When Will You Come
By Andy Morris
Tom Pennywhistle eyed the very old, very worn-looking book with swilling disdain. Even without the faded water-stain obscuring the top right-hand corner, or the spidery creases crawling across the cover and broken spine it was an unpleasant piece of work and without knowing why, Tom wanted nothing to do with it. The sensation was so strong that the poet felt reluctant to even pick it up and he left it where his old friend had placed it on the card table between them. The table's well-polished surface reflected the crackling logs on the open fire that had been warming the drawing-room all evening, yet since Henry Snook had produced the book; some of the warmth seemed to have left the room.
"It's very old and rather valuable," His dear friend continued. "This is a rare first edition of ‘The Life and Times of William Tyrrell', written in 1896. It was left to me by an old acquaintance that has since died relatively recently and quite expectantly too. I'm not really sure what ailed him but the poor soul seemed to start losing his mind all of a sudden: Talking gibberish, seeing things that weren't there. He'd become quite unbalanced over a seemingly short period of time and he ended up taking his own life, the poor fellow.
"He had a collection of old books and I came across this while I was sorting through them all. To be honest, I don't have much care for it but, mindful of your upcoming visit I thought you might like it, what with both you and your good lady wife sharing an interest in old books and British monarchs. Now, do with it what you will. I’m sure it would fetch a good price at an auction or reputable dealer if you decide not to keep it.”
"You are generous to a fault Henry, as always," Tom said graciously. "Thank you". He had no intention of keeping the dirty old tome. Still, the journey from Bath down to the New Forest always wore him out these days and no doubt he would be in a better frame of mind tomorrow when he could reappraise the book with fresh eyes and a more objective mindset.
Tom visited his friend every two or three months and would stay for a weekend at a time where he enjoyed good conversation as well as finding the inspiration that fired his poetry. Tom's creativity bloomed whenever he came to the New Forest finding verse and sonnet around every ancient tree and wild tussock. He captured these wonderful linguistic visions in his notebook and he'd already filled one page of writing since his arrival this morning. He would spend all day tomorrow here and then leave on Sunday. Tom looked forward to these weekends with great eagerness but upon his arrival this morning he had noticed immediately that Henry had appeared somewhat distracted.
Gone was his usual warmth and jolly disposition. No doubt the old GP would confide in him as to the nature of his problem when he was good and ready. In the meantime though, he was doing a heroic job of burying his woes beneath a good measure of whiskey. Henry had produced a bottle of very fine single malt and they had quaffed a good third of it so far. The alcohol would either suppress Henry's troubled temperament or else it would loosen his tongue and he would unload his burden onto his friend. Tom had rather hoped it would be the latter because if he could help in any way he would be only too pleased to aide his old chum.
"You'll notice" Henry began after refilling their glasses for a fifth or was it the sixth time? "The book provides a further argument as to the exact nature of King William the Second's untimely demise, not far from this very house," he indicated out of the window. Living in Minstead Henry was close to the alleged spot where King William the Second was shot by an arrow while out hunting. The spot, known as the Rufus Stone, was marked with a stone encased in cast iron that commemorates the tragic event. The name Rufus, Henry had explained was due to his ruddy complexion and shocking red hair. Tom was familiar with the basics of the story that the King; a very unpopular, brutal figure had been accidentally shot by one of his companions; Sir Walter Tyrrell. The interesting element of the story was that Tyrrell was an expert archer yet his arrow had apparently missed its intended target and ricocheted off a tree hitting the king in the chest. Few tears were shed at his passing but Tyrrell fled back to France where he was originally from, in fear of reprisals but his name still lives on with a local pub named after him.
"The author of the book Major J Montgomery Chrome draws on what purports to be genuine manuscripts from 1106 detailing one of King Rufus' last brutal acts." Henry tapped the book with one of his long thin fingers. "During his ill-fated hunting party a group of children were supposed to have been gathering the kindling in the forest and their laughing frightened away a deer the King was about to take a shot at. Rufus' ire was such that he ordered the children to be executed, right then and there. Major Chrome goes on to cite witness testimonies from local parish records that report Tyrrell was so shocked by the monarch's barbarism that he made a promise to bring justice to the children. This, the book argues, was the final straw that made Tyrrell end the reign of King Rufus. Then oddly, and make of this what you will: There is more than one account in the book that says as the king lay dying the sound of children could be heard laughing and calling to him from somewhere nearby. Only there was no one to be found in the immediate vicinity."
“Well, children are very adept at hiding in woods; I know I was when I was a lad” countered Tom immediately. He had no time for the supernatural. ”As for the claims this Major Chrome makes, there have been lots of rumours about the so-called accident. And am I right in saying historians now believe Rufus was killed on the Beaulieu Estate at Trougham?” Tom smiled, deliberately goading the other.
"Perhaps" agreed Henry wearily not rising to Tom's challenge. He slid the book over to Tom who reluctantly picked it up. He ideally flipped through the pages glancing at passages that seemed rather distasteful yet he still couldn't fathom any reason why. He quickly put the book down again and asked: "What makes this account anymore genuine than any other conspiracy?"
"It's the accuracy of the research. Major Chrome was very thorough and he uncovered some old long-forgotten parish records" Henry beamed. "I beg you, read it for yourself and then tell me afterwards if you still have you have any doubts".
Tom assured his friend he would indeed take him up on the offer. Then something caught his eye at the back of the book: A loose sheaf was protruding from the back cover. Tom took it out and saw it to be a folded piece of paper, stained grey and upon it was scrawled the spidery handwriting of a young child written in red crayon. It took a moment for his alcohol-blurred vision to adjust to the lettering.
When will you come? It’s lonely down here.
Tom read the note allowed. For a moment a shadow seemed to pass over Henry, momentarily ageing him several years and he looked quite pale despite the blazing heat from the hearth before them. The former GP hurried to his feet and was forced to lean precariously against the elaborately carved mantelpiece to maintain his balance.
"Henry?" Tom inquired. Henry's face was averted from him so he could not see his expression but he brushed aside Tom's concern as being nothing more than having gotten up too quickly. To affirm his supposition Henry turned back to him, apparently having regained his composure and scoffed theatrically, hastily taking the note from Tom to examine it himself.
“An old bookmark no doubt” he concluded before asking Tom about his latest collection of poems that was due to be published shortly. Tom sensed in his old friend a desire to shift the topic of conversation so he willingly obliged but made a note to revisit this episode later on.
“Yes, my agent is expecting it to be ready for publication in September.”
“In line with the autumnal theme of the work” observed the good doctor. “Well, sell the book and that should help cover some of your expenses while the royalties come in” Henry suggested. “It’ll fetch a good price but it’s not worth much just sat on a shelf”.
“You know I don’t write for the money” Tom mildly reproached his friend. “Why don’t you sell it?” He asked taking another sip of the very agreeable whiskey in his hand.
“Ah, I don’t get out as much these days. No, you have it; it will be of much more use to you than it will be for me. Now, I’m must apologise but I do believe the hour is way past my usual time of retirement”.
“Of course.” Tom rose on swaying legs and both men congratulated each other on a fine evening as they ascended the stairs to their respective bedrooms.
Despite having stayed in the spare bedroom numerous times before Tom never slept well when he was away from home. He lay in bed tossing and turning for some time despite the sedative effects of the alcohol sloshing about his system. Outside he heard the high-pitched whinny of a New Forest pony calling over the heathland. Tom lay in bed listening to the lonely call before he became aware of another sound, closer, right outside his door. It sounded like footsteps hurrying along the landing, tiny almost a sprightly pattering of feet scurrying over the floorboards. If Henry had children Tom would have believed they were running about out there despite it being way past their bedtimes, but Henry lived alone. Tom opened his eyes and listened again but the house was silent once more and outside the pony had gone quiet as well. It was probably just the first stirrings of a dream Tom decided sleepily and he rolled over onto his side and gradually drifted off once again.
The next morning Tom encountered his friend in the kitchen acting in a rather bizarre manner. He was dressed in his familiar shirt and tie but he was unshaven which was unusual for him and what's more, he hadn't yet combed his hair, which stood up in white tufts, further emphasising his vacant demeanour. The back door was open and Henry was trying the handle and testing the lock by turning the key and studying the mechanism as it sprang out. Tom watched him levering the handle up and down and first locking and then unlocking the door.
"Is everything all right old chap?"
"What?" Henry spun around, startled as if he hadn't heard Tom come downstairs.
"What's that you say, everything all right? No…" he began with a note of harsh irritation but then caught himself. "Yes! Yes, fine. Thank you. I've been meaning to check the security of the house for some time. It all seems to be working though. The windows and doors are all safe so, not to worry." he said distractedly while his tired-looking eyes roved around the kitchen. Tom wondered if Henry was actually addressing him because, and not for the first time since he'd arrived here, it seemed like the good doctor was trying to reassure himself over some concern that Tom wasn’t aware of. Henry continued to survey the kitchen while the silence spread between them. Gone was the familiar easy-going banter that the two men had enjoyed the previous night. Tom was about to ask again if Henry was feeling well within himself when the other, apparently satisfied with the back door and general layout of his kitchen, sprang to his feet. “I’ve got some errands to run this morning,” announced the former GP abruptly. “Something has come up at…” Tom noted the slight pause.
“… the church that demands my urgent attention. I am frightfully sorry Tom. I do hate to run out on you like this but it is somewhat of an emergency. I won’t be gone long but please make yourself at home and help yourself to whatever you need. You know where everything is don’t you.”
“Thank you but may I be of any assistance? If you tell me the nature of the emergency I may be able to help?” Tom offered.
"No, no" Henry waved him away. "It's nothing. I'll get it sorted and then things can get back to normal again". With that, Henry hurried out into the hallway. Tom watched him take his brown overcoat from the porch and dart out of the house as if it were on fire, leaving Tom alone in the house feeling somewhat bewildered. The poet remained in the kitchen for a few minutes digesting his friends’ odd behaviour. It must be quite critical for him to suddenly take off like that and looking so dishevelled as well. Henry was usually so meticulous with his presentation.
Tom made himself some toast and wandered into the drawing-room where they had spent the previous evening. Lying open on the table was Major J. Montgomery Chrome's ghastly book. How could Henry think he'd want such a rotten piece of claptrap whose very argument was largely irrelevant to the modern-day? Something about it seemed to have touched a part of Tom, triggering this irrational response and he didn't like it. It was as if the book was somehow contaminated and he was loathed to be near it. This was very unsettling because if he was honest, he still wasn't exactly sure why he disliked the book so much. He was usually a lover of old books and this was very out of character for him. He hadn’t even read it yet. Besides he only knew the basics King Rufus’ demise so it may be worth investing some time to read through it before making any more rash judgements. He gingerly picked up the book and casually thumbed his way through the brittle pages all the while telling himself to get a grip. He’d flicked his way to the middle of the book when something slipped out and zigzagged through the air to land at his feet. It was the piece of paper with the child’s writing on it. Perhaps Henry hadn’t thrown it on the fire last night after all?
You must come to the well. We’re waiting for you.
Tom looked closely at the patchy red letters. Just for a moment, he thought the message was different from what it read last night. However, it wasn't entirely unfeasible that he was still feeling the effects of all those whiskeys Henry had plied him with. Never again, he smiled sentimentally at the remorseful promise he seemed to make to himself every time he visited the good doctor. So, in all honesty, the note could have said anything last night and he would still be none-the-wiser this morning. He left the paper with the book on the glossy card table and returned to the kitchen to make himself a peppermint tea.
It was late afternoon when Henry returned home and if he hadn't enjoyed such a long friendship with him Tom would have allowed himself to feel a little more than the mild irritation he currently felt towards his friends' long absence. Still, Henry's behaviour was out of character and from the furtive manner in which he made his reappearance Tom suspected that his worrisome temperament was still at fore of his friend's mind.
During the day Tom had made himself some soup for lunch and taken a stroll out over the hill and up to the woods to the east of the house where the window at the top of the stairs looked out upon. When he'd returned to the cottage he had considered looking at the ‘The Life and Times of Sir William Tyrrell' but he quickly dismissed the idea and had amused himself instead, with one of Henry's encyclopaedias. There was something about that Tyrrell book that still made him feel uncomfortable as if there was something about it that felt dreadfully wrong. It was almost like the book had a presence that was aware of anyone who came near it.
Tom had pushed all thoughts of the book aside and as the afternoon had worn on and there had been no sign of his host Tom had taken out his notebook and a poem came to him almost immediately, which he entitled ‘When Will You Come’. He started writing it intending it to capture his sense of irritation that Henry had been gone for so long but instead the prose had drawn on some maudlin aspect of his subconscious. The piece had a profound sadness about it, a deep sense of loneliness, which for some reason led Tom’s thoughts back to that infernal book. He didn’t much care for the poem at all and had quickly discarded it, tearing out the page and tossing it into the fireplace just as Henry had arrived home.
“How was the church? Did you manage to avert that catastrophe?” Tom asked in the hope that the good doctor would finally unburden himself of his qualms.
“Oh that. Yes” Henry assured him quickly. “Everything is fine. I’m sorry to have left you alone all day. But there were things that couldn’t wait. Anyway, I believe it is all in order now so how about we eat out tonight? It would be good to get out of the house don’t you think? There’s a lovely little place just over by Fordingbridge that I’ve been meaning to take you to for some time. Again he was changing the subject and Tom found Henry’s sense of optimism to be somewhat insincere but he made no mention of it.
For the rest of the evening, Henry continued to be distracted. In the taxi from Minstead to Fordingbridge Tom watched Henry peer narrowly out of the window as the New Forest passed by as if he'd spotted something in the trees or heather. His disturbance continued to harass him throughout the night and on more than one occasion Tom observed him jump around sharply as if someone had just whispered something in his ear. Henry had the air of a person who was anticipating someone would spring out and startle him at any moment. Henry's fidgety disposition increased throughout the meal to become quite a distraction and every time Tom tried to enquire as to what was vexing him so, Henry would just laugh it off and deny anything was wrong. He put Tom's observations down to simple old age creeping upon him. Henry did try to make a conscious effort to compose himself but the mask slipped again when Tom told him about the footsteps running past his door the previous night. His friend had gone very pale and was unable to eat another bite after that. Thus he remained for the rest of the evening. Their conversations remained strained yet still he would not share his grave misgivings. When they returned home Henry retired to bed early and Tom suspected his friend may be sickening for something. He was always very busy so perhaps he needed some well-earned rest. If he was no better in the morning Tom resolved he would insist Henry saw his doctor. Tom would march him down to the surgery himself if he had to because he knew how stubborn doctors could be.
After a while, Tom took himself to bed. Sleep gnawed at his mind and as he lay back in the darkened room on his second and final night he began to slip away from the waking world almost immediately. Images of old parish records and children lost in the woods paraded through his mind, accompanied by the whinnying cry of a pony. He heard the pony's call again, louder this time, closer and Tom wondered distantly whether this was part of a dream or if it was real. Sleep was quickly drawing him away and the concerns of the real world had become almost irrelevant to him. That was until a new and very real noise outside his bedroom door brought him jarringly back to full wakefulness.
What was that? He listened again. Silence screamed through the darkened room but behind the rushing silence was an undeniable feeling of someone entering the house. He lay still as a growing sense of unease washed over him through the dark. There had definitely been noise but he wasn't sure as to the nature of the disruption, or its exact location. Then it came again, louder. It was children! He could hear children's voices whispering and giggling again out on the landing. Their words were muffled through the door and he couldn't make out any clear words. It lasted only a moment before the voices passed his door and they were gone. Still, he didn't move for several moments as he reassured himself that he had surely been dreaming. It was all nonsense, just his subconscious picking up on things from that damn book again. His imagination was always afire when he stayed in Henry's old house and Major Chrome's work had stuck in his mind. Now Tom was wide awake and crawling with agitation he had to reassure himself there was indeed nothing outside. He got out of bed, cursing his obsessiveness need for reassurance as he wrapped his dressing gown around him and marched out onto the landing.
The sleeping house sighed with shadows from the late hour. There was little light from the full moon shining in through the window at the top of the stairs, but not enough for Tom to make out his surroundings in great detail. There could quite easily be someone hiding behind the curtains. Not wanting to wake Henry he crept to the stairs and quietly drew back the shades. Of course, there was no one there. He could see the field and nearby wood at the top of the hill but there was no sign of anything amiss out there. Somewhere nearby the pony was still braying but Tom couldn't see it in this direction. He looked a moment longer before descending the stairs, an expedition which gave Tom an odd sense of tiptoeing into a dark crypt, or possibly a very figurative decline into madness. At that moment it could have been either but this visual interpretation could be useful for a future poem. He'd make sure he reflected on this in his notepad when he came back up to his room.
Upon reaching the ground floor Tom found, just like upstairs, there was nothing stirring. There was, Tom, confirmed, no one concealed behind any doors or furniture down here. If anyone else was in the house besides Henry, Tom would have found them by now and he would surely have dealt with them accordingly. Satisfied that there were indeed no intruders Tom poured himself a glass of water in the kitchen where his eyes were drawn immediately to that infernal Tyrrell book where it now rested on the worktop, waiting for him to pick it up.
Tom couldn't understand why Henry would think it would be of any use to him? What on earth was Henry thinking to give him this nonsense? Tom turned it over irritably and felt an odd sense of hostility. The dark kitchen suddenly felt darker. Unseen dangers crept towards him while his back was turned. Tom slowly looked over his shoulder and then turned in a full three hundred and sixty-degree circle. He suddenly felt very exposed down here, alone. Tom looked down at the book in his hand. It was something to do with this hated book, he was certain. Simply looking at the thing had seemed to stir a sense of unease but touching it had produced a swell of paranoia. It was as if the old book somehow meant him harm. The book had gotten inside his head and it was trying to take control of him. He regarded it with suspicion, not sure what to do with it when he noticed something on the back cover. Curious as to why he hadn't seen it before so he tentatively carried the thing into the drawing-room to get a better look. More childish writing had been scrawled on the back, further defiling the hated piece.
If you don’t come to us, then we’ll come to you
Tom slammed it down on the round card table next to him as if it had just bitten him. He took a step back rubbing his face with his hands unsure what to do next before it attacked him again. Tom hesitated a moment before his righteous anger broke the surface of his mind. Thus finding himself swept up in a tempestuous fury he knew exactly what he needed to do. He’d never liked the book and now he despised it with such a passion. Somehow this book was the cause of his friends’ poor disposition. It was dangerous and it was going to harm both Henry and himself unless he did something about it. The thought was no more rational than his animosity towards the antique tome but it triggered such a strong reaction in him that he was unable to restrain himself. Tom snatched the thing from the table and hurled it into the fireplace. It kicked up a small cloud of ashes as he dashed over, grabbing the box of matches from the mantelpiece above. In a frenzied state, quite out of character for him, Tom struck a match and applied it to a corner of a page. The flame took to the dry old pages immediately and Tom marvelled like a lunatic as the flickering orange tongue spread over the leaf and hungrily devoured the rest of ‘The Life and Times of Sir William Tyrrell’. He stepped back watching the work burn and feeling a deep satisfaction as the pages crumpled then blackened.
Once the book and its terrible lies had been reduced to ashes Tom made his way back up to bed. In the morning he may wonder what had come over him tonight but at that moment he felt the rightness of his actions stronger than any other thought.
Tom had only just got into bed when the unmistakable sound of the back door slamming shut brought him awake again with a spear of adrenalin. Events were determined to deny him any rest this night. Tom slid out of bed a second time and surged out onto the landing. Without understanding why he knew that this time something was terribly amiss. Henry’s bedroom door stood open and peering inside he could see the room was empty and his fears grew.
"Henry?" he called from the top of the stairs. Nothing. He called again but there was still no reply. He was about to go downstairs when he saw something out of the window. In the moonlight, Tom could see a number of figures walking up the hill at the side of the house, towards the woods. At the head of the procession was a small child; a little girl, Tom guessed, with scraggly blond hair being whipped by the wind. She was leading a chestnut-coloured pony with more children behind her. On one side of the animal was a boy while on the other was a second girl holding hands with an old man whom Tom recognised immediately: Henry. Two more boys brought up the rear of the group several paces back and from their formation, it appeared to Tom as if they were taking a rearguard position in the irregular procession. Tom opened the window and called outside; "Henry! Henry. Where on earth are you going at this hour?"
Henry must have heard him but he didn’t respond. None of them acknowledged him. Tom didn’t like this one bit and hurried downstairs feeling his anxiety swell with every step he took, descending into the madness he had envisioned earlier. For on some instinctive level he knew Henry was in grave peril. He didn’t know the nature of the threat or even how he knew it but it was with a certainty that he now realised had been steadily growing in him since his arrival.
Bursting into the kitchen he discovered the back door was still unlocked and he hurried out into the chilly night air in pursuit of the group. Tom ran outside without bothering to put anything on his feet. The cold ground was sharp and painful but Tom wouldn’t let it slow him down. He hurried to the end of the driveway and could see the ghostly troupe had already climbed the hill and had reached the edge of the woods. The dark trees stood together like a black mausoleum silhouetted against the night sky. Tom couldn’t hope to reach his friend before the party crossed the treeline where they would disappear out of sight but he hurried on regardless, calling out his friends’ name.
By the time he reached the woods, Tom wished he had been less rash and had stopped to bring a torch with him. It was dark and he could see very little in any direction. The cold wet grass felt freezing cold against his bare skin as he wandered away into the woods still calling for Henry but getting no reply. The pony had stopped braying and the sleeping village of Minstead was silent. There was neither sight nor sound of anyone out there. No sign of any life at all in fact. Even the familiar nocturnal cries of the local bat and owl populations seemed to have died away into the night.
Tom's feet were numb from the cold and eventually when the chilly air and the late hour finally proved too much for him. With a heavy heart, he acknowledged that his search had been in vain. Perhaps Henry would show up again in the morning he hoped, trying to stay positive and ignore the nagging doubt that stalked him all the way back to Henry's house.
Two days later Caroline Pennywhistle and her husband learned that the police had found the body of Henry Snook at the site of an old well in the woods near the former GP’s home. The well had been boarded up many years ago but it looked as if vandals had broken it open and the old man had stumbled in, breaking his neck where he fell.
Caroline sat next to her husband in bed reading the latest Hilary Mantel novel while thinking about Tom. Her husband had been devastated at the loss of his dear friend and she had spent many hours reassuring him that it wasn't his fault and there was nothing he could have done. Even if he had seen that his friend hadn't been himself there was no way he could have foreseen the dreadful accident coming.
Tom lay next to her tapping the end of his pen to his lips while he stared at his notebook where it lay open before him. Caroline knew his thoughts were occupied elsewhere because he had been like that for nearly half an hour without writing a single word. Usually committing pen to paper helped Tom unburden himself of most problems but since Henry's passing, he'd been unable to find his muse. Every now and then his legs would twitch and fidget annoyingly as they always did when he was restless but she let it continue without disapproval tonight.
The pages rustled as he flicked his way back through his notebook searching for previous bursts of creativity that could perhaps reawaken his imagination. A few moments passed before Caroline sensed a sudden change in her husband. He had stopped his fidgeting and had become quite still, almost tense. When she turned to him she saw that Tom had gone rather pale and she hoped he wasn’t coming down with anything. The notebook and pen had dropped from his hands, which had begun visibly trembling. “Good heavens, what’s wrong darling?” she asked but Tom didn’t reply. He remained frozen like that for several heartbeats just staring into the middle distance. Then, without saying a word he quickly got up and disappeared out of the bedroom and hurried downstairs.
“Tom? Tom, dear what’s the matter?” Her hand brushed his notebook and she glanced down to see her husbands’ familiar looping cursive spread over the page. There was nothing written there that could shed any light on the cause of his distress: Scribbles and crossings-out punctuated his flowing script. The odd word was circled and certain phrases underlined but there was nothing out of the ordinary except for one line that stood out only because it didn’t look like Tom’s handwriting. Childishly written in red crayon it was fairly insignificant. All it said was simply:
When will you come? It’s lonely down here.
"It's very old and rather valuable," His dear friend continued. "This is a rare first edition of ‘The Life and Times of William Tyrrell', written in 1896. It was left to me by an old acquaintance that has since died relatively recently and quite expectantly too. I'm not really sure what ailed him but the poor soul seemed to start losing his mind all of a sudden: Talking gibberish, seeing things that weren't there. He'd become quite unbalanced over a seemingly short period of time and he ended up taking his own life, the poor fellow.
"He had a collection of old books and I came across this while I was sorting through them all. To be honest, I don't have much care for it but, mindful of your upcoming visit I thought you might like it, what with both you and your good lady wife sharing an interest in old books and British monarchs. Now, do with it what you will. I’m sure it would fetch a good price at an auction or reputable dealer if you decide not to keep it.”
"You are generous to a fault Henry, as always," Tom said graciously. "Thank you". He had no intention of keeping the dirty old tome. Still, the journey from Bath down to the New Forest always wore him out these days and no doubt he would be in a better frame of mind tomorrow when he could reappraise the book with fresh eyes and a more objective mindset.
Tom visited his friend every two or three months and would stay for a weekend at a time where he enjoyed good conversation as well as finding the inspiration that fired his poetry. Tom's creativity bloomed whenever he came to the New Forest finding verse and sonnet around every ancient tree and wild tussock. He captured these wonderful linguistic visions in his notebook and he'd already filled one page of writing since his arrival this morning. He would spend all day tomorrow here and then leave on Sunday. Tom looked forward to these weekends with great eagerness but upon his arrival this morning he had noticed immediately that Henry had appeared somewhat distracted.
Gone was his usual warmth and jolly disposition. No doubt the old GP would confide in him as to the nature of his problem when he was good and ready. In the meantime though, he was doing a heroic job of burying his woes beneath a good measure of whiskey. Henry had produced a bottle of very fine single malt and they had quaffed a good third of it so far. The alcohol would either suppress Henry's troubled temperament or else it would loosen his tongue and he would unload his burden onto his friend. Tom had rather hoped it would be the latter because if he could help in any way he would be only too pleased to aide his old chum.
"You'll notice" Henry began after refilling their glasses for a fifth or was it the sixth time? "The book provides a further argument as to the exact nature of King William the Second's untimely demise, not far from this very house," he indicated out of the window. Living in Minstead Henry was close to the alleged spot where King William the Second was shot by an arrow while out hunting. The spot, known as the Rufus Stone, was marked with a stone encased in cast iron that commemorates the tragic event. The name Rufus, Henry had explained was due to his ruddy complexion and shocking red hair. Tom was familiar with the basics of the story that the King; a very unpopular, brutal figure had been accidentally shot by one of his companions; Sir Walter Tyrrell. The interesting element of the story was that Tyrrell was an expert archer yet his arrow had apparently missed its intended target and ricocheted off a tree hitting the king in the chest. Few tears were shed at his passing but Tyrrell fled back to France where he was originally from, in fear of reprisals but his name still lives on with a local pub named after him.
"The author of the book Major J Montgomery Chrome draws on what purports to be genuine manuscripts from 1106 detailing one of King Rufus' last brutal acts." Henry tapped the book with one of his long thin fingers. "During his ill-fated hunting party a group of children were supposed to have been gathering the kindling in the forest and their laughing frightened away a deer the King was about to take a shot at. Rufus' ire was such that he ordered the children to be executed, right then and there. Major Chrome goes on to cite witness testimonies from local parish records that report Tyrrell was so shocked by the monarch's barbarism that he made a promise to bring justice to the children. This, the book argues, was the final straw that made Tyrrell end the reign of King Rufus. Then oddly, and make of this what you will: There is more than one account in the book that says as the king lay dying the sound of children could be heard laughing and calling to him from somewhere nearby. Only there was no one to be found in the immediate vicinity."
“Well, children are very adept at hiding in woods; I know I was when I was a lad” countered Tom immediately. He had no time for the supernatural. ”As for the claims this Major Chrome makes, there have been lots of rumours about the so-called accident. And am I right in saying historians now believe Rufus was killed on the Beaulieu Estate at Trougham?” Tom smiled, deliberately goading the other.
"Perhaps" agreed Henry wearily not rising to Tom's challenge. He slid the book over to Tom who reluctantly picked it up. He ideally flipped through the pages glancing at passages that seemed rather distasteful yet he still couldn't fathom any reason why. He quickly put the book down again and asked: "What makes this account anymore genuine than any other conspiracy?"
"It's the accuracy of the research. Major Chrome was very thorough and he uncovered some old long-forgotten parish records" Henry beamed. "I beg you, read it for yourself and then tell me afterwards if you still have you have any doubts".
Tom assured his friend he would indeed take him up on the offer. Then something caught his eye at the back of the book: A loose sheaf was protruding from the back cover. Tom took it out and saw it to be a folded piece of paper, stained grey and upon it was scrawled the spidery handwriting of a young child written in red crayon. It took a moment for his alcohol-blurred vision to adjust to the lettering.
When will you come? It’s lonely down here.
Tom read the note allowed. For a moment a shadow seemed to pass over Henry, momentarily ageing him several years and he looked quite pale despite the blazing heat from the hearth before them. The former GP hurried to his feet and was forced to lean precariously against the elaborately carved mantelpiece to maintain his balance.
"Henry?" Tom inquired. Henry's face was averted from him so he could not see his expression but he brushed aside Tom's concern as being nothing more than having gotten up too quickly. To affirm his supposition Henry turned back to him, apparently having regained his composure and scoffed theatrically, hastily taking the note from Tom to examine it himself.
“An old bookmark no doubt” he concluded before asking Tom about his latest collection of poems that was due to be published shortly. Tom sensed in his old friend a desire to shift the topic of conversation so he willingly obliged but made a note to revisit this episode later on.
“Yes, my agent is expecting it to be ready for publication in September.”
“In line with the autumnal theme of the work” observed the good doctor. “Well, sell the book and that should help cover some of your expenses while the royalties come in” Henry suggested. “It’ll fetch a good price but it’s not worth much just sat on a shelf”.
“You know I don’t write for the money” Tom mildly reproached his friend. “Why don’t you sell it?” He asked taking another sip of the very agreeable whiskey in his hand.
“Ah, I don’t get out as much these days. No, you have it; it will be of much more use to you than it will be for me. Now, I’m must apologise but I do believe the hour is way past my usual time of retirement”.
“Of course.” Tom rose on swaying legs and both men congratulated each other on a fine evening as they ascended the stairs to their respective bedrooms.
Despite having stayed in the spare bedroom numerous times before Tom never slept well when he was away from home. He lay in bed tossing and turning for some time despite the sedative effects of the alcohol sloshing about his system. Outside he heard the high-pitched whinny of a New Forest pony calling over the heathland. Tom lay in bed listening to the lonely call before he became aware of another sound, closer, right outside his door. It sounded like footsteps hurrying along the landing, tiny almost a sprightly pattering of feet scurrying over the floorboards. If Henry had children Tom would have believed they were running about out there despite it being way past their bedtimes, but Henry lived alone. Tom opened his eyes and listened again but the house was silent once more and outside the pony had gone quiet as well. It was probably just the first stirrings of a dream Tom decided sleepily and he rolled over onto his side and gradually drifted off once again.
The next morning Tom encountered his friend in the kitchen acting in a rather bizarre manner. He was dressed in his familiar shirt and tie but he was unshaven which was unusual for him and what's more, he hadn't yet combed his hair, which stood up in white tufts, further emphasising his vacant demeanour. The back door was open and Henry was trying the handle and testing the lock by turning the key and studying the mechanism as it sprang out. Tom watched him levering the handle up and down and first locking and then unlocking the door.
"Is everything all right old chap?"
"What?" Henry spun around, startled as if he hadn't heard Tom come downstairs.
"What's that you say, everything all right? No…" he began with a note of harsh irritation but then caught himself. "Yes! Yes, fine. Thank you. I've been meaning to check the security of the house for some time. It all seems to be working though. The windows and doors are all safe so, not to worry." he said distractedly while his tired-looking eyes roved around the kitchen. Tom wondered if Henry was actually addressing him because, and not for the first time since he'd arrived here, it seemed like the good doctor was trying to reassure himself over some concern that Tom wasn’t aware of. Henry continued to survey the kitchen while the silence spread between them. Gone was the familiar easy-going banter that the two men had enjoyed the previous night. Tom was about to ask again if Henry was feeling well within himself when the other, apparently satisfied with the back door and general layout of his kitchen, sprang to his feet. “I’ve got some errands to run this morning,” announced the former GP abruptly. “Something has come up at…” Tom noted the slight pause.
“… the church that demands my urgent attention. I am frightfully sorry Tom. I do hate to run out on you like this but it is somewhat of an emergency. I won’t be gone long but please make yourself at home and help yourself to whatever you need. You know where everything is don’t you.”
“Thank you but may I be of any assistance? If you tell me the nature of the emergency I may be able to help?” Tom offered.
"No, no" Henry waved him away. "It's nothing. I'll get it sorted and then things can get back to normal again". With that, Henry hurried out into the hallway. Tom watched him take his brown overcoat from the porch and dart out of the house as if it were on fire, leaving Tom alone in the house feeling somewhat bewildered. The poet remained in the kitchen for a few minutes digesting his friends’ odd behaviour. It must be quite critical for him to suddenly take off like that and looking so dishevelled as well. Henry was usually so meticulous with his presentation.
Tom made himself some toast and wandered into the drawing-room where they had spent the previous evening. Lying open on the table was Major J. Montgomery Chrome's ghastly book. How could Henry think he'd want such a rotten piece of claptrap whose very argument was largely irrelevant to the modern-day? Something about it seemed to have touched a part of Tom, triggering this irrational response and he didn't like it. It was as if the book was somehow contaminated and he was loathed to be near it. This was very unsettling because if he was honest, he still wasn't exactly sure why he disliked the book so much. He was usually a lover of old books and this was very out of character for him. He hadn’t even read it yet. Besides he only knew the basics King Rufus’ demise so it may be worth investing some time to read through it before making any more rash judgements. He gingerly picked up the book and casually thumbed his way through the brittle pages all the while telling himself to get a grip. He’d flicked his way to the middle of the book when something slipped out and zigzagged through the air to land at his feet. It was the piece of paper with the child’s writing on it. Perhaps Henry hadn’t thrown it on the fire last night after all?
You must come to the well. We’re waiting for you.
Tom looked closely at the patchy red letters. Just for a moment, he thought the message was different from what it read last night. However, it wasn't entirely unfeasible that he was still feeling the effects of all those whiskeys Henry had plied him with. Never again, he smiled sentimentally at the remorseful promise he seemed to make to himself every time he visited the good doctor. So, in all honesty, the note could have said anything last night and he would still be none-the-wiser this morning. He left the paper with the book on the glossy card table and returned to the kitchen to make himself a peppermint tea.
It was late afternoon when Henry returned home and if he hadn't enjoyed such a long friendship with him Tom would have allowed himself to feel a little more than the mild irritation he currently felt towards his friends' long absence. Still, Henry's behaviour was out of character and from the furtive manner in which he made his reappearance Tom suspected that his worrisome temperament was still at fore of his friend's mind.
During the day Tom had made himself some soup for lunch and taken a stroll out over the hill and up to the woods to the east of the house where the window at the top of the stairs looked out upon. When he'd returned to the cottage he had considered looking at the ‘The Life and Times of Sir William Tyrrell' but he quickly dismissed the idea and had amused himself instead, with one of Henry's encyclopaedias. There was something about that Tyrrell book that still made him feel uncomfortable as if there was something about it that felt dreadfully wrong. It was almost like the book had a presence that was aware of anyone who came near it.
Tom had pushed all thoughts of the book aside and as the afternoon had worn on and there had been no sign of his host Tom had taken out his notebook and a poem came to him almost immediately, which he entitled ‘When Will You Come’. He started writing it intending it to capture his sense of irritation that Henry had been gone for so long but instead the prose had drawn on some maudlin aspect of his subconscious. The piece had a profound sadness about it, a deep sense of loneliness, which for some reason led Tom’s thoughts back to that infernal book. He didn’t much care for the poem at all and had quickly discarded it, tearing out the page and tossing it into the fireplace just as Henry had arrived home.
“How was the church? Did you manage to avert that catastrophe?” Tom asked in the hope that the good doctor would finally unburden himself of his qualms.
“Oh that. Yes” Henry assured him quickly. “Everything is fine. I’m sorry to have left you alone all day. But there were things that couldn’t wait. Anyway, I believe it is all in order now so how about we eat out tonight? It would be good to get out of the house don’t you think? There’s a lovely little place just over by Fordingbridge that I’ve been meaning to take you to for some time. Again he was changing the subject and Tom found Henry’s sense of optimism to be somewhat insincere but he made no mention of it.
For the rest of the evening, Henry continued to be distracted. In the taxi from Minstead to Fordingbridge Tom watched Henry peer narrowly out of the window as the New Forest passed by as if he'd spotted something in the trees or heather. His disturbance continued to harass him throughout the night and on more than one occasion Tom observed him jump around sharply as if someone had just whispered something in his ear. Henry had the air of a person who was anticipating someone would spring out and startle him at any moment. Henry's fidgety disposition increased throughout the meal to become quite a distraction and every time Tom tried to enquire as to what was vexing him so, Henry would just laugh it off and deny anything was wrong. He put Tom's observations down to simple old age creeping upon him. Henry did try to make a conscious effort to compose himself but the mask slipped again when Tom told him about the footsteps running past his door the previous night. His friend had gone very pale and was unable to eat another bite after that. Thus he remained for the rest of the evening. Their conversations remained strained yet still he would not share his grave misgivings. When they returned home Henry retired to bed early and Tom suspected his friend may be sickening for something. He was always very busy so perhaps he needed some well-earned rest. If he was no better in the morning Tom resolved he would insist Henry saw his doctor. Tom would march him down to the surgery himself if he had to because he knew how stubborn doctors could be.
After a while, Tom took himself to bed. Sleep gnawed at his mind and as he lay back in the darkened room on his second and final night he began to slip away from the waking world almost immediately. Images of old parish records and children lost in the woods paraded through his mind, accompanied by the whinnying cry of a pony. He heard the pony's call again, louder this time, closer and Tom wondered distantly whether this was part of a dream or if it was real. Sleep was quickly drawing him away and the concerns of the real world had become almost irrelevant to him. That was until a new and very real noise outside his bedroom door brought him jarringly back to full wakefulness.
What was that? He listened again. Silence screamed through the darkened room but behind the rushing silence was an undeniable feeling of someone entering the house. He lay still as a growing sense of unease washed over him through the dark. There had definitely been noise but he wasn't sure as to the nature of the disruption, or its exact location. Then it came again, louder. It was children! He could hear children's voices whispering and giggling again out on the landing. Their words were muffled through the door and he couldn't make out any clear words. It lasted only a moment before the voices passed his door and they were gone. Still, he didn't move for several moments as he reassured himself that he had surely been dreaming. It was all nonsense, just his subconscious picking up on things from that damn book again. His imagination was always afire when he stayed in Henry's old house and Major Chrome's work had stuck in his mind. Now Tom was wide awake and crawling with agitation he had to reassure himself there was indeed nothing outside. He got out of bed, cursing his obsessiveness need for reassurance as he wrapped his dressing gown around him and marched out onto the landing.
The sleeping house sighed with shadows from the late hour. There was little light from the full moon shining in through the window at the top of the stairs, but not enough for Tom to make out his surroundings in great detail. There could quite easily be someone hiding behind the curtains. Not wanting to wake Henry he crept to the stairs and quietly drew back the shades. Of course, there was no one there. He could see the field and nearby wood at the top of the hill but there was no sign of anything amiss out there. Somewhere nearby the pony was still braying but Tom couldn't see it in this direction. He looked a moment longer before descending the stairs, an expedition which gave Tom an odd sense of tiptoeing into a dark crypt, or possibly a very figurative decline into madness. At that moment it could have been either but this visual interpretation could be useful for a future poem. He'd make sure he reflected on this in his notepad when he came back up to his room.
Upon reaching the ground floor Tom found, just like upstairs, there was nothing stirring. There was, Tom, confirmed, no one concealed behind any doors or furniture down here. If anyone else was in the house besides Henry, Tom would have found them by now and he would surely have dealt with them accordingly. Satisfied that there were indeed no intruders Tom poured himself a glass of water in the kitchen where his eyes were drawn immediately to that infernal Tyrrell book where it now rested on the worktop, waiting for him to pick it up.
Tom couldn't understand why Henry would think it would be of any use to him? What on earth was Henry thinking to give him this nonsense? Tom turned it over irritably and felt an odd sense of hostility. The dark kitchen suddenly felt darker. Unseen dangers crept towards him while his back was turned. Tom slowly looked over his shoulder and then turned in a full three hundred and sixty-degree circle. He suddenly felt very exposed down here, alone. Tom looked down at the book in his hand. It was something to do with this hated book, he was certain. Simply looking at the thing had seemed to stir a sense of unease but touching it had produced a swell of paranoia. It was as if the old book somehow meant him harm. The book had gotten inside his head and it was trying to take control of him. He regarded it with suspicion, not sure what to do with it when he noticed something on the back cover. Curious as to why he hadn't seen it before so he tentatively carried the thing into the drawing-room to get a better look. More childish writing had been scrawled on the back, further defiling the hated piece.
If you don’t come to us, then we’ll come to you
Tom slammed it down on the round card table next to him as if it had just bitten him. He took a step back rubbing his face with his hands unsure what to do next before it attacked him again. Tom hesitated a moment before his righteous anger broke the surface of his mind. Thus finding himself swept up in a tempestuous fury he knew exactly what he needed to do. He’d never liked the book and now he despised it with such a passion. Somehow this book was the cause of his friends’ poor disposition. It was dangerous and it was going to harm both Henry and himself unless he did something about it. The thought was no more rational than his animosity towards the antique tome but it triggered such a strong reaction in him that he was unable to restrain himself. Tom snatched the thing from the table and hurled it into the fireplace. It kicked up a small cloud of ashes as he dashed over, grabbing the box of matches from the mantelpiece above. In a frenzied state, quite out of character for him, Tom struck a match and applied it to a corner of a page. The flame took to the dry old pages immediately and Tom marvelled like a lunatic as the flickering orange tongue spread over the leaf and hungrily devoured the rest of ‘The Life and Times of Sir William Tyrrell’. He stepped back watching the work burn and feeling a deep satisfaction as the pages crumpled then blackened.
Once the book and its terrible lies had been reduced to ashes Tom made his way back up to bed. In the morning he may wonder what had come over him tonight but at that moment he felt the rightness of his actions stronger than any other thought.
Tom had only just got into bed when the unmistakable sound of the back door slamming shut brought him awake again with a spear of adrenalin. Events were determined to deny him any rest this night. Tom slid out of bed a second time and surged out onto the landing. Without understanding why he knew that this time something was terribly amiss. Henry’s bedroom door stood open and peering inside he could see the room was empty and his fears grew.
"Henry?" he called from the top of the stairs. Nothing. He called again but there was still no reply. He was about to go downstairs when he saw something out of the window. In the moonlight, Tom could see a number of figures walking up the hill at the side of the house, towards the woods. At the head of the procession was a small child; a little girl, Tom guessed, with scraggly blond hair being whipped by the wind. She was leading a chestnut-coloured pony with more children behind her. On one side of the animal was a boy while on the other was a second girl holding hands with an old man whom Tom recognised immediately: Henry. Two more boys brought up the rear of the group several paces back and from their formation, it appeared to Tom as if they were taking a rearguard position in the irregular procession. Tom opened the window and called outside; "Henry! Henry. Where on earth are you going at this hour?"
Henry must have heard him but he didn’t respond. None of them acknowledged him. Tom didn’t like this one bit and hurried downstairs feeling his anxiety swell with every step he took, descending into the madness he had envisioned earlier. For on some instinctive level he knew Henry was in grave peril. He didn’t know the nature of the threat or even how he knew it but it was with a certainty that he now realised had been steadily growing in him since his arrival.
Bursting into the kitchen he discovered the back door was still unlocked and he hurried out into the chilly night air in pursuit of the group. Tom ran outside without bothering to put anything on his feet. The cold ground was sharp and painful but Tom wouldn’t let it slow him down. He hurried to the end of the driveway and could see the ghostly troupe had already climbed the hill and had reached the edge of the woods. The dark trees stood together like a black mausoleum silhouetted against the night sky. Tom couldn’t hope to reach his friend before the party crossed the treeline where they would disappear out of sight but he hurried on regardless, calling out his friends’ name.
By the time he reached the woods, Tom wished he had been less rash and had stopped to bring a torch with him. It was dark and he could see very little in any direction. The cold wet grass felt freezing cold against his bare skin as he wandered away into the woods still calling for Henry but getting no reply. The pony had stopped braying and the sleeping village of Minstead was silent. There was neither sight nor sound of anyone out there. No sign of any life at all in fact. Even the familiar nocturnal cries of the local bat and owl populations seemed to have died away into the night.
Tom's feet were numb from the cold and eventually when the chilly air and the late hour finally proved too much for him. With a heavy heart, he acknowledged that his search had been in vain. Perhaps Henry would show up again in the morning he hoped, trying to stay positive and ignore the nagging doubt that stalked him all the way back to Henry's house.
Two days later Caroline Pennywhistle and her husband learned that the police had found the body of Henry Snook at the site of an old well in the woods near the former GP’s home. The well had been boarded up many years ago but it looked as if vandals had broken it open and the old man had stumbled in, breaking his neck where he fell.
Caroline sat next to her husband in bed reading the latest Hilary Mantel novel while thinking about Tom. Her husband had been devastated at the loss of his dear friend and she had spent many hours reassuring him that it wasn't his fault and there was nothing he could have done. Even if he had seen that his friend hadn't been himself there was no way he could have foreseen the dreadful accident coming.
Tom lay next to her tapping the end of his pen to his lips while he stared at his notebook where it lay open before him. Caroline knew his thoughts were occupied elsewhere because he had been like that for nearly half an hour without writing a single word. Usually committing pen to paper helped Tom unburden himself of most problems but since Henry's passing, he'd been unable to find his muse. Every now and then his legs would twitch and fidget annoyingly as they always did when he was restless but she let it continue without disapproval tonight.
The pages rustled as he flicked his way back through his notebook searching for previous bursts of creativity that could perhaps reawaken his imagination. A few moments passed before Caroline sensed a sudden change in her husband. He had stopped his fidgeting and had become quite still, almost tense. When she turned to him she saw that Tom had gone rather pale and she hoped he wasn’t coming down with anything. The notebook and pen had dropped from his hands, which had begun visibly trembling. “Good heavens, what’s wrong darling?” she asked but Tom didn’t reply. He remained frozen like that for several heartbeats just staring into the middle distance. Then, without saying a word he quickly got up and disappeared out of the bedroom and hurried downstairs.
“Tom? Tom, dear what’s the matter?” Her hand brushed his notebook and she glanced down to see her husbands’ familiar looping cursive spread over the page. There was nothing written there that could shed any light on the cause of his distress: Scribbles and crossings-out punctuated his flowing script. The odd word was circled and certain phrases underlined but there was nothing out of the ordinary except for one line that stood out only because it didn’t look like Tom’s handwriting. Childishly written in red crayon it was fairly insignificant. All it said was simply:
When will you come? It’s lonely down here.