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Barghest

By Susan King

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I’m reaching for the scissors when the lamp bulb flickers and dies. Cursing, I use the torch on my phone to push through the stacks of unpacked boxes.

I flick the light switch. 

Nothing happens.

I have no idea where the fuse box is. 

Next door’s dog is barking like crazy. Maybe it’s a power cut? 

I weave my way to the window and open the curtains. Lights blaze from every house in the street. Before I can search for the circuit box, the sound of sobbing comes from upstairs.

Willa is sitting up in bed, her wolfsbane-blue eyes red and puffy, her cheeks wet. She’s taking great gulps of air, her arms wrapped around her chest. A cold breeze blows through the open window. Shivering in my tee shirt and jeans, I pull it closed.

“It’s all right,” I say. “It’s just a blown fuse.” I lay my mobile on her bedside table and hold her, her body still heaving. “Did you have a nightmare?”

“I was in the woods at night. There’s this boy lying on the ground.” She takes a deep breath. Tears and snot mingle and run down her chin. I give her a tissue from the packet by her bed. She blows her nose. 

“That’s all over now. That’s why we moved, remember? You’re safe here.” 

“There was blood everywhere, all over my hands and my clothes. There was a sound behind me. It was horrible like a—”

Something hits the windowpane with a thud. A black shape falls out of view.

“What was that?” says Willa. 

“Just a bird, poor thing.” It was more likely a bat, but Willa doesn’t need to know that. An owl hoots in the distance. 

“I hate it here, Mum.”

 “You just need time to settle. You’ll make new friends, you’ll see.” I stroke her hair. “I’ll stay with you until morning. Now go to sleep.”

Her sobs subside, and she closes her eyes. Her breath slows and deepens. Moments later, the house lights come on.

Aberstowe Primary is only a fifteen-minute walk from our house. Willa stays silent all the way. She answers my attempts to chat with a shrug, or fine, or whatever, so I give up. The school is on the opposite side of town to Myrwell Woods, so at least she won’t be reminded of her nightmare. 

The bell is ringing when we reach the gates. “We can go to Collyers Park after school if you like? Maybe take a boat out on the lake?”

“Okay,” she says as if I’ve suggested a trip to the dentist. I kiss her goodbye and watch her follow the children heading indoors. She lingers at the entrance. A ghost of a memory invades me. I shiver despite the warm spring weather. She’d stood like this at her previous school, her eyes downcast as if she had to cross an invisible barrier. It was the day I discovered what was taking place inside. It can’t be happening again. Not in sleepy Aberstowe. 

Then Willa disappears through the door.

I’m about to set off home when I see something lying on the ground. It’s the little Angry Bird Willa clips to her backpack. When I bend to pick it up, I see a cockroach scuttling across the tarmac, through the gate and towards the school.

I’m approaching my house, deep in thought when I realise someone is calling my name. The woman standing in next-door’s garden is in her sixties, greying hair falling past her shoulders, her face as weatherbeaten as an old barn. The dirty white terrier behind her is growling, his hackles raised. “It’s Elodie, isn’t it?” she says. “Such an unusual name, I hope I’ve got it right.”

“Yes.”

“I’m Sybil. Are you settling in okay?”

“Yes, thank you,” I say, ready to move on.

“I’ve got a parcel for you. Amazon called while you were out.”

I expect her to fetch it. Instead, she says, “Look, I’ve just put the kettle on. Why don’t you come in for a coffee?”

“I’m sorry, I’ve got so much to do, I—”

“I’m sure you can spare a few minutes.”

I give in, open the gate and step into the overgrown garden. The terrier rushes at me, snarling and snapping at my ankles like a demon on speed. I drop Willa’s Angry Bird. The dog picks it up, tearing at it until it’s nothing but a scattering of shreds.

“What on earth’s the matter, Barny?” Sybil says grabbing him by the collar. “I’m so sorry.” She drags him towards the house. “I don’t know what’s got into him.”

It’s difficult to find a place to sit in the cluttered living room. In the end, I move a pile of newspapers from one of the chairs. A damp musty smell rises from the seat cushion. Sybil hands me a mug of instant coffee, the rim retaining a smear of red lipstick. Barny is locked in the kitchen, his growls are a background grumble to our conversation.

“I’ve got a confession to make,” Sybil says. “When I saw your name on the parcel, I googled you. I hope you don’t mind.”

I do, but she doesn’t give me time to answer before she goes on.“ I must say I was surprised to see how famous you are.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” I put my untouched coffee in the tiny space between the rows of empty milk bottles on the table.

“But your exhibitions have received very good reviews in The Telegraph. I’ve kept the clippings somewhere.” She looks around as if expecting them to suddenly appear. “They are a bit dark though, your paintings,” she continues. “Give me the shivers.” She dunks a chocolate digestive into her drink. “Would you like one?” She holds out the packet.

“I’m fine thanks.” I wonder how long before I can politely leave. My leg is itching as if something is biting me.

“I can’t believe what happened at your daughter’s school. Willow, isn’t it?”

“Willa.” 

“It all came up with your name. That poor boy going missing. And his body found on Hampstead Heath. In the woodland wasn’t it?”

I’ve had enough. The last thing Willa needs is to have her past gossiped about. Rude or not, I’m about to make my excuses when she leans forward, lizard-like in her green mottled dress. “Have you heard of the Barghest?” 

“The Barghest?”

“It’s all over social media. My granddaughter told me. She lives near Epping Forest and is terrified to go out after dark.”

“I’m sorry but—”

“There are thousands of posts. They say it lives in the woods. That it’s like a bear with a wolf’s head.” Her tongue slips through her lips and licks away the melted chocolate. “Blurred photos have been uploaded by those who swear they’ve seen it. They say it killed that boy on Hampstead Heath. Tore his throat out, if the rumours are to be believed.” There’s an excited glint in her winter grey eyes.

 “Look,” I say, standing up. “I must get home. If I could have my parcel?”

“Of course.” She walks into the dark hallway and hands me an Amazon package. She puts an arm on mine, her fingernails like talons biting into my bare skin. “Elodie, I didn’t mean to upset you. I wanted to reassure you that Willa is perfectly safe here. There’s no beast lurking in Myrwell Woods. Nothing dangerous ever happens in Aberstowe.”

My studio is at the back of the house where it gets light all day. I check the tubes of acrylic paint Amazon has sent me against the painting on my easel. Satisfied, I work on the woodland floor. As I lose myself amongst the trees, the smell of decaying leaves rises from the canvas like the odour of a freshly dug grave. Tree roots snake through the undergrowth like ossified serpents. Destroying Angels rise like phantoms from the underworld as their white caps push through the debris. I’ve almost captured the feeling of melancholy that woodland gives me. Almost, but not quite. I’ll need to make another visit to Myrwell Woods.

My alarm makes me jump. It’s time to collect Willa from school. As I draw the dust sheet over my painting, I notice something odd. Between two oaks is a fuzzy black shape. I can’t make out what it is. 

And I have no memory of painting it.

I stand apart from the other mothers at the school gate and mull over the image in my painting. Before we left London, I’d started sleepwalking. I’d come down in the morning to find a half-eaten sandwich or a cold cup of tea. Once I found a trail of blood spots on the floor. But, whatever I did in that trance-like state didn’t include messing with my work. 

I’d put it down to worry about Willa and what was going on at her school, and I’ve found no signs of night wandering since we moved to Aberstowe. But maybe it has started again. Only this time, I’m picking up a paintbrush. This is not good. I earn my living from my work. I have to control what I do.

The children begin to stream across the playground. I stop thinking about my painting and turn my thoughts to this Barghest legend. Should I talk to Willa about it? Perhaps this is what’s fuelling her nightmares?

The schoolyard is empty, and most of the parents have gone when Willa comes out reading a book. No one could say my daughter is pretty – her thick bifocals don’t help and neither does her stutter which kicks in when she’s with others. 

A girl follows her out, her skirt hiked up to just below her bottom. She’s wearing a yellow baseball cap, her long blonde plaits falling past her shoulders. Yellowcap calls out. W-W-W-Willa. W-W-W-What are you r-r-r-reading?”

So, I was right to worry – it is happening again. I want to step forward, take the stupid child by her shoulders and shake her. But I daren’t. Willa would never forgive me. I made the mistake of meeting the headmistress of her last school when I found out she was being bullied. Instead of solving the problem, it just got worse.

Yellowcap runs to my daughter’s side. She grabs Willa’s book, drops it into a puddle, and stamps on it. “S-S-S-Sorry,” she says. Even from here, I can see the tears well up in Willa’s eyes. 

“Poor W-W-W-Willa,” says the girl. “Are you c-c-c—crying? Do you want your m-m-m-mummy.”

I look at the woman standing nearby. She’s scrolling on her phone. I wait until Yellowcap walks out the gate, a smirk on her innocent-looking face, and stick my foot out. She falls hard and fast, yelling loud enough to wake those lying in Aberstowe Cemetery. Her mother looks up from her mobile and runs over. I take hold of Willa’s hand. “The mud is slippery by the gate,” I say to her. “You should warn your daughter.”

Willa doesn’t want to go to the park, so we come straight home. She stops at Sybil’s gate, the scraps of her Angry Bird lie shredded amongst the thistles. “Is that—“

“I’m sorry. Sybil’s dog destroyed it. I’ll get you another one.”

“I hate it here,” she says. She storms into our house and disappears into her bedroom. 

Nothing I say to Willa at dinner lightens her mood. As soon as she’s finished eating, she returns upstairs. I decide this is not the best time to tackle her about the bullying or the Barghest.

 So I go to my studio. But it’s impossible to concentrate on my work with Barny barking as if the devil has come for him. The April light is fading so I give up. I’ll take a walk in Myrwell Woods and see if I can find some inspiration.

I shout upstairs to tell Willa I’ll be back within the hour. She doesn’t answer, so I guess she’s got her headphones on. As I open the front door, I realise how quiet it is. Barny hasn’t made a sound.

The gloaming is my favourite time of day. The only sounds are the crunching of dead leaves underfoot and a woodpecker tap, tap, tapping against bark. Ivy cloaks tree trunks, crawling along branches like a shapeshifter, turning ancient oaks into scaled, green spectres. Fear of the Barghest or the lure of video games is letting me walk the path alone. My mind empties, and my shoulders loosen. My eyes absorb the dying light that creeps through the canopy. I’m wondering how I can create this in paint when I see something a few metres ahead of me. Something that shouldn’t be there.

I stop. My body urges me to turn around. The last of the sun sinks behind the trees, the air turning cold. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones. I walk on. Dead eyes stare out of the dirty red and white heap lying on the ground like some travesty of a child’s soft toy. 

A dog with its throat ripped out.

Barny.

Willa is reading Pullman’s Northern Lights in bed when I go to say goodnight. She’s read the trilogy twice already. Maybe she wishes she were strong and fearless like Lyra Belacqua. I wonder which book the girl in the yellow cap had thrown into the puddle. I will have to do something about her. I just don’t know what. Yet.

“Are you all right?” I ask. A strong wind has blown up, rattling the window frames. I draw the curtains and shut out the waning moon. 

She shrugs without raising her eyes.

“You know I saw what happened in the playground.”

“Mum, don’t.” She puts her book down.

“Don’t what?”

“Do anything. I can deal with it.” 

Amidst the gusts of wind comes a high-pitched scream. Then another.

“What’s that?” Willa says, her eyes wide.

“It’s just a fox. Nothing to be frightened of.”

“Are you sure?”

“One hundred per cent.” 

She doesn’t look convinced. “Can I leave the light on tonight?”

“Yes,” but don’t stay up too late.” I kiss her cheek. “We’ll talk some more tomorrow.”

“Just leave things alone, Mum,” she says, returning to the page.

Downstairs, I pour a glass of Pinot Noir. Drinking calms me. It got me through those last few months before we moved. Worry about Willa had grown to near panic when the boy in her class died on Hampstead Heath. 

The warmth of the alcohol spreads through me. My shoulders relax as the image of Barny fades. Maybe he’d got into a fight with another dog and the owner didn’t hang around to face the blame. 

Half an hour and half a bottle later, I lift the dust sheet on my painting. 

The dark form is no clearer – it looks like it might be an animal although not one I can recognise. But it’s grown, now half the height of the oak trunk it’s standing next to. There’s something new, though. Something that makes me drop my glass, my heart pounding, my legs weak beneath me. 

The red wine creeps across the white rug, creating a mirror image of the ravaged dog at the feet of the beast. I know it wasn’t there when I left for Myrwell Woods. I check my watch. It’s a lot later than I thought. Have I really been home for more than three hours? Did I fall asleep before saying goodnight to Willa? Maybe I have started sleepwalking again – this time with a paintbrush in my hand. Outside Sybil is calling for Barny. Sybil and her damned tale of the Barghest. It’s wormed its way into my head and into my painting.

I leave the stained rug and return to the living room. I open one of the packing boxes, pull out a bottle of whisky, fill a glass and swallow the amber liquid in one gulp. The wind is still yowling outside, but rain is now thrumming on the window, streaming down as if a devilish god is sobbing for past deeds.

I’m on my second glass when the lights go out. Damn, I never got round to finding the fuse box. With a feeling of déjà vu, I switch on my phone’s torch and make my way upstairs. I stumble on one of the steps. Maybe the whisky was a bad idea. Willa has only seen me drunk once, and it frightened her. I have to keep control of myself.

Willa’s door is closed, but a cold draft is seeping underneath it. I turn the handle and push, but it’s like someone is pushing back. 

“Willa. It’s Mum,” I shout. “Let me in.”  The pressure doesn’t ease. Shoving it hard, I manage to force it open. The scream that rises in my throat is swallowed by the raging gale. At once I’m fully sober. The bed is empty and the sash window open, curtains billowing and twisting like crazed creatures trying to escape their bindings. 

 The wardrobe. When she was little and frightened of storms, that’s where she’d hide, curled up with her eyes closed. I fling open the double doors and shine the torch on the floor. There’s nothing but shoes.

My head is a maelstrom of possibilities – none of them good. Lightening flashes, turning the sky from night to day and back to night. First I need to search the house. Second, and I pray it doesn’t come to this, call the police. 

I turn towards the door when a noise from behind spins me around. A shape is climbing through the window, huge and dark. I back away, blood pounding in my ears. My fingers reach for the door handle as the creature lands on the floor. I’m ready to run when I stop, disbelief flooding through me. The beast is staring at me with large wolfsbane-blue eyes. Eyes more familiar to me than my own.

I watch as it turns away and climbs into Willa’s bed.

I stand transfixed as it shrinks, its snout shortens, and its fur disappears. Moments later, my daughter is lying asleep, her hair wet, her book by her side.

The house lights flash on. My eyes travel to something on the carpet. As quietly as I can, I close the window and pick up the yellow blood-stained baseball cap. Willa moans and turns on her side, her arm outside the quilt. 

There’s something in her hand – a tuft of dirty white fur. I ease it from her and put it in my pocket.

I leave the room and close the bedroom door.

As I walk down the stairs, I begin to plan for tomorrow.

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Host Commentary

Hill says: 

‘The idea for Barghest came from reading legends surrounding the existence of mythical ‘black dogs.’ These were supernatural, ghostlike, or demonic hellhounds. When I discovered that the legend of one of these creatures, the Barghest, was specific to Northern English Folklore, including County Durham, where I live, I was hooked. The Barghest was believed to be a monstrous black dog with huge eyes, teeth and claws. Witnessing it would be a certain omen of death.

I wanted to bring the Barghest legend into a modern tale. Folklore was often, and at times still is, used as a warning to children – go to sleep or the bogeyman will get you, don’t go into the woods at night or the goblins will eat you. I wanted my modern-day Barghest to be an avenger, to punish children who misbehaved, especially bullies. And I wanted to make it personal to the mother and daughter in the story. I hope I’ve succeeded.’

Me again.

What I love about this story is the gradual way we’re led, literally and metaphorically, down a dark and winding path. It starts with the cockroach and with the conflict the cockroach and the Angry Birds tchotchke represent. Something old and impossible to kill, something new and contemporary and fragile. Like peace. Like hope. Like innocence.

But is it? A thousand stories about dumps of old Batman movie merchandise and the landfill the ET video game was recovered from spring to mind as King guides  this descent into the dark with the care of someone baiting a trap. The presence of the Barghest in the art is a great example of this and it means so many things depending on where you stand. It’s the intrusion of one life into another. It’s the embodiment of the borderlands the story exists on, forcing themselves into view. It’s a crest flared in a warning. It’s the Patterson-Gimlin Bigfoot footage. It has a hint of M R James’ mezzotint to it. Something dark is approaching. Because something dark has seen us.

But what we see as a warning could be read another way. Not the advance of an implacable predator but an animal, cautious, but recognising someone it knows, edging slowly forward, desperate for connection and to break the shackles of adolescence, of expectation, of a new town and the resentment that grows like weed and chokes us all.

And then there’s the single line, spoken clearly and thrown like a punch.

‘I hate it here.’

A warning? An excuse? A justification? It doesn’t matter. The Barghest as a reaction, as armour is the last thing I expected but isn’t that the exact tragedy here? The teenage girl who is seen but not heard. The child is driven along by their parents reacting the only way they can. When you’re no longer where the wild things are, don’t you need to be a wild thing yourself? Great work, thanks all.