Searching for Arthur (The Return to Camelot #1)(2)

I liked to blame the entity, because the reality was they were probably trying to run from me.

My father refers to any disagreement that takes place as an exchanging of words. We can’t use the term fight or argument because that would be too confrontational, and nothing gets tackled head on in this family.

Not really. Not anymore.

So, not for the first time in this wretched place, I was retreating. Running from my mother and her voice and then the silence that follows which is worse.



We lived on the edge of a forest. Perfect for escaping. Running through it though was difficult, even in sneakers, and being handicapped by stupid tears didn’t help. The ground was uneven with fallen branches and ditches of decomposing vegetation.

I was not going to a stupid dance. I hated dancing. I hated my new school even more.



I could hear whispers as I ran. When I was ten years old, my parents forced me to see a child psychiatrist because I suffered nightmares about ghosts and being haunted. The psych told me that ghost stories were way worse than the reality of death because it was the fear of the unknown that was terrifying. It was one of the few things that she said that actually made sense. I do remember she smelt of cabbage and coffee. That was all I took away for 200 bucks an hour, but as I wasn’t paying, I didn’t care.



But now the ghosts were back. They were trying to trap me amongst the trees instead of in my past. Creaking boughs were reaching down like thick arms; their spiny fingers clawing at my clothes, my hair, my soul.

I wanted to carry on running away from my mother and dancing and designer dresses, but sharp twigs had invaded my socks and scratched my skin. I noticed one tree that had long exposed roots snaking away from the trunk, like ribbons of tagliatelle. It looked like a good a place as any to sit down. I thought if I stretched back against the bark and closed my eyes, I would be able to fool myself into thinking I wasn’t being haunted anymore.

The ground started rumbling the second I slotted in between the roots. I could feel the vibrations through my legs. It was like sitting on top of a washing machine. I knew the rumbling wasn’t an earthquake because nothing above the earth was swaying except me.

The twigs in my socks could stay there. I wanted to start running again, and my sixth sense was telling me to get the hell out of there.

But my legs weren’t quick enough, not this time. The leaves and dirt started to crumble away beneath my feet. I didn’t have time to grab hold of anything as gravity claimed me, and I fell down, down, down through the thick, snaking roots.



The ghosts I had heard whispering became real.



He had no eyes. That was what I noticed first. He had a moustache as well. Not a moustache like Hitler’s. This ghost had a long thin moustache that blended into his beard, like an anorexic Father Christmas. His hair was fine, almost dusty, like the mane on a white stallion. If I had touched it, it would have crumbled. His whole body would have disintegrated into ash, and the strands of his hair would have flown away on the wind as if they were never there.

But he was there. And there were others too. I counted at least six bodies in the darkness, all lying in state, too exhausted and old to move.

Waiting. Biding their time.

Because they were solid, I wasn’t scared. Not for the first few seconds anyway. It’s hard to be frightened of something that is so ancient the air itself becomes powerful enough to destroy it. For a brief moment I thought it was a game, a bizarre enactment. So why were the strange people in their strange clothes underground and not out in the open?

Then I heard a guttural noise, like the moaning you would expect from someone who had forgotten how to speak. I went back to the eyes, or rather the gaping black holes in his heavily creased face.

“Are you Arthur?”

The ancient soul groaned out the words as if he was in pain. Dazed and disorientated, I said nothing at first. My forehead had connected with something solid. It was cold stone, like roughly textured pumice used to scrape dead skin off your heels when you have a pedicure.

“Are you Arthur?” he groaned again. The sound echoed around the earth-made sepulchre, magnifying as it bounced off the dirt in deep waves.

My next thought: why did he want my brother?

The thought after that: I’m in a hole with a person with no eyes.



That was when the screaming started.



I knew from the throbbing pain in my head that I was conscious. Then I noticed the blood on my hands. With my feet, legs and hands failing to coordinate, I scrambled in the dirt on my arse and threw myself into the curved lumpy wall of the pit.

I was in a grave. I started screaming again.

“Are you Arthur?”

The ancient man still hadn’t moved from his sentry position in front of the other prostrate figures. This wasn’t a game or bizarre enactment. Between two cadaverous hands he clutched a sword, which was pointing down into the powdery earth.

Yet he looked frail, fragile. I doubted he had the strength to pick up the sword, let alone strike me down with it. Then another voice spoke. It was familiar. It was mine.

Do you think it has super-human strength? it asked.

“I don’t know,” I whispered back, still afraid the un-seeing man was about to skewer me like a kebab.

Then presume it doesn’t. Now look around. Is there a way out?

Orange coloured dust swirled in the claustrophobic space. I could see it through a thin shaft of light that had penetrated the roots of the tree that had swallowed me whole. The back of the tomb was dark, and I was in no hurry to find out what was there. An entire army of warriors could have been waiting to feast on my tender – slightly spotty – flesh for all I knew.