The house in the woods
It haunts my dreams, that house, even though I'm sure I have never seen it beyond them. The dreams are always the same. I'm stumbling through a wood, running from something. Quite what I don't know, except for the feeling of nameless dread behind me.
It's always raining. Oh, not the wild pouring rain of a storm, but the sullen steady dripping rain that falls relentlessly out of an iron grey sky. Water is everywhere; it drips from the lichen-shrouded branches of the trees, to sit in dank pools amongst the grass, draining into a stream that runs through narrow hills. The landscape is so wet it's crumbling - the brown earth visible here and there as landslips move it towards the valley bottom. Trees are falling over at the stream's edge, in memory of a flood perhaps.
Despite the dread behind me, I stand still and listen. In the silence there is the sound of the rippling flow of water and every so often the random plop of drops falling from branches. The air always smells dank and rank with rotting vegetation. In the distance there comes the croak of a raven, loud in the still air. Every time.
As the dread takes me again, I flee, coming at last to a place where the vanishing remnants of a wall cross my path. It's falling into the stream in places, in others disintegrated completely. In my dream I wonder why it has never been repaired; has the land been abandoned? I take a step and my feet squelch in the sodden ground. Always, I need to strain to raise my foot again; the effort required stronger than I think would be necessary, as if the very earth seeks to restrain me. As I raise it, I see the mud covering my boots. Every time.
Then I see the house among the trees. I glimpse it through the stark branches thrust claw-like into the grey sky. It's an old house, dilapidated and ivy shrouded, an estate agent's desirable residence. I clamber over a fallen branch towards it - I always see movement at an upper window. As I approach the house it gets colder and I start to shiver, my breath smoking before me. Every time.
I always feel watched; at first, all I can see is a shape standing at one of the upper windows, although it would be hard to tell more, they are so filthy. I always walk closer, and see that it's a woman, her long hair straggling down her shoulders, echoing the straggles of lichen dripping from the trees. Every time, she raises a hand in greeting, or is it in supplication? I can't tell and walk closer still, shivering constantly now in the cold. Runnels of water drip down my neck from the ends of my hair and I shift uncomfortably. Every time.
Watching, I realise the woman is saying something. I can never hear it, and yet something holds me back from speaking myself - perhaps I know my voice would be an unwelcome intrusion into this watery silence. And then I recognise the words she always says, unheard. "Help me!" Every time.
But I see the door is boarded up with rotting planks nailed across it. I glance up again and always, she is gone. At last I risk intruding my voice. "Hallo!" And at once I know I should have kept silent. The watcher I feel was not the woman but something else, the same nameless dread that has chased me through the woods and I feel its attention firmly on me; coming for me. Then I stumble backwards and scream as I fall into something, and then laugh with relief as I see it's only an old for sale sign. But then I hear it behind me, closer…closer, and then I start awake, heart pounding, breathing rapidly from the chase.
Every time.
Even this morning as I wake, drenched in the terror-sweat from the dream, I try and thrust it away, tell my partner I'm fine, pull myself together, but the thought of it sits there at the back of my mind, haunting me. It's there as I set out from my home for the long drive north for a meeting. I think I'm familiar with the road, and yet I must have taken a wrong turning, because I'm soon driving through hills I don't recognise at all, and the road, which has started out decent enough, begins to deteriorate the higher into the hills I drive. Before many miles have passed it has become a single-track road with passing places. But it's going north, so I assume it will eventually get somewhere.
However, I have forgotten about my car, my unreliable car. High up, crossing a wilderness of tussocky grass and heather, it rolls to a halt and won't start again. I try my phone, but there's no signal. The nearest house was miles back, and the wind is coming from behind, hard rain in its grasp. Going forwards would be so much easier.
I get out of the car and start walking along the rutted tarmac, immediately feeling the rain slamming into my back, pattering on my jacket. Wisps of wool cling to the barbed wire fence that lines the road, and every so often I can see a bedraggled looking sheep staring forlornly at me from behind a rock. After I've been walking for about ten minutes, I see the road ahead drop as it comes to the edge of the moor, falling into a narrow wooded glen twisting its way towards flatter land to the north.
Walking down the hill into the woods, my boots crunching on the road, I notice that the wind drops until, at the bottom, it has disappeared. With the loss of the moaning of the wind in my ears I become aware of other noises, and of the lack of them, so I stop and listen; I can hear the croak of a raven, and further off the distant baa of a sheep. But there's nothing else: no sound of modern life, no traffic, no voices, nothing. And then it comes, the crack as if someone has stood on a stick and broken it. I jump, and look round at the trees, but there's no one there. A horrible feeling of déjà vu sweeps over me; this has happened before.
Then out of the corner of my eyes I see a flicker of movement and whirl round, but all I can see are the trees and the road. My heart starts to beat faster. It's suddenly colder, as if the wind from the moor has swept down, although the branches of the trees never stir. I shiver. There was somebody there, I'm sure of it, I can feel their eyes prickling into my back, and my shoulder blades twitch. I start to walk again, slowly at first, then faster. I'm being followed. It's behind me.
I break into a stumbling run, then eventually slow, out of breath. I turn round. The road stretches up out of the woods and onto the moor, the grey sky lowering above. It's empty. The muddy grass of the verge is empty. Then to my delight, a deer bounds across. And I curse my stupidity for running from a deer.
Shaky relief guides my steps then until, above the trees I see smoke, as from a chimney. A narrow path leaves the road running towards the smoke. It has to be a house. I'm certain there will be people and a phone. I follow the path, my feet squelching on the muddy soil. But the path twists and turns and I'm soon lost, the road swallowed up in this lichen-dank jungle. A twig snaps, but I'm not fooled until I hear another snap, because surely a deer wouldn't make that kind of mistake. The third snap sends me fleeing once more, because it was closer, as if someone were stepping towards me. Why didn't they call out? I snatch a glance behind me, and think I see movement, but look again and there's none.
And all of a sudden I know where I am, the sense of déjà vu turning into terror, running towards the house I know I will find, that I know I will recognise. As I stop running and look round at the rotting vegetation and the trees encased in swags of lichen, I wonder why, in my dreams, I never remember the sense of recognition, when I remember the fear.
I start walking again, knowing I will come at last to a wall, wondering what would happen if I stepped off this predetermined route, so I do, and my feet squelch again, requiring more effort than I think it will to remove them. I see the mud on my boots when I lift them at last, and feel ice run down my spine, as I know this has happened before.
Heart thumping madly, I try again to diverge from this route, but too soon see the house before me, as it always has been, every time before. It's like a magnet, drawing me towards it. I barely notice the branch I have to scramble over to get closer.
It's almost a ruin, like the dilapidated remains of cottages I often see along country roads. But I know this house is inhabited, and I shiver in the cold. And there she is, raising her hand in supplication or is it in greeting? I only glance away for a second and she's gone. When I call, I know I should have kept silent. My voice echoes oddly in the air, and my shoulder blades twitch again, as I feel unwelcome attention fastening on me once more.
I reel backwards, screaming, but in my short-lived relief at having fallen into a sign, I hear it. Coming.
And now I'm standing here, the only sound the ragged heaving of my breath, and the pounding blood in my ears. Because this is the point I always wake up. This is the end of the dream. I can feel the terror behind me, feel this lurching dread, and dear God I don't want to turn round, because this isn't a dream. This is real.
Isn't it?