Graveyard, Part 2
Apologising to the occupants of the graves I trod on, I edged my way carefully around the branch. There was no choice but to go slowly here – broken gravestones, rabbit holes, or tree roots could be hidden anywhere out of sight, waiting to trip me up. But I made it to the trunk of the tree that had so recently owned the large, killer branch without incident, and swung myself over to the other side.
And there was another thing that was strange, I thought as I edged back towards the path. The branch didn’t look like it had snapped off. If anything, it looked like it had been gnawed around the base, until only a thin stretch of wood was left supporting it.
No wonder it fell. I thought. I wonder if squirrels did that? It’s amazing that no one’s noticed it before.
The path, when I reached it, had been mangled by the force of the branch hitting it. There were cobbles everywhere, and lying at the edge of the damage was a long, sturdy stick, just the right size to help me hobble back home.
“For god’s sake.” I muttered angrily. I was a great believer in nothing being a coincidence, but right now I could think of no reasonable explanation for the reoccurrence of this one piece of wood. Unfortunately, that only left me with unreasonable explanations, and they were intrinsically designed to be bad for my nerves. Turning away from the branch, I skirted the damaged path, and walked straight into a spider’s web.
I have never screamed so loud in my life. Not even during my recent near-death experience. The sticky strands wrapped themselves around my face, and I flailed wildly with my hands to wipe them off. In the darkness of my imagination, spiders ran through my hair and over my arms, and every itch on my body was a hairy arachnid running for cover. Shuddering, and almost in tears, I staggered back onto the path, caught my foot on an overturned cobble, and toppled over backwards, cracking my head on the ground.
Lights danced in the darkness. Sickness welled in my stomach. There was no choice of getting back up – even moving my arm up to check the back of my skull made my head spin. My foot hurt, my hands hurt, and my fingers came away from my scalp slick with blood. It took me a while to even realise I was crying – the sound of my sobs was muffled in my ears as they rang from the impact. I cried, and wished that I was home in bed. It was all just too much.
Passers-by might have found me like that the next morning, curled up in a ball, asleep, or in a coma from the concussion. Something else terrible might have happened as I lay there – another branch breaking off, a statue toppling over on top of me. But the next thing I noticed was something rolling up to my arm and rocking to a halt.
There was no energy left in me to flinch at the touch, but when I turned my head to see what it was, I found energy I didn’t know I had. The stick was following me.
No! It’s not following me. It’s a damn stick. It just rolled this way because of the slope of the path, or because the wind blew it here.
I sat up quickly, fiery anger masking my fear and sickness. There was no wind to blow the stick, and it had rolled uphill to knock against me. That meant someone was here, moving it without me seeing. Someone who hadn’t rushed to help as I fell, or when I was nearly crushed.
I grabbed the offending length of wood, wedged one end between the cobbles, and used it to pull myself upright.
“You better hope I never find out who you are.” I yelled into the dark. “Because if I do, I will take this stick, and beat you half to death with it, then watch you drag yourself to hospital!”
Panting, and half afraid that someone was going to materialise from the shadows and call my bluff, I fought the impulse to run for the gates. I’ll never get above a hobble like this. I told myself. Just take it steady.
And so I lifted the stick, wedged it down between another gap between cobbles, and eased myself forward a step. Nothing terrible happened, so I tried another step. At my slow pace, I followed the path for five minutes – a journey that had taken me less than a minute on the way in – and finally saw the gates appear through the trees.
I have never felt so relieved. I even attempted to pick up the pace a little, although as I drew up to the gates, I felt another wave of sickness wash over me. Leaning on one of the stone pillars that supported the gate, I stopped to get my stomach back under control, and to relish in the brightness of the street lights. In a minute, I would tackle the short walk back to my house, after I had stopped panting. The pain in every part of my body was tiring me more than I had realised it would.
After a few quiet minutes, I eased myself upright again. Various parts of me protested at the movement – my arms seemed to have seized up during my rest, and my ankle throbbed briefly as it took my weight again. But considering what had just happened to me, I was pleased that none of my injuries seemed too serious. And now I was out on proper roads, I wouldn’t even need the stick to support me.
It wasn’t a conscious movement, and I felt slightly surprised as I watched myself throw the stick back into the overgrown clutter of the graveyard.
The thoughts in my head – the ones that weren’t thought by me – screamed.
“What?” I yelped, startled. There was no mistaking the scream for my own – I was afraid, but the noise in my head was enraged. And it was so loud that I only just heard the creak of rusty iron behind me.
The gate was swinging closed. In a panic I leapt for it, feeling the latch scraping the skin off my arm. I was almost through when my foot caught on something, stopping me going any further. I shrieked again, and half fell as the gate closed on my thigh.
It felt like someone was trying to force the iron back into place – the pressure was awful, and I almost believed it was going to cut through my leg. But the sight that greeted me when I turned to free myself shook all other concerns from my mind.
There was something holding onto my foot. It was small, and stick thin – in fact, there was more than a passing resemblance to a pile of sticks. The thing’s head was angular, and there were small, black eyes staring malevolently at me.
“Let go.” I muttered frantically, trying to pull my leg from the thing’s grip. But despite its resemblance to wood, its grip on my foot was as strong at the gate’s on my leg. I couldn’t move.
“What do you want?” I cried.
You must carry me out of here. The thought appeared in my head, but there was no doubt it was the thing that had answered.
“Let go of my leg.”
You must carry me out of here.
“Why?”
So I can be free.
“You’re hurting me.”
I know. I can hurt you more. I will not do so if you carry me out of here.
“What are you?” I asked, shaking.
Hiisi. You must free me.
“Free yourself. Let me go!”
The walls bind me. Cage me. They feared me, so they locked me away. But you can free me.
“Fine!” I cried, desperate. “Okay. How?”
Carry the stick across the boundary. Carry me out.
“You have to let me go.”
You will come back inside. Then I will let you go.
Without apparent cause, the iron gate swung open again, releasing my leg. I barely had time to gasp with relief when the thing – the Hiisi, whatever that meant – started to pull me back inside. I fought it. Damn, I’ve never fought anything so hard in my life. But it was so much stronger than me, and already I was half way back through the gate.
In desperation, I struck out with my injured foot, and felt the shooting pain as it connected with something. There was a screech, and possibly a snap like dry wood breaking, and suddenly the pressure around my leg was gone. Without thought, I scrabbled forwards through the gate and out into the road as the gate creaked closed and shut with an echoing clang.
A quick look over my shoulder showed me I was clear of the cemetery, and there was no sign of the thing that had hurt me so much. And then the realisation hit me that I was out, that I was okay, and I sank back to the ground and cried. Eventually, I dragged my phone from my pocket and called an ambulance. And I never stepped back through those gates, or told anyone that some sort of goblin had tried to kill me. Who would have believed me?
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