked up at Marilyn.

The breath stopped in her throat as she stared down at their upturned faces. Everything was very still, as if that moment had been frozen within a block of ice. Marilyn could not speak; she could not think of what to say.

She withdrew back into the room, letting the curtains fall back before the open window, and she ran to the bed.

‘Derek,’ she said, catching hold of him. ‘Derek, wake up.’ She could not stop her trembling.

His eyes moved behind their lids.

‘Derek,’ she said urgently.

Now they opened and, fogged with sleep, looked at her.

‘What is it, love?’ He must have seen the fear in her face, for he pushed himself up on his elbows. ‘Did you have a bad dream?’

‘Not a dream, no. Derek, your Uncle Martin – he could have lived here if he hadn’t been a master himself. If he hadn’t kept horses. The horses turned on him because they had found another master.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The spirit that lives in this land,’ she said. She was not trembling, now. Perspiration beaded her forehead. ‘It uses the . . . the servants, or whatever you want to call them . . . it can’t abide anyone else ruling here. If we . . .’

‘You’ve been dreaming, sweetheart.’ He tried to pull her down beside him, but she shook him off. She could hear them on the stairs.

‘Is our door locked?’ she suddenly demanded.

‘Yes, I think so.’ Derek frowned. ‘Did you hear something? I thought . . .’

‘Children are a bit like animals, don’t you think? At least, people treat them as if they were – adults, I mean. I suppose children must . . .’

‘I do hear something. I’d better go – ’

‘Derek – No – ’

The doorknob rattled and there was a great pounding at the door.

‘Who is that?’ Derek said loudly.

‘The children,’ Marilyn whispered.

The door splintered and gave way before Derek reached it, and the children burst through. There were so many of them, Marilyn thought, as she waited on the bed. And all she could seem to see was their strong, square teeth.

THE OTHER MOTHER

Across the lake, on the other shore, something moved: pale-white, glimmering. Tall as a person.

Sara looked up from her work, refocusing her eyes. She realised how dark it had become. It had been too dark, in the rapidly deepening twilight, to paint for the last half-hour, but she had been reluctant to admit it, give up, and go in.

There, again. A woman in a white gown? Gone again.

Sara frowned, vexed, and concentrated on the brushy land across the narrow expanse of dark water. She waited, listening to the crickets and frogs, and she stared so intently that the growing shadows merged, reforming in strange shapes. What had she really seen? Had that pale glimmer been a trick of the fading light? Why did she feel as if there was a stranger lurking on the other shore, a woman watching her who would let herself be seen only in glimpses?

Sara realised she was tired. She arched her back and exercised her aching arms. She still watched the other shore, but casually now, hoping to lure the stranger out by seeming inattentiveness.