“Safety first,” Benny chuckled. “Always safety first.”
“Talking about safety,” Marsha said, licking the rim of the bottle seductively. “Did you bring any?”
“Shit!” Benny said, despairingly. “I didn’t think.”
“Well,” she said, standing up and drawing him closer. “Good job I did.” She crushed a pack of condoms into his hand as she kissed him deeply. Her mouth was warm and tasted sweetly of wine, their tongues clashing as Benny’s hands found the firmness of her breasts. She pulled away then, but there was a promise in her eyes.
“Build up the fire, Benny. It’s a beautiful night,” she said, gazing up at the first stars that had just started to appear in the night sky. “Let’s have a drink and enjoy it.”
When he had the fire roaring they sat huddled together, passing a bottle back and forth and smoking the occasional cigarette.
“Tell me,” she said, a slight slur in her voice as she cracked open another bottle, the flickering firelight dancing in her eyes. “What do you know about this forest?”
“Oh God, here we go, another ghost story round the campfire.” Benny knew from dating Marsha for the past couple of months that she had a fondness for horror movies and books. “Is that why you dragged me here? To seduce me, then scare me half to death?” Benny laughed.
“No,” she gave him a nudge, “but this forest does have a history to it.”
“You mean those old stories about people disappearing, and ghoulies and witchcraft,” he said, taking a long drink.
“Yes,” she said, lighting up a cigarette.
“Oh, do go on,” Benny said, taking a seat on a fallen log beside her. The night was drawing in now, the darkness swallowing the light. Benny was suddenly aware of the looming trees that seemed to bend toward them, their rough bark almost creeping in the flickering firelight. “Fill me with tales of terror and fairy stories around the campfire.”
“It’s no fairy tale.”
“Sure,” Benny said. He had a good buzz on now, and he liked the sound of her voice and the shape of her lips as she spoke.
“Okay then. Where to start?”
“I usually start at the beginning,” Benny said, tossing another branch on the fire. “Let me guess, your friend’s cousin’s grandma told you something creepy.”
“No, actually. I read all about it on the internet.”
“Ha,” Benny laughed. “A great source of information!”
“Do you want to hear this or not?”
“Sure, sure,” Benny said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Knock yourself out.”
“Okay,” she said, taking another drink. Benny was surprised to see they had nearly finished off another bottle. “Here’s what I know. The first accounts start way back, around the times of the Puritans. They came to the area to settle the place. They built themselves a small village on the fringes of the great forest, no more than twenty families. They were hounded for their beliefs as Separatists, coming to Cornwall to escape persecution at the hands of the church they had so recently broken away from.”
“Sounds like a good deal,” Benny chuckled.
“At first it was,” she went on. “They built themselves a modest village and lived off the land. It was a cold, Christmas Eve when the first screams came from the forest, followed by monstrous howling and bubbling laughter that woke up the entire village. Nobody dared to go outside. They barred their windows and doors, staying huddled together with their families as they prayed loudly for the Lord God to protect them. After what seemed like an eternity the screaming, laughter and guttural howling faded with the first rays of the coming dawn. It was then, when the villagers had finally built up enough courage to go outside, that they witnessed first-hand the terrible devastation.”
“What did they see?” Benny asked, becoming even more aware of the shadowy trees looming above them.
“Dead animals,” Marsha whispered. “Dead animals everywhere. Squirrels, rabbits, foxes, deer. Even the birds had fallen from the sky and they were torn up. Guts and blood were everywhere. The entire village stank like copper, and like shit from the ruptured entrails. The villagers checked their own livestock, but the village animals were all fine, showing little concern for the night’s events. It was decided by the village elders that these dead, wretched creatures were to be dragged away and burned.”
She paused, taking a breath.
“It was said that one man, somewhat poorer than his neighbours and a known wastrel, kept a brace of rabbits for himself. They say he died an agonising death after partaking of the tainted flesh. That evening, the villagers went to bed early, their doors and windows barred. Some even nailed crucifixes to the doors but nothing else happened that night. In fact, nothing else happened for the next few weeks. Then the first child was found dead. A village woman woke one morning to find her new-born baby, or what was left of it anyway, the poor thing, torn to shreds. Its flesh was all clawed up, its eyes bulging with terror and its mouth wrenched open in a silent scream.”
Just then a branch snapped off to Benny’s right, causing him to jump up and cry out.
“What the Hell was that?” Benny gasped, squinting into the growing shadows, his heart beating hard, but Marsha only laughed.
“Town boy. Sit down Benny, it’s probably a fox or a lone deer looking for a date. Now do you want to hear the rest of this story, or not?”
“I am not too sure,” Benny said nervously, sitting back down and taking a long drink.
“Pussy,” Marsha laughed. “Now, where was I?”
“The baby,” Benny said, somewhat reluctantly.
“Ah, yes, the baby. It was dead, torn to pieces. The doors and windows were all still locked tight,
