Cunning Folk

by Adam L.G. Nevill

Fiona leans forward, squinting to better see the greening stone ornament. A grinning imp with long ears and the legs of a fawn. It stands on one leg and plays a woodwind instrument.

Between these enigmatic disturbances, there is a silence so profound he imagines that the house goes on for ever into rooms, corridors and spaces they’ve not yet found.

The man embellishes, his competitive spite matched by a viperous glimmer in his eyes.

He remains there for some time, because the raking, or gnawing, of the neighbours’ skirting does not stop. Nor does the frantic circling of the hard feet. It is as if one of the Moots is scraping the wall with a fork, while the other is wearing shoes with wooden soles and frantically circling a confined space.

Whoever is speaking next door is not speaking in English as they increase their murmuring to an indignant rant. As if he’s been confronted by the deranged, speaking in tongues, this guttural intonation of so many crude and mangled words swamps him with revulsion. And curiosity.

When the internal storm finally abates, he feels broken, sleepy with inertia, and his jaw aches. He’s been either grinding his teeth or staring at damnation like a grinning skeleton.

Some were destroyed more quickly than others. And those for whom the Moots reserve a particularly virulent contempt…’ Blackwood raises an eyebrow. ‘There have been eight deaths in that house since 1992. And three complete mental breakdowns resulting in institutionalisation.

A void. He’s without body. An atom of mind persists inside a roaring freeze that extends too far to be understood. His last spark rotates counter-clockwise, building to an impossible speed… All of me gone.