To try and find an answer to this mystery, to find that release, Anthony would journey every day to the place where his father died. If his mother found out what he did... well, he didn’t know what she would do – he hoped she would just send him to his room. Still, he wasn’t afraid of the repercussions and Keaton Woods didn’t scare him either. The woods had become a part of him now, like breathing.

  The woods always appeared to be in freeze-frame, not growing in height or depth but thickening in shadow, as if the sun’s light found it harder to penetrate with each passing day. The tree trunks soared straight into a dark green canopy, the branches twisting like the matted hair of some hideous beast. In the fall, the leaves were like desiccated skin; Anthony always kept an eye out for them as they tumbled down, lest they land on his head. As he wandered along, the leaves crunched loudly beneath his sneakers.

  He followed the track, straining his ears for the sounds of birds or crickets, but there were none. He walked on, his eyes dead ahead, eager to see the tree – the lone tree. It was a Mountain Ash, he’d discovered in the weeks after his father died – he’d read it in a book from the school library. When the grief and loneliness was at its zenith, he searched long and hard for answers in anything.

  The tree was at least one hundred feet tall and hundreds of years old. His dad had apparently chosen the lowest branch on which to tie the noose. The bark was grey, with the texture of a burlap sack left in the sun for a hundred years.

  As Anthony pictured the tree in his mind, it seemed to will itself into existence, appearing around the bend. His heart began to thrum at the sight of it; a mix of awe and anxiety. Sweat on his pale arms made him shiver. He placed the grocery bag on the ground and stared at the tree. The tree, as usual, looked as if it had been expecting him and for a long time, the two entities – one young, the other old – gazed at each other.

  *

  Through the shield of thorns and weeds, they watched the boy. With ebony eyes, they looked him up and down, taking in every square inch of his plump, pink flesh; how he glowed with life.

  ‘He has returned,’ one of the watchers whispered.

  The one to his left held a skeletal finger to his lipless mouth and shushed him through rotted green teeth. ‘He’ll hear us, Rukus. Be silent.’

  A tall, slender woman, her form forever fixed with lividity, leaned in. She held the frayed edges of her filthy tutu between cold fingers.

  ‘He’s so adorable, I just want to squeeze him.’ She hugged herself to illustrate the point; the thick catgut stitches keeping her arms attached to her torso squeaked under pressure. ‘Can I hold him? Please, Mister Crispin?’

  Mister Crispin, the one with the lipless mouth, whirled on her, his visage abnormally contorted.

  ‘No. Be silent, Celeste!’

  Rukus, Celeste and the other accompanying creature backed away, fear in their hollow eyes. Mister Crispin tried to retain their calm by standing tall and adjusting his battered top-hat.

  ‘Please, my kin, we must simply watch and wait.’

  Rukus looked through the bushes again at the boy and began to fidget with his boater hat. ‘Why can’t we just take him now?’

  Crispin whispered in his ear. ‘He might scream, Rukus. Our appearance is... not very pleasant.’

  Rukus pondered this and finally nodded in agreement. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘But this boy could make us whole again. Not many people come into these woods any more.’

  Crispin rested a bony hand on Rukus’s shoulder. ‘I understand that, Rukus, but we must have more patience. You all remember the mess that was created the last time we fed – the trouble we had to go to in order to avoid detection?’

  All of them were suddenly downcast, the memory flooding into their decaying souls, but Crispin gathered them in close.

  ‘We must be cautious,’ he told them. ‘Like the old days. Perhaps we can woo this boy – give him a private performance?’

  Crispin’s comrades gazed at the boy and smiled with realisation – smiles of menace.

  ‘One final show?’ Crispin said.

  ‘One final show,’ Rukus replied with a sneer.

  Crispin’s teeth shone in the half-light. ‘Then it’s time for makeup!’

  ~ Four ~

  A snap of twigs brought Anthony out of his reverie and he discovered he was not alone.

  Four people had emerged unseen from the woods; immediately, the boy’s young mind filled with the desire to run. The quartet were dressed as if they were about to join the circus and bared garish smiles.

  The tallest of them, a man in a top-hat and dark velvet coat, led the pack. Behind him stood a beautiful woman with bleached blonde hair, wearing a pink lace tutu and glittering tiara. There was another man in a candy-striper’s vest and boater hat, and the last man wore a black tuxedo and white gloves.

  ‘Who are you?’ Anthony asked.

  The man in the top-hat outstretched his hand. ‘The name’s Crispin – Mister Crispin!’ He turned to his entourage. ‘And these are my friends: Charlie Rukus, Celeste Renior and The Great Kaskaraken!’ Rukus gave a bow and Celeste offered a curtsy. Kaskaraken seemed indifferent. ‘What’s your name, lad?’ Crispin asked.

  Anthony scanned the woods. ‘Where did you come from?’

  Crispin clapped his hands and looked to his friends. ‘You see? I told you this lad’s a real bright spark! He’d be perfect for our show!’

  Anthony frowned. ‘Show? What show?’

  Rukus stepped forward, his arms wide, white cane pointing to the sky.

  ‘The Show of the Century!’ he said. ‘Oh, there’ll be singing and dancing and magic with The Great Kaskaraken!’

  Anthony took a step back. ‘Magic?’

  ‘Yes,’ Kaskaraken said, his baritone voice startling the boy. ‘Would you like to see a magic trick, little one?’

  ‘You can do real magic?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Kaskaraken said, his expression deadpan.

  ‘You’d like to see The Great Kaskaraken perform a magic trick, wouldn’t you, lad?’ Crispin chimed in, suddenly kneeling down to be face-to-face with the boy.

  Anthony looked at the man’s face – into his eyes – and cringed. The colour of his irises seemed... unnatural.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, come on lad, it’ll be fun!’ Rukus said.

  Anthony considered the strangers: Rukus ogled him; the beautiful Celeste offered him a wink; Crispin’s smile seemed to stretch his face beyond normal measure; and The Great Kaskaraken could have been a statue. The boy wondered why they would all be wearing such bizarre costumes out here in the middle of the woods. Even more mysterious was why he’d never seen them in the woods before.

  ‘Do you live here – in the woods, I mean?’ Anthony said.

  ‘Yes and no,’ Crispin replied. ‘We’re just passing through.’

  ‘Like travellers?’

  Crispin pinched Anthony’s cheek. It stung. ‘Oh, you’re as sharp as a pin, you are! You’re right – we are troubadours; performers. We go from town to town and entertain the people.’ He put a hand to his chest. ‘I’m the master of ceremonies, or the host. Rukus is like, well, a court jester, and Kaskaraken and Celeste put on a magic show.’

  For some reason the old photograph in the Davis’ general store came to mind. ‘So you’re like a circus?’

  ‘In a way, yes, but we perform on the stage – in a theatre. Understand?’

  Anthony nodded. ‘I think so. So are you going to perform in Keaton then?’

  Crispin leaned in closer; Anthony noticed the man hadn’t brushed his teeth in a long while. ‘We’d like to, but we need to practice first,’ Crispin said. ‘Would you like to help us with that?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You could tell your young friends about us, get them to come?’ Rukus said.

  ‘We only need four, sugar,’ Celeste added.

  ‘Why only four?’

  Crispin put a hand on Anthony’s shoulder; there was no warmth in his touch. ‘Well, there are only four of us,’ he said. ‘We like to make our practice performances very special. Very personal. Do you think you can help us?’

  Anthony thought long and hard. He didn’t like the look of these strangers or the fact that they appeared to be hiding in the woods. What was stopping them from coming into town?

  ‘Why just kids – aren’t adults allowed?’ he asked.

  ‘You ask so many questions for someone so young,’ Crispin said with a chuckle. ‘You know what adults can be like these days – all work and no play. Our show is meant for children to enjoy.’

  Anthony scratched his head. ‘I’m not sure the kids’ parents would let them come here on their own.’

  A flash of anger crossed Crispin’s face and Anthony swore he glimpsed a change in the skin, like something broken underneath, attempting to come through.

  ‘Here’s a question for you, lad – what are you doing here on your own in our woods every damn day?’

  Anthony took another step back and almost tripped over his own feet. Crispin’s voice was not just loud, it was more guttural, resembling a growl. The boy was now genuinely afraid. He knew nothing about these so-called “troubadours” – he didn’t even know what the word meant – and he wasn’t about to reveal anything about himself. His father taught him early on about stranger danger.

  ‘I just... come here for a walk... that’s all.’

  ‘Liar!’ Rukus cried, giving Anthony a start. ‘You come here to look at the tree, don’t you!’

  Crispin whirled on Rukus. ‘Shut your filthy mouth!’

  Rukus cringed, but he was lucky that his master turned his attention back to Anthony. Anthony began to back away with a series of rapid steps as Crispin flashed him that vile smile.

  ‘I have to go now,’ the boy said.

  ‘Come now, lad, stay a while longer,’ Crispin said. ‘We don’t even know your name.’

  Anthony shook his head and broke into a run, desperate to escape the woods and its strangers. He was young and fast, but somehow Crispin’s voice kept up the pace, resounding inside his tiny mind.

  Don’t you want to see your daddy again?

  Anthony stopped dead, his feet stirring up the carpet of leaves. Heart pounding in his ears, he turned around to face them. The troubadours had changed; their clothing now torn and bloody. Mister Crispin’s face was a pastiche of scars flaring red, and the very top of his tall hat blazed with fire. Rukus’s candy-stripes were bleeding down his white trousers and his eyes bulged with the pressure of putrefaction. Celeste resembled an artist’s mannequin – her arms, legs and head held together tenuously with stitches. The Great Kaskaraken floated several feet off the ground, his body emitting a sickening green luminescence.

  Anthony wanted to scream for his mother, but the mention of his father – and the sight of these horrific beings – left him mute.

  Crispin smiled, the charred muscles of his cheeks pulling his gums taut. He held out his hand.

  ‘We can take you to him, lad,’ he said. ‘We know just where to find him. All you have to do is help us put on our best ever show.’

  ~ Five ~

  Tears streamed down Anthony’s cheeks as he ran back home. They were tears of shock and terror and when he wiped them from his face he hoped he was wiping away the horrible visions he had witnessed just minutes before.

  After one whole year, Anthony had finally seen his father again – or rather his father’s soul.

  The monster Mister Crispin had the power to reunite the living and the dead.

  Anthony squeezed his eyes shut and saw his father’s ragged ghost in his mind’s eye. Dominic Moore was a dim shade, in a cage; a whisper in the dark. Anthony could still see the desperation in his father’s ethereal gaze, and when he spoke to his son for the first time since he’d died, all he said was:

  RUN.

  So Anthony did, but not before Mister Crispin and his troupe offered him a proposition: bring the monsters four young souls or they’d finish his daddy off.

  Mister Crispin revealed the truth in all its grotesque detail; how one year ago, Dominic Moore had entered the woods and the troubadours had attacked him – murdered him – just to take his soul. How they’d strung up his corpse in a tree. The truth burned in Anthony’s soul with the fury of a furnace and he just wanted to die.

  But then he remembered he’d seen his father again – a remnant of him – but his father nonetheless.

  He stopped running when he reached Forest Road – the main thoroughfare from the woods into Keaton town. He sucked in a multitude of breaths, trying to steady his fear-stricken heart.

  What do I do now?

  As his mind steadily cleared, Anthony began to doubt what he’d seen – was it just what he wanted to see? The troupe had seemed so real and the sudden reconnection with his father had reignited that familiar ache of loss. How could that be faked?

  What do I do?

  If he did what the monsters wanted, children would die, but then he would see his father again.

  Should he tell his mother? He gritted his teeth; she would never believe him. He was just a boy – a lonely little boy trying to deal with the fact he had no father figure. No, telling her would just make her angry.

  Should he tell the Sheriff? No, the Sheriff would just tell his mom.

  I don’t know what to do.

  He stood at the edge of the woods and stared at his tiny hometown, plagued with doubt. Then he felt a cold hand on his shoulder. He gave out a cry when he turned and saw The Great Kaskaraken behind him. His slick-backed ebony hair and needle-thin moustache was stark against his deathly face. He held out a white-gloved hand and, with a flick of his wrist, produced four slips of paper.

  ‘You forgot your tickets to the show,’ Kaskaraken said. The demon magician reached down, took Anthony’s right hand, and placed the tickets tenderly in his sweaty palm. ‘Ensure you give these to your friends.’

  Then he was gone, as if the air itself had devoured him. The horrible display of magic made Anthony run anew.

  *

  ‘Where the hell are the groceries?’ Madeline said.

  Anthony stood in the doorway, chest heaving from exertion. He’d left the grocery bag in the woods – with the monsters.

  ‘I... I dropped it,’ he said.

  ‘Dropped it. Dropped it where?’ For a moment, his mother’s mouth could have belonged to Mister Crispin.

  Anthony racked his brain for an imaginary answer, but all he could see was Mister Crispin’s laughing rag of a face and his father’s distant eyes.

  ‘I was... walking back and I... tripped over,’ he said. ‘The eggs broke and...’

  His mother took a step towards him and put her hands on her hips. Anthony could feel her rage; smell the liquor in her sweat.

  ‘So you just threw them away, wasted all that money?’

  Anthony rummaged in his pockets and pulled out the change. ‘I got the change...’ he began, but Madeline lashed out and grabbed the money from his sweaty palm before he could utter another word.

  ‘And what have I got to show for the money I just spent, huh? Nothing! I asked you to do one simple job, Anthony, and you just went and screwed it up!’

  ‘I’m sorry momma!’ Anthony’s voice was choked with tears.

  ‘Just go to your room. You stay there until I call you for dinner – whatever that’s going to be!’

  Anthony ran up the stairs, keen to avoid any further scolding and especially any further questions about why he was late – where he’d been. He had to ensure she never knew about the woods and the horrible secrets that dwelled there.

  *

  Mashed potatoes and beans for dinner, garnished with silence and animosity.

  Madeline didn’t want to speak to her son and Anthony was grateful. He ate his meal slowly; he didn’t want to give his mother any reason to chide him, to suspect anything. She was angry at him, but only because he’d dropped the groceries, not because he’d been communing with the dead.

  When they both cleared their plates, she sent him to his room for the rest of the night, telling him only that he had to think about what he’d done. He nodded, ambled up the stairs to his room and closed the door. Minutes later, he heard the television come on, knowing his mother would surely fixate upon it until she fell asleep or passed out – whichever came first.

  Anthony climbed into bed with the photograph of his father and cried. The helplessness he felt seeped out of his soul onto his face, lost in the fraying threads of his pillow. Thankfully, the flow of despair put him to sleep and dulled the fear that would ultimately arise anew with dawn.

  ~ Six ~

  When Anthony awoke on Monday morning, he found his mother passed out in the recliner, a drained scotch glass perched unsteadily in her palm. The boy removed the glass gently and glanced at the television, which was still on; the morning presenters were sharing a joke with a seemingly perfect and well-adjusted audience.

  Very quietly, Anthony placed the glass in the kitchen basin and set about getting ready for the school day. He made himself toast and juice, munching on it while he prepared a lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and an apple.

  Secretly, and for the first time, Anthony thanked God for his mother’s alcohol-induced lethargy; it meant he could leave the house and prepare for the grim task ahead. He packed the meagre lunch in his schoolbag, ensured the four tickets were in his pocket, and then sat down to write his mother a note: