The Crowfield Curse Read Free

whistling sound that local people believed called up the Wild Hunt? It was all too easy to imagine the pack of ghostly hounds, red eyes glowing, jaws gaping, as they chased terrified victims through the wood to tear their immortal souls from their bodies and carry them off to hell.
    William swallowed a couple of times and licked his dry lips. It would only take a moment to throw the trap into the pool at the bottom of the Hollow. Then he would make a run for the safety of the abbey as if all the demons in hell were hard on his heels. Did he have the courage to do it? He glanced down at the trap and saw the dried blood and tufts of brown fur caught between the iron jaws. He felt a surge of anger and decided he had no other choice.
    He picked up the trap and held it cradled awkwardly against his chest. It was heavy and the iron was painfully cold. The trap was crudely made but effective. As far as William could work out, an animal only had to step on a thin iron plate to release the jaws. Then the saw-toothed edges would clamp shut, hard and fast, cutting through flesh and snapping bone. The animal would have no hope of freeing itself, and the trap would be a dead weight on its injured limb, making escape virtually impossible. Pain and loss of blood would soon leave the creature weak and helpless. William felt the sting of angry tears and blinked them away. To do that to a living creature was too cruel for words.
    William knew where the Hollow was, though he had never seen it for himself. The first time he had gone to Weforde with Brother Gabriel, to sell the abbey’s surplus vegetables at the Wednesday market, the plump little monk had warned him never to venture near it. The monk had crossed himself several times and prayed aloud until they were safely past the dense thicket of bushes and holly trees that hid the Hollow from the track.
    â€œThis is an unholy place, boy,” Brother Gabriel had told him. “Step off the track between the Boundary Oak and the sighting stone above Weforde Brook and you’ll be lost. The devil himself walks the woods hereabouts and he is always on the lookout for Christian souls.”
    William had wondered what was to stop the devil from merely walking out onto the track and helping himself to the souls there.
    â€œAnd if you hear whistling in this part of the wood,” the monk added, giving William a hard stare, “run, boy, and don’t look back.”
    William set off along the track. The sharp edges of the trap dug into his arms, and he had to stop every now and then to shift it to a more comfortable position. Before long, he reached the huge old Boundary Oak, marking the westernmost limit of abbey lands. Beyond it, the track turned sharply away to the left. Small scraps of rag were tied to the branches of nearby trees and bushes as a warning to unwary travelers not to stray from the track, on peril of their souls.
    William paused to take a few deep, steadying breaths before pushing his way through the tangled branches of a hazel thicket. He glanced around all the time, alert for the first hint of danger. Fallen branches littered the ground — good kindling for the most part, but left to rot where they fell. It seemed that none of the locals were desperate enough for firewood to risk coming here.
    Holly bushes grew abundantly in this part of Foxwist. Clusters of scarlet berries weighed down the branches. William wondered why they hadn’t been picked clean by birds. Now that he thought about it, he noticed there were no birds. In the distance he could hear crows cawing, but close by the wood was silent. No birdsong, no small rustlings from some animal in the undergrowth, nothing to disturb the absolute stillness. But it was not a peaceful silence. It wrapped itself around William like a cold shadow and he shivered. He quickened his pace, not wanting to stay there a moment longer than he had to.
    An ancient yew tree stood like a dark-cloaked sentinel in the