The Holmes Chapel Tales - Tale of the Skeleton Army

Darkness Returns

The light of the full moon covered the land in a silvery glow, the sky as dark as pitch, and yet in the intense glow of the moon, barely a single star could be made out. All the world seemed silent and still, not a breathe of wind, nor even the movement of an animal. Just stillness, and the brightness of the moon.

The moonlight shone through the branches of a strip of woodland at the bottom of a shallow valley on the southern edge of a quiet little village. Beneath the branches of the trees, a small river flowed, it's waters clear and cool.

The tree branches were not yet in full leaf, so the moonlight trickled through the canopy with ease, reaching the surface of the river in several places, sending rippling shafts of light scattering through the darker patches of the woods. All in all you couldn't of asked for a more beautiful or serene scene. Yet, there was something unnerving about it all, something peculiarly unnatural to this patch of wood this night. The stillness, the very thing that made this such an idyllic evening, was also the thing that made it unnatural. It was as though all the world was coiled, like the bubbles of a sealed champagne bottle, just waiting to spew forth with the bottles uncorking.

With the crack of a branch, the silence was suddenly broken, and moving now through the woods was a figure, cloaked and hooded. The figure was hunched over and moved at a quickening pace from east to west, following the course of the river.

Moving through the shadows of the woods, the figure seemed almost other worldly, or like some evil character from a classic horror movie. But this was no spectre. Beneath the hood, the gnarled and neglected face of an old man starred out, his eyes bloodshot and frightened, as though he hadn't slept for many nights. His face was riddled with wrinkles, and the brow of his head was beaded with sweat. A look of fear and desperation hung on his expression as he pushed his way through the undergrowth. In his left hand he held an ancient looking hurricane lantern, the flame within the glass dancing brightly, and the paraffin from which it burned occasionally spashing out from its housing, as the old man swung it erratically about.

Where ever the light of the moon touched the surface of the river, the old man made a beeline. Once at the rivers edge, he would stare in to the cold, clear waters, for only a second, and then move on. Sometimes he would swing his lantern out over the water to get a better look at what lingered beneath the surface, but as soon as he was satisfied he would move on again.

If anyone had of been present for this unfolding scene, they most certainly would have thought it bizarre. "What was this old man looking for?" They might have asked, "and why did he look so scared?" Would probably have been another question. But a better question would have been, "why did he seem relieved each time he found nothing?"

For someone searching for something so frantically in the dead of night, he certainly did seem relieved each time that the river water revealed nothing.

He continued in this way ever westwards until his old body could race forth no more, and he was forced to take a break from his search.

Panting like an old dog forced to race, the old man hunched against the trunk of an old oak tree. From his pocket he pulled a flask of whiskey, flipped open the lid and took a gulp. Some of the panic had left his eyes, and just then the moon vanished behind a whisp of cloud. With only the light of his lantern, the old man caught his breath in the stillness of the woods. He pulled back his hood, revealing thin strands of grey hair stuck down to his scalp with sweat. Being alone in the darkness of the woods would have frightened a lot of people, but not this old man. It was in the darkness, and in these woods, that he felt most at home, and always had.

He went to take another gulp of whiskey from his flask, and move on, when the moonlight suddenly erupted through the canopy of the woods like someone had just flipped on a light switch. He could now clearly see where he was. On the other side of the river, an ancient willow tree lay sprawled out on its side, it's trunk snapped by some long since passed storm, it's branches reaching out across the ground like the tentacles of a massive sea monster. Despite being toppled, the tree was still very much alive, it's flailing branches showing the first signs of new growth. Between the old man and the fallen willow flowed the river, twisting and gouging at the earth in a great meander. The moonlight shone brightly on this patch of river, and yet the light didn't seem to bounce off it the same way. It was as though the river was swallowing the light, refusing to allow even a reflection to escape.

Fear appeared on the old mans face once more, as he slowly made his way to the rivers edge. With his flask in one hand and his lantern in the other he edged his way closer. He wanted to see.. He had to see, but at the same time he still didn't want to see what might be lurking beneath the waters surface.

Most of the river was in view now and still there was nothing. The old man began to grow in confidence, and the fear etched across his face began to be replaced by a look of cautious optimism. He finally reached the edge of the river, and to his relief, there was nothing. He wiped the sweat from his brow and turned to walk away, when all of a sudden he tripped over a root and went toppling over through some bushes, landing with his face in the waters of the river.

He began to pull himself up, sighing in pain from a twisted ankle and a scratched arm, but his pain quickly subsided and was replaced by terror, as he realised he was being watched.

In a slightly deeper section of the river, lit by the moon, two eyes starred out from beneath the water, and in to the eyes of the old man. But these were not the eyes of something living, but the empty sockets of a skull.

The old man stumbled to his feet, panic grabbing hold of him. His lantern had broken, it's light gone out and it's paraffin leaking in to the soil, it's pungent smell filling the air and scorching his nostrils. He didn't want to look at the skull.. He wanted to pretend he hadn't seen it...But he had seen it... There could be no pretending. As he took another look he could see that the skull lay next to a skeletal body, completely intact except for the fact the head was not where it should of been. Instead of being attached to the neck, the skull lay disembodied next to the torso of the skeleton, leaving the old man in no doubt that this person had met a grizzly end. But what truly filled the old man with a deepening terror, was that clutched in the bony fingers of the skeletons right hand, was a sword.

There was no more doubt in the old mans mind. He had found the very thing he had been searching for, and had hoped not to find. All his worst nightmares and fears were coming true. The thing that had kept him awake for more nights than he cared to think about, was now staring up at him from the cold, clear waters of the river.

Without a moments further delay, the old man suddenly scurried off, away from the rivers edge, and back the way he'd come.

"He's coming!" He muttered under his breathe as he raced back eastwards. "He's coming... And soon they'll all know. They will have to know. Darkness has returned!" And with that he disappeared in to the night once more, and the woods returned to its unnatural stillness and silence.