Read Online Darkest Part of the Woods by Ramsey Campbell - Free Book Online
Authors: Ramsey Campbell
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mouth to suggest they'd covered the subject enough when Sylvia said "What else is he like?"
"Sometimes his eyes are all green," Laurel confided.
"And when you see them next they'll have got bigger," said Willow.
"But now they're all brown and wrinkled."
"They've got wrinkles around them, you mean?"
"Not around them," Willow little more than whispered. "In them."
"And he smells of sweets," said Laurel.
So did the cloakroom. Of course it would when children still used it, Heather told herself as Willow objected "Sometimes he does, and sometimes it's flowers."
"That's quite a tale," Heather said. "Did you make it up between you?"
It wasn't just being met with mute impatience that took her aback, it was that some of it was Sylvia's. "What's his face like?" Sylvia said.
"Sylvie,
I
really-"
"All scrunched up," said Willow.
"Like an old tree with crawlies on it," said her friend.
"No wonder the other children made such a fuss if you told them all that," Heather commented.
"We didn't," Willow said.
"Not all, then. Some would be too much."
"We didn't have to. He was there."
"You saw him," Heather said, audibly meaning the opposite.
"You don't need to."
"You can hear him talking," Willow explained.
"Then may I ask," Heather said more pompously than she was able to control, "what he's supposed to sound like?"
"Like
trees."
"Like when you hear them when you're in bed," Laurel added.
Heather could have done without imagining that the smells of wood and sweetness had grown stronger, and she started at a loud creak and a squeal behind her. The entrance door had admitted two women. "Laurel's in the cloakroom, Mrs.
Bennett," the ballet teacher called. "So's Willow, Mrs. Palmer."
Heather always tried to like people, and so she did her best not to take against the two women in expensive trousers and fat sweaters who marched into the corridor as though eager for a reason to complain. Their chubby petulant faces were newly made up and lipsticked, and their perfumes blotted out any other smell. "Are they in disgrace?" said the woman with the larger and redder mouth.
"I'm rather afraid so, Mrs. Palmer."
Mrs. Palmer planted her legs apart and gripped her hips, apparently as aids to glaring at her daughter. "What's she been up to now?"
"Telling you someone was hanging around at the back of the building, did you say, Gwyn?"
"Someone nasty," said the child she addressed. "Someone horrible."
"Only he wasn't really," another girl, presumably Lucy, said.
"They just kept saying he was hiding and we'd see him in a minute," Gwyn remembered with a nervous giggle, "like anyone could hide behind a railing."
"It's Laurel and Willow who are nasty and horrible," smallmouthed Mrs. Bennett said.
"They've made up one story too many this time," Mrs. Palmer agreed, scowling harder at them.
"They're a sight too fond of upsetting people with their nonsense."
"They nearly made us crash last night coming back from Brichester, going on about somebody running behind the trees."
"Don't you worry, girls," Mrs. Bennett told the ballerinas in the hall. "You won't be seeing them here again."
Laurel began at once to weep. When Willow looked uncertain whether to join in, Mrs.
Palmer told her furiously "And you won't be going to the hair salon tomorrow either."
Both girls burst into sobs and cowered as the women stalked forward to drag them away. "Do you know what people are going to say if you keep making up stories like that?"
Mrs. Bennett demanded. "They'll say you're on drugs."
"The kind that drove people mad round here before you were born," said Mrs.
Palmer, and frowned at Sylvia. "Are you waiting for someone in particular?"
"We just came over to see what the trouble was."
"Came over from America?" Mrs. Bennett said, not quite in disbelief.
"We can do without Americans telling us how to bring up our children. That's when things started going wrong, Dr Spock and all the rest of
"Sometimes his eyes are all green," Laurel confided.
"And when you see them next they'll have got bigger," said Willow.
"But now they're all brown and wrinkled."
"They've got wrinkles around them, you mean?"
"Not around them," Willow little more than whispered. "In them."
"And he smells of sweets," said Laurel.
So did the cloakroom. Of course it would when children still used it, Heather told herself as Willow objected "Sometimes he does, and sometimes it's flowers."
"That's quite a tale," Heather said. "Did you make it up between you?"
It wasn't just being met with mute impatience that took her aback, it was that some of it was Sylvia's. "What's his face like?" Sylvia said.
"Sylvie,
I
really-"
"All scrunched up," said Willow.
"Like an old tree with crawlies on it," said her friend.
"No wonder the other children made such a fuss if you told them all that," Heather commented.
"We didn't," Willow said.
"Not all, then. Some would be too much."
"We didn't have to. He was there."
"You saw him," Heather said, audibly meaning the opposite.
"You don't need to."
"You can hear him talking," Willow explained.
"Then may I ask," Heather said more pompously than she was able to control, "what he's supposed to sound like?"
"Like
trees."
"Like when you hear them when you're in bed," Laurel added.
Heather could have done without imagining that the smells of wood and sweetness had grown stronger, and she started at a loud creak and a squeal behind her. The entrance door had admitted two women. "Laurel's in the cloakroom, Mrs.
Bennett," the ballet teacher called. "So's Willow, Mrs. Palmer."
Heather always tried to like people, and so she did her best not to take against the two women in expensive trousers and fat sweaters who marched into the corridor as though eager for a reason to complain. Their chubby petulant faces were newly made up and lipsticked, and their perfumes blotted out any other smell. "Are they in disgrace?" said the woman with the larger and redder mouth.
"I'm rather afraid so, Mrs. Palmer."
Mrs. Palmer planted her legs apart and gripped her hips, apparently as aids to glaring at her daughter. "What's she been up to now?"
"Telling you someone was hanging around at the back of the building, did you say, Gwyn?"
"Someone nasty," said the child she addressed. "Someone horrible."
"Only he wasn't really," another girl, presumably Lucy, said.
"They just kept saying he was hiding and we'd see him in a minute," Gwyn remembered with a nervous giggle, "like anyone could hide behind a railing."
"It's Laurel and Willow who are nasty and horrible," smallmouthed Mrs. Bennett said.
"They've made up one story too many this time," Mrs. Palmer agreed, scowling harder at them.
"They're a sight too fond of upsetting people with their nonsense."
"They nearly made us crash last night coming back from Brichester, going on about somebody running behind the trees."
"Don't you worry, girls," Mrs. Bennett told the ballerinas in the hall. "You won't be seeing them here again."
Laurel began at once to weep. When Willow looked uncertain whether to join in, Mrs.
Palmer told her furiously "And you won't be going to the hair salon tomorrow either."
Both girls burst into sobs and cowered as the women stalked forward to drag them away. "Do you know what people are going to say if you keep making up stories like that?"
Mrs. Bennett demanded. "They'll say you're on drugs."
"The kind that drove people mad round here before you were born," said Mrs.
Palmer, and frowned at Sylvia. "Are you waiting for someone in particular?"
"We just came over to see what the trouble was."
"Came over from America?" Mrs. Bennett said, not quite in disbelief.
"We can do without Americans telling us how to bring up our children. That's when things started going wrong, Dr Spock and all the rest of
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