The woods surrounding the village of Weirston are deep and tangled, full of ancient oaks with green mossy boughs that have stood for centuries. Here and there remains of crumbled walls reveal rapidly fading traces of former occupation from centuries before, and the edges of the wood are guarded by dense patches of sharp-spiked blackthorn and black-berried elder.

These woods have always felt like places that harboured mysteries.

Local legend attests that in the heart of the wood, close to a dark pool of mirror-still water, there once stood an old circle of weathered stones. These, legend also says, were torn down by an evangelical pastor in the 1700s when a small chapel was erected on the site, incorporating the old stones into the lintels. His endeavours to claim the site failed to take root, however, and the woods soon swallowed the chapel. Its roofless hollow remains are said to still lie within a tangle of trees, and locals whisper that the spirits of the wood had exacted this punishment for the destruction of the old circle.

I myself had a deep love of those woods. It was a route home I often took during the summers after work, on those long glorious evenings when the air was warm and bright, and the ground was dry enough to avoid ruining good shoes. I would escape the office and gratefully shed my tie before plunging into the cool embrace of the tranquil trees. There were no true paths through those dark wooded depths, but I had learned to chart my own route through the tangled heart of it.

I had always dismissed the lingering folklore as nothing more than nonsense, but that all changed during the hottest day of the summer. That day was like any other as I left work, my rucksack slung over one shoulder, and my MP3 player blaring music through my ear-buds. The sunlight blazing across the hot asphalt of the car park was so hot that the back and armpits of my shirt were darkened with perspiration the moment I stepped out of the office doorway. The trees started just beyond the edge of the car park and I hurried for them, seeking the welcoming shade they offered.

As I had hoped, the woods were beautifully cool; a haven of still, shadowy trunks, cloaked in a silence broken only by stealthy rustlings and bird-song. What little sunlight managed to invade this world speckled the ground in glowing patches as it filtered between the canopy, and the scent of wildflowers and rich earth was on the air. 

It all felt numinous and ageless.

I often allowed my imagination to take over as I walked, lost in a daydream or swept up in my music, trusting that my feet would know the way. So it was a shock when I realised I had somehow taken a wrong turn at the old yew. I must have gone left instead of right, and soon found myself in a section of woodland that was utterly unfamiliar. I switched off my music, knowing I would need all my senses to find my way back, and as I did I became aware of a faint harmony filtering through the trees: a female voice, achingly beautiful, singing in a language I had never heard before.

I followed that voice through the knotted labyrinth of ancient trees, curious to discover the identity of the mysterious singer, the land rising steadily as I went. The trees here were older and more gnarled than those in the parts of the wood I was used to. Then, cresting a ridge where weathered rocks poked from the ground like old bones, I gazed down for the first time upon the roofless ruins of the old chapel and the black lake lurking darkly beside it. A tree had grown up through the chapel, fracturing the walls and bowing them outward to a substantial degree, no doubt it was also what had finished off the roof at some point in the past, and it looked like the rest would be lucky to last another year.

Despite the treacherous state of the walls, the singing appeared to be coming from within the ruins, and so I carefully negotiated the steep slope down to the edge of the structure. 

It was only then that I realised the singing had stopped. The wind had also settled, and an eerie silence cloaked the entire clearing.

Edging around to the crumbling doorway I was greeted by a flooded interior and the stench of earthy damp stone. The interior walls were speckled with lichens and moss, and a thin stream trickled out of the door, gurgling down the worn steps, and flowing into the lake along a shallow channel eroded in the dark soil. I could only assume that a natural spring lay within the ruins.

The air had gone cold, and I shivered. There was a strangely unsettling feeling here – unwelcoming, almost hostile. It was as though I had intruded into a place that was forbidden.

I took a last quick look around, wondering where the woman had gone, the one whose glorious voice had drawn me here. I was so sure she had been inside the tiny chapel when I started my descent of the slope. Deciding I had been misled by some trick of acoustics, I resigned myself to the fact that this was going to remain an unsolved mystery.

The slope I would have to climb to get home looked even steeper from down here, and I had a horrible feeling I was going to spend the evening scraping mud off my shoes. But, before leaving, it occurred to me that I’d probably never find this spot again, and decided to get a few quick photos while I was here. Pulling my phone out of my pocket I snapped several shots of the chapel and then moved down to the edge of the lake.

The water shimmered as the clouds moved and sunlight sparkled across the surface. For a moment the entire lake rippled and undulated, the sunlight dancing like liquid fire across it – and then in the next breath a sudden and absolute stillness fell upon it.

Intrigued, I took a step closer. I had never seen water behave like that before.

It was as if…

As if…

I hovered on the edge of the lake as though mesmerised, the water lapping at the tips of my shoes. I swayed like a sapling in a breeze, unable to pull my eyes away from the surface, especially from the deeper blackness where the sloping ground vanished almost perpendicularly after a foot or two, and faint fronds of weed beckoned languidly.

A heavy, almost drunken stupor fogged my mind, as if some invading force had taken possession of my body. The desire to simply hurl myself into the heart of that deep gloomy pool was growing stronger. It called to me, urging me to plunge into those deep welcoming depths, to surrender myself to it, to immerse and swim and…

I took a step forward, my foot and leg sinking into the icy water up to my calf.

That sudden abrupt coldness shattered whatever spell had fallen upon me. I scrambled back, my foot squelching in my waterlogged shoe and the bottom of my trousers coated in pond scum.

A rustling of wind stirred the leaves on the trees, sending little ripples rushing towards me across the surface of the water. Deep in the heart of the lake some of the weed fronds were breaking the surface, rising almost as if they were the wavering yellow-green tendrils of some emerging monster. Something about it struck me as instantly terrifying, and I turned and scrambled up the steep slope in the grip of an irrational burst of fear, desperately needing to put some distance between myself and that strange place.

I fled through the trees, fighting a growing sense of panic and dread. I was hopelessly lost, guessing my direction at each turn, blindly ducking under low branches and doing my best to avoid the dense patches of nettles and brambles that seemed to be deliberately blocking my path.

I glanced constantly over my shoulder; absolutely certain something was right behind me. I could hear the rustle of leaves, the sharp crack of twigs as if trampled by some unseen pursuer – but each frantic glance back showed only shadowy darkness that seemed deeper than it should, and the settling undergrowth stirred by my own passing. 

I ran until my heels stung and a stitch burned in my side.

I was keenly aware of how alone and vulnerable I was out here amongst these ancient trees. It could only have been a quarter of a mile to the village, but it may as well have been the other side of the world, and nobody knew I was out here.

That was when I rounded the bloated trunk of a colossal oak and all but collided with a man standing on the other side of it. I think I terrified him almost as much as he did me, with my wild eyes and dishevelled appearance.

“Hey!” he cried, taking a step back.

I managed to stop just short of ploughing directly into him. I was so worked up it took a moment before I could get any words out, so I put my hands on my knees and tried to catch my breath, my arms visibly shaking.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

I lifted my head and got my first proper look at him. He was about ten years older than me, early to mid forties, with short brown hair and a beard just flecked with silver. He was dressed in a dark sweater, a pair of old jeans, and was leaning on a tall stick of blackthorn.

“Are you hurt?”

“No, I –” I managed at last, “I didn’t see you.”

“Not surprised, the way you were going. Is everything okay?”

“I thought… It’s crazy, but…” I shook my head. “I thought something was after me back there.”

I had expected him to laugh, or to give me one of those looks usually reserved for people you suspect to be not completely right in the head. Instead, he grew serious.

“What did you see?”

“Nothing, really,” I said, my breathing finally calming. “It was just a feeling. I guess that sounds crazy, right?”

“Not as much as you might think.” He walked around the oak, looking back along the path I had just taken.

“Can you see anything?” I asked nervously.

“No, seems quiet.”

I let out a long sigh. “I don’t suppose you know the way back to the village, do you? I got turned around in here.”

He laughed at that. “These woods will do that. Come on, I’ll guide you back. Are you new around here?”

“Is it that obvious?” I gave one final look at the trees behind us before following. “I moved here about eight months ago. I work over at TorenzTech. An I.T. drone.”

“Really? I’ll have to get you round to look at my internet then. I’m as technically-minded as a Neanderthal,” he chuckled. “Oh, I’m Stuart Heath, by the way.”

I shook the hand that he offered. “Gary Tilling.”

We picked our way through the trees, and I was glad of the company. The woods seemed to lose the sense of lingering terror with a companion, and soon I realised I was seeing familiar landmarks again – the leaning silver birch surrounded by foxgloves, the two yews that stood on either side of the path, and then, coming just into sight through a mass of elder, the old rectory.

“Why not pop in for a tea or coffee while you’re here?” he gestured at the door of the rectory. “It might settle your nerves.”

I glanced at the building, as if seeing it for the first time. “Oh, so you’re the man who lives here?”

“Two years, this October. Scary how time flies.”

“Isn’t it,” I nodded. “Well, thanks for the offer but I’ll pass. I’d better go and get cleaned up.”

“I understand. Listen, take care in those woods,” he cautioned as I turned to leave. “They’re an awful lot bigger and trickier than most people realise.”

“Don’t suppose you have a map?” I joked. “You seem to know your way around them.”

“I know parts of them as well as anyone can, but they still catch me out sometimes. There are also a few places even I stay away from.”

“Well, thanks again.”

“At the risk of me being the one to sound crazy now, do you have anything made of iron in your house? The metal, you know.” He pointed at a large iron cross that was fastened to the front door.

“Uh, I don’t know,” I admitted. “Why?”

“You might want to get some – old keys, something like that. Keep them by your doors and windows, just in case.”

“In case of what?” I asked.

“There are lots of legends about these woods. Sometimes, old stories exist for a good reason, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks again for the help,” I forced a smile as I hurried on my way. Clearly, I had just met the village loony. It was no wonder most of the locals refused to go near the old rectory.

As I walked home my experience in the woods now seemed more than a little ludicrous. I’d obviously let my imagination get the better of me. I left my mud-caked shoes outside the back door, threw everything else into the wash, and then hurried upstairs for a hot shower, my thoughts already turning to flaking out on the sofa with a beer and a takeaway.

I slept badly that night, waking several times from horrible dreams about dark rippling water and two pale, slimy hands that had been reaching up out of it. There had been something submerged, watching me with unblinking eyes, and at one point I had found myself in a windowless prison of strange dark walls that were wet and dripping with vile green weed. The walls were closing in, and the foul-smelling pond water around my feet was slowly rising higher, swallowing my shoes and inching up my legs. Through it all I could hear a faint melodic singing. There were no words that I could make out, just a haunting and familiar female voice. I clawed anxiously at the walls as the water reached my knees, unable to get a grip on the slimy stone. Suddenly the water around me foamed and frothed, and a woman’s hand – horribly pruned and bloated, like some dead thing rising from the sludge at the bottom of the lake – grabbed my thigh, the nails piercing my skin like razors. I screamed, digging my fingers into the mortar in a vain attempt to climb up as a dripping face rose from the water: yellow-brown hair hanging limply like dead pondweed, and white wrinkled lips parting to reveal sharp green teeth set in blackened gums. Her breath was sickening, like rotting flesh. I tried to pull away, but her other arm seized the front of my shirt and hauled me forwards into the water. My world span as I plunged beneath the icy surface. I was aware of her hand still clutching my shirt, dragging me down, and I pulled back, the front of my shirt tearing open. Her powerful grasp coupled with the weight of my waterlogged clothes made any attempt to swim up impossible. My feet thrashed, unable to find the bottom, stirring up thick black sediment, and my lungs burned for air.

I awoke screaming, thrashing, the sweat-soaked sheets tangled around me. My heart was hammering faster than on my run through the woods. 

I flung myself out of the bed and switched on my bedside lamp, desperate to reassure myself that all was well. I hurried downstairs, still feeling the insidious fingers of the nightmare upon me, and sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea until my nerves started to calm.

I must have dozed off in the early hours, curled up on the sofa, and as a consequence I slept through my alarm, waking just after nine thirty. I felt as if I had had no sleep at all. By the time I finally got into the office it was gone half ten, and the stern face of my manager, Mr Reid, peering out of his office window let me know my tardiness had been noted.

As the day crawled by the effort of keeping my eyes open became greater, and silly little mistakes were creeping into my work. I downed mug after mug of strong black coffee, and by the time lunch crawled around I felt too sick and shaky to eat the tuna pasta I had bought from home. When the clock struck half-four I shut down my computer without saving anything, slung my rucksack over my shoulder and headed for the door.

“Gary, can I have a word.”

My heart sank as I saw Mr Reid standing in the entrance to his office.

He closed the door as I eased myself nervously into the chair facing his desk. His face was humourless and unreadable as he sat behind it, formidable in his dark suit. “You’re still on your probationary period, isn’t that right? You’ve been here, what, two months?”

“Five and a half,” I replied, my mouth and throat dry.

“Five and a half,” he repeated, and I felt as though I were shrinking in that chair, withering under his gaze. “Your work to date has been satisfactory; we’ve had no reasons to complain. However, we do demand punctuality from our staff, or at least a valid reason if, for whatever reason, you are unable to attend on time.”

“I’m really sorry, it won’t happen again,” I assured him desperately. “I’ll come in early tomorrow to make the time up.”

“See that you do,” he nodded brusquely. “I expect to see less instances of lateness in the future.”

“Fewer,” I corrected without thinking, then went pale as his lips narrowed into a thin bloodless line. “Yes. I promise.”

“That will be all.”

I slunk from the office like a scolded school-child, hardly noticing the bright sunlight as I plodded across the courtyard outside. On impulse, I was making straight for the gap between the trees that led into the woods, but stopped as soon as I realised it. Going home that way had once been a pleasure, a breath of fresh air at the end of a long day under artificial lights in an airless room. Now, that dark opening held a sudden sharp terror, as if it were the sinister entrance to some realm of fathomless mystery and dread.

The sharp bark of a horn snapped me from my trance. I turned to see Mr Reid glaring at me from behind the wheel of his black BMW. I scurried out of the way and he pulled out of the gates without another glance.

I walked home the road way, a journey that took less time but was far less enjoyable too. I got home tired and miserable. At least it was Friday I reminded myself, and gratefully shed my work clothes in favour of a t-shirt and a comfortable pair of old jeans.

I spent the evening on the sofa, flicking aimlessly through the television channels and scrolling through social media posts on my phone. It was then I remembered the photos I had taken at the old chapel, and opened up my phone’s photo album. Looking at the small images on the screen the menace and strangeness I had felt while taking them was absent, and I could finally begin to appreciate the beauty of the landscape, and of the leaning roofless chapel. What was it about old ruins being reclaimed by nature that so appealed to our romantic sensibilities?

Then I came to the last photograph.

The final shot was of the lake itself, the sunlight frozen in a bright sheen across the surface, the pond-weed just visible beneath.

A cold shiver ran through me.

I sat up, my eyes fixed on the screen. My hands trembled as they enlarged a section of the image.

For a moment I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

Clearly visible under the water, between those fronds of yellow-brown weed, were two eyes staring directly at me.

I lost track of how long I sat there, staring at that awful picture. I felt numb and physically sick. Part of my mind was attempting to rationalise what I was seeing, assuring me that they had to be a reflection, or some strange illusion caused by some other factor I wasn’t taking into account. The other part of my brain, however, knew they were eyes. They were exactly the same as I had seen them in my dream – those same eyes in the face of that monstrous creature that had tried to drown me in my nightmare, before I had ever seen this photograph.

I confess, I blotted that awful image out of my mind by opening a bottle of Jack Daniels. I didn’t think I would be able to sleep without it. Shortly after midnight I staggered upstairs. I must have fallen asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

When I next opened my eyes, it was not to greet the late morning sun with a hangover and a mouth like sandpaper. Instead, I found myself shivering in the cold night air, deep in the woods and dressed only in my underwear. My feet were filthy, covered in cuts and scratches. Dumbly, I looked about at the silent trees, trying to make some sense of it all as the fog in my head started to clear.

Then, as the moon slipped from behind a cloud and illuminated the world in a silver-edged sheen, I knew exactly where I was. I was standing in front of that ruined chapel, the dark lake spreading out before me with sinister patience. As I stared at it, I felt again that overwhelming desire to throw myself into the water, to sink beneath that darkly mirrored surface and let the unknown depths claim me in their cold embrace.

A single line of ripples broke the surface as I watched, starting in the middle of the lake and moving directly towards the shore. There was no wind, and the motion was clearly caused by something below the surface.

I wanted to run but my legs refused to obey.

A filthy hand, so twisted and wrinkled it was little more than a claw, burst from the water and grabbed at the shore with splintered nails. Rising up behind it was what looked like a dark matted mass of old dripping pond weed, but I knew before I saw those unblinking eyes that it was a head lifting slowly from that pool. The rotting mouth yawned open and a tongue flopped like some great black slug across those repulsive green teeth. In the moonlight her eyes shone like dull silver, unblinking as they stared at me from the water’s edge.

A low throaty chuckle reached my ears.

I turned and bolted up the slope. My fingers clawed the soft earth and my bare toes dug for purchase as I scrambled into the trees. Thorns and sharp branches tore at my exposed skin, but I didn’t slow down. I ran blindly, fighting back a terrified wail and blinking back tears that clouded my vision.

I feared I would become lost in that darkened wood; trapped forever in a maze of trees in some hellish unending night. But this time, mercifully, I found myself back at the oak where I had met Stuart, and followed the path he had shown to me.

I limped anxiously through the village once I was clear of those awful woods. I was thankful, given what little I was wearing, that nobody was around at this hour, and I took the side streets where possible to avoid being seen in case any cars went past on the main roads.

By the time I got home and found my front door ajar, I was a trembling muddy wreck with bruised and bloody feet. Slipping inside, I slammed the door behind me and pressed my back against it as I slid slowly to the floor, my body shaking with shock and throbbing from countless cuts and scrapes.

Then, from the kitchen, came the steady sound of a dripping tap.

With a dream-like slowness I rose unsteadily and edged painfully to the kitchen. My hands shook as I flicked on the light.

The sink was filled with murky brown water into which the tap was dripping, sending ripples racing outwards. It looked the same colour as the water in the lake. I stumbled forward and drained the water away, holding my breath until the last gritty trace had gurgled down the pipe – only to feel a fresh shiver of dread as I realised I could hear more dripping coming from upstairs.

I inched my way upstairs and along the hallway to the bathroom. How many horror movies had I watched that had moments in them just like this? I had always laughed at them, swearing that I would never be so stupid in such a situation. Yet here I was, drawn by some compulsion I couldn’t quite understand. I pushed the door inwards, holding my breath as I reached for the light-cord.

The bath was full of black lake water, a thick greenish scum floating on the surface like duckweed. As I stepped into the room the scum moved languidly, as if something had stirred beneath it. For a moment I thought I saw a face, and then the green veiled it once more.

I closed my eyes, swaying slightly. Somewhere, dimly, I could hear a faint voice singing. It held me there, keeping me from obeying my terrified brain and fleeing. I can only assume it took control of me in some manner, for when I next opened my eyes I was standing next to the tub, with no awareness of having moved closer to it.

The urge to let myself fall forwards into the water was overwhelming.

I lifted my right foot, the toes less than an inch from that green scum that rippled and danced. The blood pounded in my ears, and a dizzying euphoria surged through me.

“Come to me,” a female voice whispered through my mind. “Let me embrace you.”

I saw a vision of myself underwater, wrapped in her bloated arms. Her foul lips pressed against mine as the last of the air bubbled from my lungs.

“I will hold you. Caress you.”

I saw my body sinking downwards in her hideous embrace, down amongst the dark weeds where the sunlight never reached, amongst the white bones of dead things that had long rotted to skeletons in the cold darkness.

“Yes!” The voice hissed. “Step forward.”

The tip of my toes touched the green slime.

“YES!”

The scum rippled once more, and through a break in that horrible green slime I saw two eyes watching from beneath the water’s surface. In that moment I recoiled, falling backwards onto the hard tiles of my bathroom floor with a terrified cry. Whatever power had held me there was broken. I ran downstairs oblivious to the pain, and snatched my coat before stumbling out into the night.

Underhill Rectory was in darkness as I approached. I hammered frantically on the door until a light came on in the hall. The puzzled face of the man I had met in the woods peered out as the door opened.

“Yes?”

“Can you help me? Please!” I babbled. “You told me to be careful – did you know? Did you know what was going on?”

Whatever I had planned to say, it hadn’t been that. The words just tumbled out in a torrent. He must have seen something in my face, something in my fear, because he opened the door wider, allowing more light from the hall to fall on me. He noted my filthy bleeding feet and naked thorn-scratched legs.

“You’d better come in. Gary, isn’t it?”

Half an hour later I was sitting in his lounge wearing a borrowed change of clothes: an old pair of green army surplus trousers and a faded black hoodie. He had helped me clean and bandage my feet, and his black cat, Shadow, now nestled comfortably in my lap, purring. There was a welcome glass of spiced rum in my hand, and I had poured my whole crazy story out in a gushing babble. I was too far gone to even worry if he thought I was mad. For his part he listened calmly, without interrupting, occasionally glancing at the photo I had taken on my phone.

“I believe you,” he said quietly, when I had finished.

“I don’t know anyone else who would.”

“I had a weird experience of my own a few years back. Not the same as yours, but close enough.”

“What happened?”

“A story for another night,” he smiled grimly. “Look, I have plenty of spare rooms here. Why don’t you stay over tonight?”

“I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

“You wouldn’t be, and I think a proper night’s rest would do you the world of good. Tomorrow, we can figure out what this is all about.”

“I was worried I was going mad.”

“There are things out there that most people are lucky enough not to see,” he said softly. “Unfortunately, you’ve become the exception. But you’ll be safe enough in here, and you’ve got Shadow watching over you.”

“Thank you,” I sipped the rum, enjoying the warmth it spread through my body, chasing away the chill of the unknown horrors. 

“So, what brings you to Weirston?” he asked, and I was grateful for the change of subject.

“Another tale of woe,” I forced a laugh. “I moved here to be with my partner, Sarah. She’s a trainee midwife, but she wanted to get a place close to her parents in Purford. We’d planned it for ages and scraped the money together over six years. I even sold my parent’s old house. This was meant to be our new perfect life together, but, well, we ended up separating. It’s a messy story, one I’d rather not get into. Now, I’m just stuck struggling to keep up with the mortgage repayments.”

“That sounds like a tough spot to be in.”

“What about you?” I took another sip, feeling the alcohol go delightfully to my tired head. “The locals all avoid this place.”

“This house has something of a bad reputation locally. It’s all in the past now, but I’ve become tarred with its brush. As for me, I like the quiet here.”

“Luckily for me you also like walking in the woods,” I smiled as I swilled my drink around in my glass. My head felt suitably muffled, as though someone had scooped out my brain and filled the cavity with warm cotton wool. “I used to. I don’t think I could go near them now.”

“You never know,” he smiled softly. “For now, I’d say you look about ready to call it a night.”

“I am shattered,” I agreed, setting down my empty glass. Gently, I coaxed his cat from my lap, and followed Stuart up the staircase to a long hallway with several doors. He stopped in front of one, and gestured at it. 

“I keep this room ready for guests. Bedding is all clean, and the bathroom is just down the hall there. I’ll leave the light on out here for you.”

“I really appreciate this,” I said.

“You can lock the door from the inside. I can’t promise you won’t end up sharing with Shadow otherwise. I’m at the end of the hall if you need anything.”

I closed and locked the door, deciding to leave the light on. The sheets were cold, but the bed was soft, and despite everything I was soon fast asleep. I feared I would have that nightmare again, but my sleep was free of awful dreams. I woke late to the wonderful smells of breakfast cooking downstairs.

“Morning,” Stuart smiled as I appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Hungry?”

It turned out I was ravenous, devouring a plateful of beans, mushrooms, bacon, scrambled eggs, grilled tomato and three pieces of toast, all washed down with fresh coffee.

“Thanks again for all of this,” I said, as I helped him wash the plates. “Do you want any money for…?”

“Don’t worry about that,” he waved the suggestion away.

“So, what happens now?” I asked. Standing there with a cat purring at my heels and a friendly ear to talk to, it was all too easy to pretend that it was just another Saturday and all was well with the world, but I knew that was far from true. “I won’t go back into the woods, but that doesn’t seem to matter. This thing is in my dreams and in my house. I don’t feel safe anywhere.”

“Here,” he fetched a small envelope from one of the window sills. “These are old iron keys. Put one in each window, and by each door. They should help.”

“Help against what? What is this thing?”

“I’m not sure, exactly,” he confessed. “But, these woods are steeped in old legends about the Fae and other nature spirits.”

“Fairies?” I shook my head. 

“Come and sit down, I’ll make some fresh coffee.”

It was a curious experience, sitting there in that otherwise ordinary kitchen on a warm Saturday morning, rationally and seriously discussing fairies. Stuart asked me to refer to them instead as ‘the good folk’ as apparently too much open discussion might attract unwanted attention from them, though I felt it was a bit late for that. The folklore he explained to me that morning soon made it clear that these things went far beyond anything Disney or the Victorians had attempted to portray, and instead opened up chilling glimpses of spirits or entities that were often connected with nature, or which seemed to enter our world from any number of other worlds that lay around us. Some of these entities were generally indifferent, or sometimes even beneficent, to humans, forming what Stuart called the Seelie Court. Others, less kindly inclined towards humanity, formed what was called the Unseelie Court, and the legends about them were nothing short of disturbing.

“Iron is said to repel them,” Stuart explained.

“This is bizarre,” I ran a shaking hand through my hair. “I mean, stuff like this isn’t really supposed to exist, is it?”

“I see it as a side effect of how far people have divorced themselves from the world around them. Our ancestors lived with this reality every day. We’ve just forgotten.”

“So, I’m being haunted by a bad fairy?”

“Actually, something you said got me thinking about that.”

He placed a large book of English folklore on the table, pointing at one of the pages.

“Jenny Greenteeth,” I read, a tremor in my voice, “a figure which appears in folklore as a kind of hag or water spirit living in rivers and ponds, where she waits to pull children or the elderly down to a watery death. In parts of England the name also refers to duckweed which has matted over the surface of a river, making it dangerous and misleading to unwary travellers. She is also known by the names Wicked Jenny or Jinny Greenteeth.”

The sketched image accompanying the text was beyond chilling: a hunched wrinkled hag, with dripping pond weed for hair and sharply clawed hands, lurked at the edge of a pond whilst two small children played, blissfully unaware, close by. The poise of the figure suggested she was preparing to lunge and snatch one of them up, her lips parted in a devilish smile that showed needle-like green teeth in her rotting mouth.

“That’s her,” I whispered, pushing the book away. I couldn’t look at that image any more. “I mean, that’s not exactly how she looked, but it’s not far off.”

“I thought you might say that,” Stuart nodded gravely. “I suspect you got her attention at the pool. The old legends all warn about drawing the attention of the Fae. Sometimes, it can be as easy as being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“How do we stop her?”

“We don’t,” he said softly. “She is something beyond us, as old as time itself in all likelihood. She’s part of the landscape, like the clouds and the soil.”

“There’s nothing we can do?”

“No – no, not at all,” he held up his hands. “You have the keys, put those any place where there is an entranceway into your home. That should keep her out. It’s all about sensible measures. You can’t banish all the threats out there in the world, so you take precautions against them. You wouldn’t leave your house unlocked, or your wallet unattended in a public place, and hopefully, you wouldn’t walk alone down a dark alley at night. The world is full of wonders, but it also has predators in it.” He handed me an iron key tied with red thread to a small pebble that had a hole in the middle of it. “Here, take this hag stone. Carry it with you when you go out.”

“Hag stone?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Trust me.”

“But, that book never said anything about her being a fairy. If she’s not, will iron even work against her?”

“I’m not sure. Let’s start with iron and see how that goes. She didn’t bother you last night, did she?”

There were obvious holes in his story that didn’t quite make sense to me – after all, didn’t our blood have iron in it? But for now, I was prepared to give anything a try, so I took the old keys and got ready to head back home. Stuart offered to come with me, and together we set off at a little past eleven that morning.

We worked from the top of the house down, placing keys at each of the ‘entrance’ points, as Stuart called them, making our way through the house to the front door, where we fixed the final key to the wood with a nail.

I made us some sandwiches once we were finished, and as we sat and ate we chatted about books, movies and music, discovering we had quite a bit in common. Already the atmosphere in the house felt lighter and I found myself enjoying Stuart’s company. The bathroom and kitchen sink were filthy, but a cautious test of the taps and shower showed water flowing clean and normal once more, so the damage was nothing that a good clean wouldn’t cure.

Stuart, for his part, was more than happy to stay until I felt everything was normal again. I left him reading on the sofa whilst I risked having a shower, I had the feeling he was happy anywhere there were books.

It felt such a relief to get the mud and grime off, and even more of relief to do so without incident. When I finally came back down, hobbling a little on my injured feet, and handed him back his borrowed clothes, I felt human again, as if a cloud had been lifted from my brain.

“I’ve jotted down my number for you,” he said. “If anything happens, call me.”

“I will,” I said gratefully. “Thanks for everything.”

“My pleasure,” he smiled amiably. “Keep the hag stone and key on you if you go out, at least until she loses interest.”

Despite his assurances, I was on edge for the rest of that day and evening, sitting tensely on the sofa, trying to pretend I was watching television when in reality I was listening for any unusual noises from within the house. By midnight, when nothing had happened, I found myself struggling to keep my eyes open and reluctantly went up to bed, though this time I kept my clothes on in case I should find myself sleepwalking again.

I awoke on Sunday morning from a full night’s sleep, untouched by nightmares or unpleasant incidents, to the glorious late June sun streaming through my windows. I resolved, with the aid of the charm I had been given, to overcome my fear of those dark woods. I knew if I didn’t get back out into them, my own terror might forever rob me of my love of woodland spaces.

A nervous dread fluttered within me like a trapped moth as I entered the trees that morning. I jumped at every little rustle and each snapping twig. Gradually, however, the nervous tension lessoned and my confidence grew bolder, and before long all sense of dread and fear had left me entirely. The sunlight gave a wondrous glow to the canopy overhead, speckling the shady forest floor with bright dapples of light. The air was filled with sweet scents of flowers, and birdsong lulled me into a state of tranquil peace. I followed my usual path, making sure to take the correct turning at the old yew – I had no desire to wander near to that dark lake again.

Having successfully completed a one way trip, I turned and headed back towards home, where I vowed to make a celebratory bacon roll with an accompanying mug of strong coffee. I paused for a moment on the high long ridge, known locally as Barrow Hill, which bisected the easternmost part of the woods; the view out across the sea of trees to the distant fields beyond was especially breath-taking in the glorious sunlight. It was then that I realised a tiny dark shimmer was visible through the trees in the distance, and knew at once that it was the edge of that dark lake. As I watched it, I pulled the key and hag stone from my pocket, turning them in my hands and marvelling that such a simple charm could make such a difference.

I never saw the cyclist until he was upon me, hurtling like a speeding torpedo. His head was lowered, so the top of his helmet came at me like a battering ram. I scrambled sideways, lost my footing and fell sprawling in the grass as he tore past, missing me by inches.

“Watch it!” he barked, not bothering to slow or look around.

“Oi!” I shouted. My tranquil state of mind was now utterly shattered, and I flipped a finger at his departing back. Then I remembered the hag stone I had been holding, and looked anxiously for it.

The missing charm was nowhere in sight, however, and a good twenty minutes of nervous foraging in the long grass also failed to discover its present whereabouts. With a sinking heart, I realised it must have fallen further down the slope, lost within the vicious tangles of bramble and nettle.

“It was just a stone and an old key, that’s all,” I told myself firmly. “Come on. You only have to walk home. You’ve done this before.”

Even so, my heart was in my throat as I followed that dirt path through the trees. I made it as far as the old yew before I once more heard plainly and clearly that haunting song from the direction of the ruined chapel with its cold leaning walls of damp stone. My heart froze as if my blood had turned to ice water, and a lump in my throat stopped me from swallowing. It was as if each shivering breath I took failed to reach my lungs, and my head span dizzyingly.

“Come to me…”

Her voice whispered in my mind again. I turned in the direction of the chapel and lake and started walking. I wanted to turn and run, but my legs were no longer under my control. In a panic, I pulled my phone from the pocket of my jeans, typing a hasty text which I sent to Stuart: IN WOODS HELP.

Whatever unseen force compelled my legs now caused my hand to twitch and flail, sending my phone spinning off into the undergrowth. My mind remained my own, but my body was just a puppet, being directed straight to a spot I knew all too well.

Behind me, muffled by the undergrowth, I could hear my phone ringing. But I was drawn helplessly onwards through the trees, and all too soon I reached that steep ridge overlooking the crumbling chapel and the dark lake beside it. My legs carried me down the muddy slope without hesitation, and onwards to the edge of the water. The fronds of weed moved languidly, even thought there was no breeze, and I teetered helplessly on the edge, staring into the water.

“Come to me. Let me hold you.”

Time seemed to stop as I gazed at the rippling water. I don’t know how long I stood there, but I felt caught in the grip of two forces: my own brain trying to reassert control over my limbs, and the growing desire to fling myself into the lake, to give myself completely to the entity that had drawn me here.

“Come to me.”

“No,” I said, but there was no strength in my voice.

“Let me hold you.”

My resolve shattered. I stepped forward. The icy water lapped against my legs until suddenly the ground dropped out beneath me and I plunged under the surface, the cold shocking the breath from my lungs. As I struggled up, the weight of my clothes dragging me down, I felt strong hands seize my ankles. I thrashed wildly as they pulled at my legs, sharp nails slicing through denim and skin like razors. I kicked frantically and felt my foot connect solidly with something below me.

Murky water splashed into my eyes. I couldn’t see the edge of the lake any more. My head slipped under the surface. Bubbles escaped in place of a scream. In a desperate terror I clawed at the thick strands of weed, trying to pull myself back to the shore. My hands encountered a palm-sized rock jutting out of the mud and I seized it, hoping it might make a decent weapon.

That was when she launched herself at me. Her teeth sank into my neck as if she were some kind of colossal leech, and she wrapped those foul arms about my body, my lungs aching for air as the light from above grew dimmer.

I was sinking to the bottom.

My vision blurred. The world grew dark. My arms were pinned, and my kicking legs worked uselessly. I was still holding that strange rock, my fingers refused to let it go.

I don’t quite know what happened next. There was a sudden frenzied commotion around me in the water, a churning and frothing. Her arms released me as she recoiled, sending me spinning and rolling, momentarily unable to tell which way was up or down. Something splashed into the water next to me, and I was lifted or dragged up towards the surface. When my head at last burst through into the glorious air above, gasping and spluttering, I felt arms close around me again, and was dimly aware that someone was dragging me up the slope onto the shore, but it wasn’t until we both half-collapsed on the muddy bank that I realised it was Stuart. His dripping face was staring at me with concern.

“Are you oka…?”

A strange blackness swept over my mind then, as if a dense roiling fog obscured my thoughts and robbed my eyes of vision. Stuart later told me my eyes turned utterly black and my lips parted in a fierce snarl. I sprang to my feet, the rock still clutched in my hand – which I now swung at his head, hitting him sideways into the water. As he fell I saw a small collection of iron keys on an old fashioned key-ring drop from his grasp onto the shore.

Whatever had clouded my mind cleared the moment Stuart hit the water and I dropped the rock in horror onto the mud. There was a violent thrashing as she sprang at Stuart, like an attacking crocodile that had been lurking amongst the weeds at the water’s edge. As she dragged him out into the lake, I finally got my first clear look at her. Her teeth were long and covered in what looked like green pond-weed, same as the dark matted filth that clung to her head like hair. Her face was pruned and deeply wrinkled, the eyes sunken into deep black hollows, and those pale white lips were like old leather.

“Leave him alone!” I screamed. I remembered the iron keys and snatched them up, throwing them at her without thinking. They struck the monstrous hag squarely in the face and she gave a shriek that all but pierced my eardrums. Her hold on Stuart’s body slipped as she recoiled, and without a thought for my own safety I plunged back into the water, grabbing his ankle and drawing him back towards dry land. I hauled him onto the shore, my ears still ringing from that scream, and when I glanced back at the lake, she was gone from sight.

“Gary…”

I looked down. Stuart was trying to sit up, a thin trickle of blood flowing from the cut to his forehead.

“I’m sorry.”

He smiled weakly and patted my arm, before turning to look at the lake. The water was still again, and there was no sign of the entity that had attacked us.

We limped back to the rectory to tend our wounds. I was worried Stuart might have a concussion, but he assured me he was fine. Once we had changed into dry clothes and were sitting in the warmth of his lounge with glasses of rum in our hands, I finally felt the icy hold of that lake release me.

“Are you sure you don’t need to get that looked at?” I pointed at the dressed cut on his head.

“Its fine, I’ve had worse.”

“I’m really sorry about that. I never…”

“No apology needed. It wasn’t you. I’m just lucky that you don’t hit very hard, or I might be a needing a hospital bed tonight.”

“And I’m lucky you were already out on one of your woodland walks. I wouldn’t be here otherwise. Do you think she’s really gone?” 

“I don’t know,” he sighed. “She’s been driven off, but we should keep our guard up. She may come back, though I’m hoping the iron keys now resting at the bottom of the lake might persuade her to find a new home.”

“I’m never taking those keys you gave me out of my windows.”

“Around here, probably a good idea,” Stuart chuckled, rubbing his forehead.

“Seriously, we should get you to A&E.”

“I’m fine,” he waved the suggestion away. “It’s just a little bump.”

“Okay, so what happens now?”

“Now, we get on with our lives, with our wits about us. And we should drink our rum, to warm us up. We need to get the chill of that lake out of us.”

“That’s good,” I smiled. “Not sure I’m ready to go home just yet.”

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” he shrugged. “I’m not much of a cook, but I can fix us something edible. That is, if you don’t mind wearing a cat for a few hours?”

“Sounds like a plan,” I agreed.

And that was the beginning of my friendship with Stuart Heath, a friendship which promised to be both interesting and unusual. And, despite everything that had happened, I did find my love of woodlands returning, though I would never look at lakes again the same way for the rest of my days; especially ones where the weeds were dense and the surface was dark. On lakes like those, I would always find myself searching the surface of the water with my eyes, anxiously making sure nothing was watching me back.

[Simon Bleaken lives in Wiltshire, England. His work has appeared in magazines, ezines and podcasts including Lovecraft’s Disciples; Tales of the Talisman; Dark Dossier; Strange Sorcery; Lovecraftiana; The Horror Zine; Schlock Webzine; Night Land; Weird Fiction Quarterly and on The NoSleep Podcast and the HorrorBabble Originals podcast. He has also appeared in the anthologies: Eldritch Horrors: Dark Tales (2008); Space Horrors: Full-throttle Space Tales #4 (2010); Eldritch Embraces: Putting the Love Back in Lovecraft (2016); Kepler’s Cowboys (2017); Twilight Madhouse Vol. 2 (2017); The Shadow Over Doggerland (2022); HellBound Books’ Anthology of Science Fiction Vol.1 (2023); From Beyond The Threshold (2023) Eldritch Investigations (2023) House of Haunts (2023) and in the forthcoming Horror Zine’s Book of Monster Stories (2024). His first collection of short stories: A Touch of Silence & Other Tales was released in 2017, followed by The Basement of Dreams & Other Tales in 2019 and Within the Flames & Other Stories in 2021.]