Halloween Hell
by Cleveland W. Gibson
part 1
“Hell” caught Brian’s eye. He drove his Jaguar into the petrol station. Smiled to himself. Brian read the newly painted sign again.
LAST PETROL BEFORE HELL
The old man who’d worked on the sign retreated into the shop, taking his paint tin and brush with him. He sat behind the counter. Watching. Waiting. His eyes moved from left to right every few seconds.
Brian filled his tank and then went to pay. “Good bit of publicity,” Brian joked. He jerked his head in the direction of the sign. “Why the Hell bit?” he asked. “Surely...” his voice trailed off, mock horror showed on his face.
The man, about eighty-five years old, ran a hand under his chin, pulling at long wispy hairs. “Couldn’t spell ‘Halloween’,” the man returned. “Hell will be coming along soon enough for all of us, and maybe the Haunted Wood, too.”
Brian laughed. He didn’t quite understand the “haunted” reference, though he knew from the costumes he’d seen in shop windows that Halloween was imminent. In fact, it was due to happen that very night of all nights when his family expected him home for a special dinner party.
“They calls it ‘Haunted Wood’ because that’s what it is. Haunted. Only two miles away, it’s where you’re heading, sir. Nobody lives there except the old witch.”
* * *
Inspector Mike O’Leary of Thames Valley Police thought himself an oddball. He was Irish, a good detective, loved a drink and swearing, too. County Mayo was in his dim past. Now he watched traffic north of Burford heading for the area of the Cotswolds known as Haunted Wood. “Find Brian Goldsmith,” the Chief Constable had ordered. Mike knew at once strings had been pulled, and that he had to find the businessman who had all the desired connections. “Mike, his Jag broke down in Haunted Wood. Do what you have to, but find Goldsmith, and make it quick.”
* * *
Brian left the garage and drove. He stopped once to check his map and had the feeling the trees had moved closer towards him.
He remembered how, as he prepared to leave the filling station, the old man had started to talk.
“It is a strange place,” the man said. “The Haunted Wood, I mean.”
Brian examined his change. He picked up a bar of chocolate and paid for it. “Tell me more.”
The old man averted his eyes. Then he stared hard at Brian. “People lived there, when it had a different name,” he said. “Before my time. Then strange things happened and people died. All because of ghosts and Black Magic.
“Now nobody lives there except an old woman called Miss Weaver. Everybody thinks she is a witch. On Halloween, talk says she makes ‘things’ happen. It is all enough to chill your bones, because she were about when we were not even born.”
Brian grinned back. “Sounds interesting,” he replied. “Cheerio.”
After twenty minutes, Brian still found himself in the dense wooded area of Haunted Wood. Ten further minutes passed. His hands felt peculiar. Now the steering wheel increased in size as his body shrank!
Brian kept driving until it became impossible to control the Jaguar. He stopped the car in a lay-by and tumbled out. He moved away from the big car to make a call on his mobile. Every few seconds he cast a glance behind him, wondering at the crisp sound of breaking twigs.
“Darling, it is near midnight. I’ve broken down in a place called the ‘Haunted Wood.’ I’ve a stalker trailing me. Don’t worry; I’m calling the AA.”
Anita, his wife played the message he’d left on the answering machine. Then again. Again. She heard strange noises in the background that set her teeth on edge. And the branches in the forest shook fiercely as if blasted away by a major storm.
“What’s happening?” she said aloud. “What is going on?
Her young daughter joined her to listen to the message. The ten-year old burst into tears. Anita placed an arm around her daughter’s shoulders and then hugged her.
“Mum. Dad is in trouble. I can hear something. I’m frightened. Call Granddad. He knows the police and what to do.”
* * *
Brian’s father-in-law was an ex-Chief Constable who would soon set in train the right people for a rescue. Brian waited by the car as minute by minute the hairs on his neck prickled. He sniffed the air.
“Wood smoke,” he muttered to himself. “Miss Weaver, the old man said, so what do I do?”
A flimsy moon cast its pale light through the trees, showing an outline of a building. A cottage perhaps. He immediately started moving toward it.
After a couple of minutes, he wondered if he should have stayed with his car. He had a feeling of dread he couldn’t shake off. And then he thought... or half-thought he’d seen white things drifting down from the tops of the trees and floating off into the distance. Brian had never seen ghosts before. Now panic started to kick in.
He continued to walk. Then he drew nearer to a couple of cottages. Wood smoke from one of the cottages caught his attention. He passed a Celtic stone cross planted in the garden. How odd. How unexpected. A further few yards on, Brian found himself outside a back door. He began to knock, but the door swung open on its own. He felt apprehensive as he entered, calling out as he advanced. What was he getting into?
“Hello.”
Somebody answered his second “Hello.” A woman. Her voice sounded faint. He called back. On entering the cottage, he found her sitting at the side of a blazing fire.
“Come in, Brian. I’ve been waiting for you this lovely Halloween night.”
* * *
Inspector Mike O’Leary arrived at the crime scene. He talked to the officer who’d found the abandoned Jaguar. It was the car belonging to Brian Goldsmith. The detective stared at the number plate in disbelief. He read ‘HELL.’ The shock at seeing the number plate took him by surprise. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath.
“I remember once... in Ireland,” Mike O’Leary started to say. “But this isn’t Ireland. This is England, and magic doesn’t happen here... It just doesn’t, I’m told.”
Mike O’Leary looked up. A uniformed officer showed him a receipt for petrol. On a hunch, the Inspector turned the key in the ignition. The engine failed to fire.
“How odd. Tank says empty, yet the receipt is for a full tank.”
A break in the rows of trees on the other side of the road drew his attention. Mike O’Leary crossed over to shine his torch at a patch of damp earth. Single footprints. Further on he saw the trail of something following Brian Goldsmith.
The Inspector returned to the abandoned Jaguar. He spoke to the uniformed officer on duty.
Even as he did so, they both heard a chilling sound coming from the direction taken by Brian Goldsmith.
“What was that?” asked the constable. “A wolf or some kind of beast.”
Mike O’Leary swallowed hard. He swore under his breath. “No. More like the Banshee. God help us. I need the dogs. Right now.”
* * *
Brian entered the room. An old woman sat in a chair, her face lit by the light from the dancing flames. Her grey hair, her complexion, the way she sat and her tiny frame indicated her age. But when he cast her a sideways glance, her eyes twinkled. She watched him with interest.
“Are you...?” Brian asked, his voice trailed off as he paused to warm his hands before the fire. “My car broke down. I was looking for help when I saw this cottage.”
The old woman smiled. “I’m Miss Weaver. Eighty years old... I still keeps going. Some swear I’m a witch. Could be. Might be. Maybe I’m the last one left in Haunted Wood.”
Brian Goldsmith listened and then went to the light switch. He pressed it and yellow light streamed down the badly plastered walls. In that additional light, he saw more details of objects in the rooms.
Next to the fire Brian saw a coal bucket. In a corner he saw a pile of cut logs. Further over he made out the dark outline of a second door leading further into the cottage. And against one of the walls, Brian caught sight of an old sideboard covered in dust. On top of the sideboard rested a tray, two glasses and a bottle of whisky.
“Go on, pour us a couple of tots and then bring them here. And the bottle,” Miss Weaver called to him. The crackle in her voice made him think she would make a perfect witch indeed.
Brian handed her a whisky and then found a chair on the other side of the fire. He stared across at her. Only the ticking of a grandfather clock broke the silence.
“Best place to be,” Brian said breaking the silence. He slurped the whisky. “I mean safe indoors on a spooky Halloween night like this. Don’t you feel scared at all? Being alone and all, I mean.”
“No.” She sighed.
But Brian detected a sadness in her voice. He drained his glass and picked up the bottle. It was at that point he noticed her attention fixed on a greeting card on the old stone mantle-shelf.
“From somebody special?”
Miss Weaver dropped her head. She rubbed both eyes. Then she held out her glass for a refill. “Oh yes. My brother,” she admitted sighing. “It happened he died on a night like this, Halloween night.”
Brian felt a shiver as if something had walked over his grave. “Sounds spooky. Tell me more.” He paused, aware of the warmth of the fire and the relaxing effect of the whisky. He got up to add more coal to the fire and returned to his chair.
Seconds later Brian heard the wind outside. It blew softly through the trees, passing over the thatched roof of the cottage. Soon it developed into a violent gust before fading away.
Copyright © 2022 by Cleveland W. Gibson
