Imagine Tales

As I stepped into the woods, I could a sense a significant drop in the light and temperature alike. Even though the air had been still just a moment ago, a chill wind blew through the trees. My skin prickled like a wave across my whole body, causing me to shiver. To my mind it had felt like somebody passing by, rather than a natural wind of which logic dictated. I looked into the woods and then through the gateway behind me, no leaf or branch stirred. The sense of foreboding I had felt back at the folly had returned and brought along friends. I decided that with the failing light I should only enter the woods so far as to be still within sight of the wall behind me. I knew this was a decision based on my own nerves, rather than risking the chance of becoming lost in the woods. Continuing in my triumph of common sense over unsubstantiated fears, I walked deeper into the forest. It always amazed me how, with a change in the light, nature could go from beautiful to terrifying. The unknown of the dark and twisted shapes, suggesting evil creatures lurking, waiting, hunting and finally feasting in ways beyond human perception. But still I carried on, occasionally turning back to look at the wall still faintly showing in the dying sunset. I did not expected to see much, but faintly in the distance I could see a clearing in the forest, an open patch where light gave it a ghostly appearance. Something stood in the centre, about three feet tall and bright amongst the dark edges of the clearing. I tried to make out the object, but was unable to in the rapidly fading light. I turned my head towards home but could not see the wall, more as result of the arriving night than my distance from it. I viewed my surroundings and located one particular unique tree twined with its nearest neighbour to become one. I decided that as long as I head for this tree from the clearing, I would easily be able to navigate myself back to the wall, and with that I continued onwards.

I tripped on numerous roots as I made my way, my eyes unable to pick out the ground as they tried to adjust between the light in the clearing and the darkness of the woods. As I stumbled closer, the light in the clearing seem to solidify, and I could see that the sky above it was black with arrival of countless stars. A sight that always amazed me each time I returned from London and all its manmade luminescence. The sun had finally set and the night had arrived. I continued onwards but suddenly stopped with the realisation that the clearing was still lit and I was sure the moon could not be having such an effect so early in the night. I knew my knowledge of the skies was limited to that of most folk, and tried to assume it was the moon in all her mystic glory. Now almost creeping, I moved closer to the open space, the strange object I saw from afar coming into view. If I did not know better, I would have sworn that the object gave off an unnatural glow, not like that of a light bulb, but more as if the light was sourced around it, an aura that illuminated the immediate surroundings. The trees that edged the clearing stood tall and looming, the under-lighting creating shadows like tortured faces set into the chaotic patterns of the bark. I had to suppress a laugh when the old man in the pub described the trees that surrounded the statue, but now I shivered in fearful awe, remembering his words. As my eyes fell upon the object, triggered by the memory of the tale, I could see it was a statue made of stone. I crept closer, daring not to leave the darkness that surrounded me and enter the clearing. Once settled behind the front line of monstrous guardian trees, I stared at the stone. It was certainly not of a natural shape, but it looked more organic than the chisel work of man, more like it had grown, like the trees that looked down upon it with terrifying gazes.

Part of me wanted to flee this place, head home, back to the safety of my house, but I could not take my eyes off the statue, with each passing moment gleaning more of its detail. It was certainly no recognisable creature, maybe because the elements have taken their toll upon this rock over the centuries. It seemed roughly humanoid, thin spindly legs supporting a grossly inflated body. This was where all humanoid similarities ended, however, and I could not discern a head, but something like a mouth, circular and ringed in regular circles of raised stonework like fearsome teeth, was placed in what one would assume was its chest. The rest of the upper body was lumpy with numerous tentacle-like limbs, a few raised skywards in a circular lean. It was a horrific sight to behold, never had I imagined something like this could exist in flesh or stone. I hated the object and instantly decided contract be damned, I would not have this in my grounds! The moment of self-righteous anger suppressed any previous emotions of uncertainty and fear, and I stood up, stepping forward with my hand against one of the giant trees for support. The light struck me and for a moment I felt faint. Something changed around me and suddenly I was not alone. My rage was gone as quickly as it had arrived.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

It was the early 1900s and the house belonged to a family, a father, mother and three young children. The winter had been harsh and they lost the youngest child to whooping cough. The mother had taken the loss badly and was not showing any signs of ending her mourning for the child. Many of her duties as a mother have now fallen to the servants, as the husband was kept in London by his work. The servants believed he did not want to return home, his love for the family damaged by the loss and his wife’s darkening presence. As the following winter approached and the first snows fell, there was little sign of improvement in the family, and the children became more and more isolated from their parents. Despite warnings from the servants not to wonder beyond the wall, brother and sister went into the woods after a scolding from the maid for disturbing their mother’s rest. It was many hours before the maid called for them, as the evening meal was to be served soon, but her call was not answered. A search by the servants was quickly brought about, the house, the gardens and the woods, both larger and more wild than today. No sign of the children was found as the last of the daylight disappeared, and all that could be done was to send word to their father in London and to rally help for first light. The children were never found, only sign that they had even been in the woods was the young girl’s toy, a rag doll given to her by her mother. The loss of the children broke the family, the mother took her own life within a few months and the father was found drowned in the Thames a year later. The events had fuelled local talk for many a year after, with elaborations on the suffering and deaths of the parents. But no man, woman or child ever embellished the fate of the children, for it was only one fact that convinced them all of what happened to them. The girl had always carried that doll, battered and worn, as it was her favourite and rarely left her side. It was found by an old statue in the oldest part of the woods, where a circle of trees stood like tall, wooden entities true to whom the statue embodied. Over the years, with nature taking its toll upon the stone, time had distorted its true representation in the minds of men and women alike. Some said it was a pagan witch who feasted upon the flesh of children when the great trees where just saplings, others said it was older than even her. But all knew it was something to be feared and respected. The old ways still had their part to play.

…

My eyes slowly become accustomed to the darkness inside the folly, and I then noticed an engraving upon a centre brick in the back wall. It read ‘In memory of John Connelly’. I had no idea for whom this not inexpensive tribute was, the surname not manifesting in any of the legal documents I had read. It was something I could investigate upon my return to the City, as my position granted me connections in such matters with ease, but I cursed that no dates had been carved in the beautiful ornate script. With the thought of a man’s final demise lingering, the inside of the folly seem to take on a dark and damp atmosphere, which felt almost tomb-like. I shuddered and quickly stood up to leave the folly, and as I stood my eye caught another inscription on the stone floor. Unlike the more formal dedication, this was scratched crudely by what looked like a knife blade, and it only said one word: ‘Lilith’. Another shudder fell across me and I hurriedly left the folly, letting the rose thorns scratch me as they pleased, more concerned with seeking the light than protecting my exposed skin. Those brief few seconds had turned my mood suspicious and unnerved. The sky still gave off a blue hue and seemed so much brighter than before I had entered the folly and it had quickly helped dispel the foreboding sensations.

Another wooden arch covered in ivy stood over the continuing path into the woods. I went through it and began to follow the path. I could see now just how like a labyrinth the garden was, it was not a maze as many might assume, but followed one path, as a true labyrinth would. The only difference was the destination was not the centre, but then I thought, that depends on your perspective of what the centre is. For this garden, I felt it was the woods. The path twisted and turned, so had it not been for the nearing tree line, I would have easily lost all sense of direction. Sometimes statues of angels and mythical beasts stood set back into the planting beds, the overgrown branches allowing them to hide in wait with unknown intent. The Victorian zeal for the Gothic evident in each piece of craftsmanship, nature adding its haunting quality in the green and red tones of the moss and lichen that lived upon the stone. I revelled in the overall effect of the garden, it was beautiful and full of mystery, it let my imagination run wild and filled my heart full of morbid delight in the fading light that brought an air of sinister excitement to the place.

Before long, I had reached the end of the labyrinth garden and could see the distinct line of the woodland ahead, which was bordered by a tall brick wall with a single ironwork gate allowing access to the woodland. I recollected seeing the wall in the plans of the grounds and thinking how strange it was to have such a defensive wall inside the grounds. Many reasons came to me now that I stood there. Like the statues, it was more ornate than its purpose required, but the walls seemed too high and the gate too solid and simple to be just pleasing to the eye. Recalling the tale of I was told of the missing children, it would have prevented them from playing in the woods, assuming the gate was kept locked. It was the thought that maybe the wall kept something out, something in the woods or the woods themselves, which troubled me. My mind wondered with too much morbid suspicion and folklore. I approached the gate, gently pushed against it, and it opened with the expected squeal of unkempt hinges. Once the unbearable high-pitched noise stopped, I realised how quiet it was. No birds sang and no wind moved the trees, it was a deathly silence and momentarily made me hesitate about continuing. But I told myself it was the environment and my own mind which created this sense of foreboding. There was no wind in the still night and many animals would be resting and it was still too early for the night time creatures to be noticeable. I pushed the gate fully open and stepped through.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

I had soon left the house and strode across the lawn with a purpose. The darkening blue sky looked ethereal buffered against the blackness of the tree line, which marked the beginning of small woodland partly contained within my boundaries. There had been some historical documents with the deeds, which set out that the woodland was ancient in origin and protected by a contract almost as old. Through my brief glance of the contract regarding the preservation of the woodland, I noted an odd statement that any objects of historical nature are also protected against removal or any disruptive investigation. I had dismissed the information at the time as I had no plans for the forest, and all my energies were aimed at the house and the work it required. So it was not until hearing the tales that I began to question what “objects of historical nature” lay within my grounds.

As I made my way across the open space of the lawn, I recollected my first visit to the local public house. On announcing that I was the proud owner of this house and gardens, I was quickly, if with some strange hesitation, regaled with local folklore for the price of a pint or two of ale. There was talk of worship of the old gods, strange creatures, ghostly figures, and even human sacrifice in a time before the Romans had conquered our lands. It made fascinating conversation of an evening, and I heartily enjoyed the tales of our once wild and savage land, full of mysticism and magic. But whilst the tales varied in age and content, all of them centred around the woods; my woods.

Reaching the end of the lawn I entered the only path into what, I was informed, is a variation of the more traditional labyrinth garden. The entrance was between two giant evergreens, the years of unkempt growth now required force to push past the branches, which seemed to refuse my entrance. I stepped into the lost derelict gardens, where flowers bloomed in chaotic patterns and all plants fought for space. It was beautiful in a wild kind of way. It had not been tended for a long time but the lack of attention had not let the garden spectacle falter. I personally preferred the more wild look and even more so when nature was reclaiming what man had once controlled. Gnarled roots rose from the twisting pathway, forcing me to be wary of my step as I made my way. Rose bushes intruded across borders, occasionally forcing me to protect my face with raised arms against the scratching thorns. Each rose was pure white or blood red, an alluring combination bringing a Gothic feel to the surroundings. The rose bush branches climbed up and over a wooden arch, finally descending into the entranceway, like barbed tendrils of a hidden monster waiting to ensnare a passing innocent soul. To its left, there was an old wooden bench that had given up a long time ago, the wooden slats broken and rotten. The archway brought me through to a small circular patio with, much to my great delight, a small folly in the centre. It was nothing grand, a simple circular tower, but with an open front and a fairytale roof which rose to a crooked pinnacle, supported on the curved back wall and two columns. Inside was a stone bench against the back wall, suitable for two people. I did not recollect any notes about the structure in details of the property, beyond the comments of garden ornaments being included in the sale. It was an unexpected but welcome gift indeed. Ivy creepers and rose stems fought for space across its walls and columns, and I had to carefully move thorny branches aside to gain access. It was dark inside, as what little light there was now available was filtered by the leaves and branches. I sat down on the bench and found the air inside quite cool, compared to the warm summer night. I wondered what other mysterious surprises these gardens and ancient woodlands had to offer, if something as delightful as this was not mentioned. My thoughts drifted back to the tales about the woodland I was told by the locals, and one in particular stood out. It was told to me by one of the more reclusive old men in the pub, while others spoke of ancient rites, he told me a more recent and more unnerving story.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5