Myth Bane (Waking Legends Book 1) Page 2

  And then, as the kid chased the crow by again the bird flew up and made a low pass over Will, shitting on the shoulder of his shirt as it swooped by.

  “Really?” Will growled, as he sloshed his pricy mineral water over a napkin and tried to scrub it off. Could things get any worse? Yes. He put the thought from his mind in case it tempted fate…

  … a memory flashed by; a snapshot of a woman emerging from an ancient house with a mossy roof and an interior bright with vivid silver lights. He shook his head. It was nonsense; the byproduct of drunken dreams.

  Will stared down at his scuffed shoes and wondered what to do next. He had friends, they had sofas…

  No. It was too much, especially given he had another option. One he could be at within the hour. He could wash his clothes, run a bath, get a takeaway and some sleep and do his best to mend his frayed nerves.

  Except it meant venturing to the one place he’d been avoiding for longer than he cared to admit. A cloud passed over the sun. It seemed fitting. Will leaned back against the bench and closed his eyes for a few moments more.

  He woke to a blare of trumpets and assorted brass and opened his eyes to find a Salvation Army band performing in the twilit square. The young girl collecting money pulled her cap back as she passed him, and Will wasn’t sure if the gesture was through pity or fear.

  He glanced at his phone. It was later than he’d intended and the nap had done little to help his still raging hangover. “Wow!” he muttered as he checked his pockets to find his wallet and phone were still where they were supposed to be, as was his bag. Then he noticed someone had kindly left a small pile of change on the bench beside him. He left it, hoisted the bag onto his shoulder, and headed to the tube station.

  The train juddered and squealed as it rounded a bend and bright blue sparks flashed in the sooty gloom outside the window as Will sat, hunched over. As it pulled into the next stop, the remaining passengers drifted from the carriage, except for the strange, ancient looking lady sitting across the way. The one who had seemed to have been staring at him since he’d first gotten into the carriage.

  She was a haggard thing. Bony, crooked, and almost swallowed up by the long winter coat she wore, despite the late summer’s heat. Her hair was silver and white, her brows painted lines, and her eyes almost shone in the flickering lights. She stared at Will before nodding to the paper bag cradled in her lap. It had a hole on one side that had been mended with tape. Will almost shuddered as he studied the bag and realized it was filled with tiny white teeth.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” the old lady said.

  “I’m… you know.” He smiled and looked away.

  “A bit shaken since you met my sister? Ran away you did, or so she said."

  "I..."

  “Are you waking up?”

  Will gave a short, tight smile, pulled his phone from his pocket and wielded it as a barrier against her lunatic conversation while he thumbed through his messages and pretended to read them. Then, with a flick of his finger, he was face to face with the selfie Charlotte had taken with him in the pub the night before and his heart sunk.

  “Out with the old, in with the new,” the lady muttered.

  A trickle of anxiety slithered through him and as the train pulled into a station, he hurried through the door and leaped onto the next carriage.

  He glanced through the window in the connecting door to make sure the old lady was still there. She was. She sat staring ahead, chatting as if he was still in front of her.

  Another lost soul, Will thought, as if the city needed any more. He counted the stops on the tube map, glad to find there were only three to go before his destination.

  His panic continued to bubble like a hidden spring but he forced himself to ignore it. Instead he thought about his father’s house and wondered, yet again, if the solicitor handling his father’s estate would return his calls any time soon. It was hard to imagine the legal log jam ever getting settled, and even if it did he had no idea what he’d do with the place. Selling seemed like the best idea, but as he thought about the odd things that had happened there over the years and the unnerving vibe the place seemed to harbor within its walls, he doubted it would be possible to find anyone insane enough to actually pay money for it.

  And then there was Sally. Was she still living there? Will hoped so. He’d liked her, and was glad his father had met her, and it pained him that their loving relationship had been severed with such horribly efficient finality. He’d tried to call Sally several times to work out an arrangement with the house as well as all the other things that needed to get done, but she’d been just as evasive as the solicitor.

  A blur of movement broke Will’s thoughts. The old lady stood at the glass door of the adjoining carriage, mouthing something. Whatever it was, it seemed by her urgent expression that it was incredibly important.

  Sparks lit the tunnel and the overhead light flickered, and for a moment it looked as if the eyes in her drawn, withered face had shimmered with a lilac glow.

  Will walked to the far end of the car, pulled his book from his backpack and tried to read but the words seemed to dance across the page. When he glanced up, he found the middle-aged couple across the way watching in what looked like concerned sympathy.

  “It's fine.” Will forced a smile and continued to stare at the book, doing his best to ignore the distant silhouette of the old lady pressed against the window.

  Finally, the train ground to a halt and he left the underground, eager to be back below the open sky.

  The long street where he’d spent most of his childhood felt older and narrower, as if it had shrunk since he’d last been there. Somehow it seemed much later than it was, as if the hours on this tiny block had skipped ahead so the whole neighborhood could linger at midnight.

  Will started as a cat yowled and followed him, matching his step as it ran along a rickety wooden fence. He turned to stroke it but the cat drew away. It looked diseased with its weepy eyes, and limp, withered tail. He sighed. The poor thing was probably… “Hey!” he snatched his hand back as it hissed and spat at him.

  He hurried on, mindful of the thick, cloying shadows writhing across the pavement. Most of the curtains in the houses were drawn, but now and then he passed a brightly lit window with people nestled cozily inside, a sharp contrast to the disquieting darkness.

  Will glanced his father’s place over before shoving the wooden gate onto the scraped worn path. The shrubs lining the walkway hadn't been cut back, resulting in a narrow corridor riddled with spider webs. Their silvery strands glinted in the moonlight, bringing half elusive memories that he quickly forced from his mind…

  He looked up at the house once more. It was bathed in darkness and seemed to loom, reminding him of coming home from school as a child on short winter days. Of how he’d throw the door open and switched on as many lights as possible, anything to keep the nagging gloom at bay.

  The key was barely in the lock when a strange, shifting sensation rose from the doormat, as if it were about to sail up into the sky and carry him away. And then its edges glowed with faint golden light before fading back to its old worn ragged self.

  “I need sleep,” Will muttered as he shook his head, opened the door and stepped into the waiting darkness.

  4

  Memories of magic

  His fingers brushed along the cold, embossed wallpaper in the hallway as he searched for the light switch. The tunnel of darkness ahead seemed to undulate toward him.

  Will grabbed his phone, thumbed the screen and found the switch in its faint glow. It was there, just where it had always been. He flipped it on and stepped inside.

  The old painting was still beside the door, even after all these years. It was filled with odd, colorful, geometric designs and tiny, jagged symbols. As a child he’d been convinced the shapes were spells written in a long forgotten, magical language. That they could protect him and the house against monsters who might come calling.

  Will placed a hand on its dusty frame and glanced up the stairs to the darkness of the second floor. He took a long deep breath. The house smelled of damp. It smelled empty.

  Eric was still where he’d always been, perched up high along the wall. He was a strange, sinister thing and Will had always found taxidermy disturbing, as well as owls, which made Eric a double whammy. His red-orange eyes were shiny and judgmental, and the ratty grey and brown feathers on his wings were ruffled in a far too lifelike way.

  “Evening, Eric,” Will said, nodding to the dust-addled bird as he slipped past the darkened living room and cellar door.

  He flipped the kitchen light on and gazed at the stout wooden table in the middle of the room. It looked so small now, everything looked so small. His heart beat a little harder as he spotted the folded note. Was it from his father? A final message? He snatched it open, relieved to find Sally’s cursive writing tucked inside.

  Dear Will,

  I hope things are well when you receive this. I tried calling but couldn’t get through and I have no idea where to find you. I’ve tried several places but you move about so often!

  Anyway, this is just a brief note to let you know I’ve decided to move out and move on. This house holds too many memories. I miss your father as I’m certain you do.

  Please feel free to reach me at the number and address below. It would be great to meet up when you have time!

  Blessed be,

  Sally x

  Will added her number into his phone and glanced at her address. It wasn’t far. He’d ring her tomorrow and looked forward to catching up with her. She was pretty much the last link he had to his father now.

  He opened the fridge in the vague hope of finding something to eat, but it was empty and had been thoroughly cleaned. The cupboard held a few tins of peas, faded packets of pasta and an old can of processed meat that looked like it had been sitting there for a century.

  Will’s gaze drifted to the bottle of wine almost cheerfully sitting near the windowsill. “A hair of the dog it is then.” He opened the bottle, poured a glass and wandered back down the hall to the living room, passing the cellar door once more, another throwback to his old childhood fears. He shoved it hard, making sure it was closed.

  As he entered the living room, he paused as he caught sight of a figure striding toward him. “What the-”

  Will switched the light on and stepped back in a defensive stance, the bottle of wine tucked beneath his arm.

  A tall mirror stood before him, one he’d never seen before, and standing sheepishly within the frame was himself. “Twat!” he muttered, before taking a liberal sip of wine.

  He looked tired. There were lines on his forehead and shadows around his eyes. His leather jacket was battered and his filthy shirt was beyond wrinkled. “You’re still a handsome devil though,” he said, and winked at himself to lighten the atmosphere.

  Will plopped down in his father’s armchair, decided it was too weird, and moved to the sofa. He flicked the television on to battle the silence and soon the place was filled with inane, chuckling laughter. Next, he ordered cod and chips from the shop down the road, set his phone down, then picked it back up. His finger hovered habitually over Charlotte’s number.

  Was it too soon? He tossed the phone down. Not only was it too soon, it was too late. He wasn’t going to delude himself, and the last thing he wanted was to turn into some needy pain in the arse. She knew how to find him if she changed her mind, not that he expected that to happen.

  Will sighed, exhaling the day as he leaned back on the cushions and closed his tired, aching eyes.

  He awoke to the jarring ring of the phone and reached out. But it wasn't his cell phone, it was an analogue phone. An old, analogue phone.

  Will gripped the edge of the sofa as he realized exactly where it was coming from but before he could move, the phone stopped and the door bell rang.

  The food…

  Will paid the delivery guy and made his way to the kitchen but paused.

  The cellar door was ajar.

  “Must have been open already.” Will closed it with his foot. The effects of the wine and his growling stomach helped him overlook the fact that he’d checked before and it hadn’t yielded an inch.

  As he ate his food a series of troubling thoughts surfaced in his mind. And before he could stop them, they flitted back to a long buried memory.

  There’d been nothing particularly extraordinary about that distant cloudy autumn morning, not initially, except for his father’s mood.

  Usually, his dad was affable and easy going, funny even, when he chose to be. But not that day. No, that day his father’s dark eyes had barely met Will’s, his forehead had been creased with lines, and his face peppered with stubble.

  Something had gone wrong. Something had happened. Something serious that had made his dad serious too.

  Will had asked him about it with a ten-year-old’s casual directness.

  “Follow me,” Dylan Rose had said with gruff haste. He’d led Will to the cellar door, produced a ring of keys from his dressing gown, unlocked it and led Will down the creaky steps. Will had been down there once before, long ago, and he’d promptly decided it wasn’t a place he liked very much. It was full of strange things; tiny statues, odd bundles of twigs, their wood shorn of bark, old wooden crates partially draped in black cloth that had made him think of a vampire’s cloak.

  In the furthest corner, past the dusty furnace, was a carved, wooden stand and resting upon it an old-fashioned telephone. Will had never seen it before and he’d never once heard it ring. Carefully, Dylan Rose turned the phone over to reveal a strip of paper taped to its base. On the paper was a long string of numbers, the beginning few in brackets. “What’s that?” Will had asked.

  His father had leaned down, looked him in the eyes, and placed a gentle, yet firm hand on Will’s shoulder. “If you ever have a problem, Will, I want you to dial this number, and use this phone. Got it?”

  “Sure,” Will had replied. “Is that how I ring the police station?”

  “No. I'm not talking about those sorts of problems.” His father’s brow had furrowed as it always did when he struggled to explain something complex. “I mean if something very strange happens, and I’m not around.”

  “Strange like what?”

  “You’ll know, Will. But listen, I’m not going to let anything bad happen. Me and you are off the map, and as long as I’m drawing breath, we’ll stay that way.”

  Will had been troubled at the thought of being off a map, because what lay beyond maps? Oceans filled with sea monsters? Dragons? But more troubling than that was the idea of a day when his father wouldn’t be there, so he pushed the thought to the bottom of the pile, just like he did with his least favorite books, before it could become a worry.

  It was two years later when Will had woken to the sound of the phone ringing. His dad had gone to the store, so Will fished the key to the cellar out of the drawer where his father kept it, and clambered down the stairs, one hand guiding him on the pitted, mottled wall. The phone had sat there silent, as if it had only rung in his dream.

  His curiosity had whispered to him, and within moments he’d given in. He'd flipped the phone over, written the number down on a scrap of paper, then called it. The line had been scratchy and echoey, like a precipice within a great dark, cavern.

  Then someone answered. A woman. She’d sounded worried. Angry even. “Is that you Dylan?” she’d demanded. “Hello?” The line had fizzled and popped with static as she’d paused. “Who’s there?”

  Will had slammed the phone down and flown up the cellar stairs, and he’d never gone back, not even once.

  The memory was still unsettling enough to prompt Will to refill his wine glass and take a deep swig. “It was nothing.”

  But it hadn’t been nothing. He glanced toward the cellar door. Was the old phone still there?

  “Screw it.” Will strode to the door. He didn’t like feeling afraid. Didn’t want to feel like a child again. He reached out, yanked the door open, and stepped back. It creaked and swung out into the hallway. As he turned on the light, something thin, brown and long legged scuttled into a hole in the wall, making him jump. “Prick!” He chided himself.

  He took the stairs fast, stomping down them with a confidence he didn’t feel as his shadow lurched down the wall beside him.

  The cellar was as he remembered, nothing had changed, and the dusty old phone was still resting on the carved wooden stand. Before he could think twice, he snatched it up, turned it upside down, and read the number still taped to the bottom. He had no idea what area code it was, but he tapped it into his phone, anyway.

  He set the phone back down with an almost superstitious reverence and made sure the handset remained in place. The bell inside the phone dinged as if in response and as he glanced at it, he spotted the stone resting by its side.

  It was the green-grey pebble his father had given him as a child, an old stone ringed with rippled black lines and a worn hole in its center. The magic stone. How had he forgotten it? He picked it up. It felt lighter than he remembered, smaller, slighter. He slipped it into his pocket and left the cellar, eager to be back upstairs where he could examine it further in the warmth and light.

  As Will flopped onto the couch he glanced at his cell phone and read the number from the cellar once more. He was about to dial it when he decided it was probably too late at night to disturb anyone. At least that’s what he told himself.

  He set the phone down, took a sip from the glass of water he should have drunk hours ago, and clutched the old familiar stone as he closed his eyes.