For hours, the town of Morrenmere has been settled in a peaceful slumber, a type of quiet only seen during the early hours of the morning. 

A scream breaks the silence. It doesn’t shatter the peaceful air as I would have expected it to. It is muffled, trapped inside one of the many stone brick buildings I guard. 

As if struck, the scream rouses me. From beneath the brim of my helmet, the Southern road, the less used dirt path leading to town, stretches in front of me. The forest lining the side of the winding path doesn’t hide any movement. A few seconds of silence pass. Nothing follows from the first scream. Underneath the glow of the wall’s torches, I stay as still as the trees surrounding me. I feel exposed all of a sudden, standing in the open with the wind snaking past me.

‘Ought to check this,’ Roulf, in his rasping voice, mumbles. The old man heaves himself up from his favoured rock and puts his weight onto his spear. He turns his aged eyes to me, and despite the wrinkles that surround them, despite his lidded stare, they still pin me. ‘Stay here, boy.’

There is no fight to be won when Roulf is the opponent. ‘Aye.’

A smile spreads beneath his grey whiskers. ‘Shan’t be long, now.’

Roulf passes through the open wooden gates into Morrenmere, stepping off dirt onto the cobblestone path. With each step, he clacks the end of his spear against the stones and drags himself forward as though it was an oar through the water. I don’t watch for long, but as I turn back to the Southern road, I listen to the diminishing clack of wood against the cobbles until it is gone, and it is just me, alone. 

A deep sigh leaves my lungs. I let my body sink backwards, resting against the palisade. My chainmail jingles with the movement and my pauldrons thump against the wooden stakes. The burning ache from hours of standing loosens slightly. It doesn’t take long for me to falter. My eyelids grow heavy and I don’t resist the urge for them to slide shut. My head dips forward. If Roulf were still here, he’d bark a command at me and startle me back awake. Now, my head is heavy, and I let gravity take hold. 

Leaves shuffle in the light breeze. The torches just behind me continue to crackle softly, carrying a musky scent of burning wood along with the wind. My armour is warm against my skin after hours of wearing it. Resting against the wall soothes my aches, and being alone outside of the town calms me. It is the only real benefit of being a guardsman; for a brief second, I feel as though I am no longer a guardsman or a person at all. I am nothing when hidden in this uninteresting forest, on the outside of the town. 

A clap of wood strikes against wood. My eyes snap open. The sound comes from somewhere behind me, somewhere in the town, and unlike the scream that lured Roulf from his post, this sound is loud and close. 

I push off from the wall and hold my spear tight as I step to the gate and search the path leading into the town centre. A few seconds pass with nothing following the sound, silence stretching on. Unlike before, the lack of noise puts me on edge. The winding path snakes out of vision behind a house, and apart from dormant buildings and idle trees, I see nothing.

There are no other guardsmen to investigate this time besides me; I can’t be certain the Northern Watch will have heard anything, much less left their posts at all. Roulf shouldn’t have been absent from his post this long. I turn to look at the tree line behind me. At night, it’s difficult to make out the shapes between the shadowed trunks and bushes. It’s impossible to tell if anything is hidden in the forest, especially without Roulf’s sharp eyes. What good am I by myself? Irresponsible of the lead guard to leave me out here alone. His stone is probably cold, too.

Against the will of my aching joints, I march through the open gate. I take one last look at the forest before I turn the crank, lowering the log stake barrier and cutting off the Southern road. The gate lets out a thunk as it hits the cobblestone path, yet the wooden logs remain as sturdy as the palisade that has protected our home for years.

Before I leave, I take one of the torches from its sconce. Then, resting my spear against my pauldron with a clack, I set off down the cobblestone path of Morrenmere, following Roulf’s trail with my torch sweeping the shadows away. Patroling the winding paths on my midnight strolls should be relieving. Tonight, my boots clip against the cobbles like horseshoes and echo the brisk pace of my heartbeat. With every cragged corner of one of the houses’ stone walls, I hold my torch high and peer from against the wall. Stay here, boy. Roulf’s last comment rings through my ears. It’s too late to turn back. 

I only pass a few buildings before I stop. I straighten and scan the houses around me. Despite the noises that have been ringing out from Morrenmere, no one is awake. I have walked these paths my entire life. Tonight, crossing these buildings feels uncanny. As I glimpse at the winding street of houses ahead of me, I expect at least one resident to be hanging out of their window, scowling, hissing to snuff that light out. I can still recall the scream from earlier -- muffled, yet shrill enough to cut through thick walls. House after house, not one window is lit.

The Sawyer’s house stands beside me, my torch the only light the building has seen since nightfall. I bring the flame close to the window, casting amber across the glass. Inside, with my flame spilling across the Hobson’s kitchen, I can make out the edges of a table with a mess of wooden bowls and plates strewn on the surface and stools untucked. I squint to see deeper. My torch’s light creeps up. From the back of the dark room, five pairs of golden eyes glint at me. I flinch back as though the amber glass was molten, yet curiosity draws me back. I raise the torch again, the flame dancing side to side in my unsteady hand. I can make out people crowded in the kitchen. They stand pressed together, wearing long clothes that hide their frames.

I clear my throat. ‘Pardon the intrusion,’ I say, ‘I mean you no harm.’

Through the glass, I can’t hear them make any sounds. The small amount of light that reveals their figures shows the family standing still against the back wall. Their eyes continue to glint from the flames, those eyes fixed on me. Something heavy settles in my stomach.

‘Did you hear anything within the hour?’ I say louder. ‘Or see anything?’

The Sawyer family doesn’t move, and for moments, we stare at each other through the window in silence. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. 

Their front door is to my left. I lower the torch and grasp it in my other hand, alongside my spear. My leather gloves groan as I grasp the door handle and push. It’s only a slither open before brisk footsteps sound from inside and something stops the door in place. From the newly formed gap, a pale face appears and presses against the wooden frame. 

Mrs Sawyer takes shallow breaths. Her watery, wide eyes jittering in their sockets as she scans the area behind me. Tear streaks glisten from the light. Her loose hair stretches from her head like spider legs and sticks to her bloated face and lips.

I frown. ‘Wh-’

‘Shut it!’ She hisses. Her eyes dart to mine. The reflection of the torch’s flame dance in her wide pupils. Mrs Sawyer sucks in a trembling breath. ‘Let us be.’ Her husky voice is as commanding as Roulf’s.

‘Please, Miss.’ I lean in close, and desperately say, ‘Tell me what happened.’

Mrs Sawyer’s gaze lowers to the door handle.

‘Get off.’ She pushes against me with the door, clapping it against my side. In the back of the kitchen, I hear a series of sobs break out. 

I lean my weight against the door. Mrs Sawyer stumbles back a step, yet in desperation, puts all her strength on the other side of the door. Her mouth turns downward, her jagged top teeth pecking on her quivering lower lip. In her struggle, her eyes stray to the area behind me. She takes a sharp intake of air. Her face melts with fear, and she screams, ‘Let us be!’

A crash sounds from behind me. My whole body flinches at the sound and I turn my back on the house to look. Mrs Sawyer slams the door shut behind me, making it shake in its frame. I fumble with my torch and spear, and in panic, the torch clatters onto the cobblestones. I ready the weapon’s blade to the shadows. The torch only creates a small circle of light against the looming buildings and snaking trees.

‘Halt!’ I cry out, swiping my spear left and right. ‘Show yourself!’

No one responds. No one emerges from the shadows. I press my back against the Sawyer’s door. It groans against my weight, yet doesn’t move.

‘As a guard of Morrenmere, you must come forth!’

Before me, a large oak tree stretches its skeletal branches into the sky. Like arms, they dip and twist in the wind; a slow, creaking dance. Its pointed twigs scratch the thatch roof of the Wheeler’s house beside it, combing its leafless fingers through the hay. At the base of the tree, where a small mound lifts the tree up from the cobblestone path, grass brushes together in synchronisation, resembling the lapping waves of the ocean. 

No one is there, I think. No one is there.

A male cry ricochets into the sky. The second scream of the night is close, unobscured and clear. I can hear the pain warble in the throat of the scream’s owner, the note shattered into pieces of different tones and volume. It’s not shrill like a scared lady’s. It’s from the very depths of one’s lungs. Deep and scratchy. 

Shan’t be long, now.

I abandon my torch. The metal on my body clacks and rattles as I sprint down the path. I clasp my spear in both hands, yet I hold it close to my chest as I run. Everything is a blur, shadows merging together to create a tunnel of black on either side of me.

The spear on the ground stops me as though it was a large as a fallen tree. It lays in front of me in two pieces, snapped a few inches from the spearhead, which points towards an oak tree that sags beneath its weight. I raise my head and look to where the other end of the spear points to. It directs me to the open front door of the Brook family’s home.

I don’t hesitate to clamber inside, pulling myself in by the doorframe. I tiptoe blood-soaked floorboards. I am greeted with the sight of furniture strewn across the kitchen. The table is on its side, with its contents now scattered across the floor and flecked with blood. Stools are separated on the edges of the room. In the centre, Eda Brook lies with her limbs splayed out in crooked angles, her open mouth revealing teeth glistening with blood. Beside her, Larkin Brook’s front faces the floor, his arms tucked beneath his torso and his face turned away from me. From the little light that comes through the open door and windows, I can see how the back of his head glistens slightly, his long, black hair now matted together.

‘Warin?’

A weak, husky voice catches my attention. In the corner of the room, Roulf leans his back against a wooden cabinet. One of his gloved hands rests on his head, cushioned by his shoulder-length wiry white hair.

I drop to my knees, my spear clattering to my side and snatch his shoulder to help him sit upright.

‘Can you move?’

Roulf screws up his face and groans. Through gritted teeth, he spits, ‘Git out’ta here.’

I frown. ‘I won’t leave you like this.’

In a flare of energy, Roulf peels his left eye open. His one beady eye presses an intenseness on me I don’t recognise. I take back my hand slowly from his arm.

‘You must, and you shall.’ Roulf removes the hand on his head, a string of blood stretching from his temple and his palm. His right eye remains closed, yet his left eye follows the unsteady movements of his hand. I watch as he pats the ground and struggles to pick up my spear. ‘Git to the Northern watch. They’ll help.’

‘What’s out there, sir?’ I whisper.

‘Now, boy!’ Roulf roars.

I retract from him. I rock back onto my feet and stand. Roulf holds out my spear and with reluctance, I take it.

‘I’ll bring them straight here,’ I whisper.

I expect Roulf to say something more. Instead, his single eye rolls up in its socket and fixes itself on a spot above me. Roulf’s face changes–his eyebrows raise, his one eye widening and mouth opening to yell. ‘Warin, get down!’

Before I can react, I feel something touch the back of my neck. A sweaty warmth tightens around it, curling around my throat, yet rather than squeezing and cutting off my lungs, I feel a tug. My feet kick the air. 

One second, I see Roulf sitting upright, then, he is sideways. The sound of something cracking explodes in my right ear, echoing in my head, and slowly, pain seeps through my entire body until I can only feel fire burn me whole, lighting up my muscles. A scream scratches out of my throat, yet whatever holds my neck tightens and my scream is cut off. All I can do is choke. I hear another crack in my head, followed by the same engulfing pain as before.

Crack. Crack. Thump. Thump. Thump.

I don’t remember closing my eyes. Roulf is gone now. 

At some point, the sound of the wet thumps stop.

Thump.