13 July
The ramshackle cottage that belonged to Uncle Victor sat on the outskirts of our little Yorkshire hamlet, and most of the villagers gave it a wide berth. It was easy enough to avoid the house stood on the very edge of the lane, almost hidden behind overgrown hedgerows. Victor was a solitary man, never one for conversation. He looked the part, too: hunched, unkempt, in a greasy checked shirt and camouflage trousers patched at the knees. His hair was a wiry grey mess, his cheeks windblown and weatherworn. Strangely enough, he never drank a drop.
Tenyearold George was genuinely scared of Victor. His mother would sigh and say,
Once he was a solid bloke, hands of gold! All the women envied poor Lily, how she landed such a catch.
His father would add, He went hunting six years ago and never came back the same.
His son died and thats when he lost his mind, Mother would argue, her voice shaking.
Mother was close with Aunt Lucy, Victors former wife. Whenever Lucy visited, she would lament,
Oh, dear, I cant stand it any longer. First Tom died, now Victor has stabbed me in the back!
She never explained exactly what Victor had done, even to me, her best friend. The loss of her only threeyearold son had crushed her, and for Victor it was a blow that seemed to echo through the whole village.
Rumours swirled: some said Victor had taken to drinking, others claimed the death of the child and a subsequent divorce had driven him mad. Still others whispered about a gaunt, greyskinned figure seen near the cottage thin, hunched, with long, spindly arms.
Tell me what he did, Id hear people ask.
You left me no choice, Lucy, shed sigh, refusing to go on.
The summer this year was hot and dry. George, Tom and Andy finally felt brave enough to ride their bikes to the river without adult supervision. They spent whole days on the bank, swimming and fishing. When they caught plenty, George would gut the fish in the sun and the boys would snack on dried roaches in place of peanuts, so that before bedtime George would gulp down several mugs of water.
The short track to the river passed Victors overgrown plot, choked with weeds and wild maples. His cottage looked forlorn: sagging walls, a roof turning green with moss, peeling window frames. The only sign of life was a satellite dish perched absurdly on the ruin, suggesting someone still called it home.
The boys knew every whisper about Victor and tried not to look back as they rode past his land.
George, have you heard the gossip about Victor? Tom asked, deftly reeling in his line.
Plenty, all different, George replied, swatting the buzzing gnat off his ear and pulling a porksandwich from his pack.
Ever heard of the grey man? Andy chimed in, tossing a fat carp into the bucket.
Yeah, the locals say youll see grey and green shapes if you stare too long, Tom laughed.
That afternoon the weather was unusually fine, and the boys were so absorbed in their fishing that they didnt notice the sun beginning to set. The river surface reflected the pink of evening clouds, crickets chirped, and frogs croaked their night songs.
Time to pack up, lads, Mums already worried, George said, glancing at the deepening sky.
While they were stowing gear, the sun slipped behind the horizon and a warm twilight settled over the fields. The boys hurried home, but as they passed Victors fence, Toms bike chain snapped.
George, Andy, wait! Tom shouted, leaping off his bike. He knelt, trying to pull the chain back into place. Suddenly a rustle came from the hedges, and branches cracked.
Did you hear that? Andy whispered, eyes wide.
Its something big, George murmured, a shiver running down his spine. Tom, lets get out of here.
The rustling grew louder, nearer. Tom and George fumbled with the chain, their hands trembling. When they finally managed to fix it, something emerged from the bushes.
It was a gaunt, greytinged figure, barely taller than a tenyearold, with a bald, smooth head and limbs that seemed stretched too long. Its fingers ended in hooked claws, and its huge, pitchblack eyes stared unblinkingly at them. A dry, crackling sound escaped its throat as it bared tiny, sharp teeth. Two round breathing holes replaced a nose.
Mum, whats that?! Tom screamed, and the three boys bolted on their bikes, leaving the bucket of fish behind.
George turned for a split second and saw the creature clumsily tumble toward the bucket, peer inside, and snatch a carp with its hooked hands. At that moment a hoarse voice called from the cottage Victors voice and the monster turned obediently toward the house, emitting a guttural sound that vaguely resembled a human shout.
We promised each other that we would never ride past Victors property again. Of course, each of us got a good berating at home for being late.
From the kitchen drifted the scent of fresh pancakes, and Mum hummed quietly to herself. George slipped to the door, listening. Mum wasnt angry; the smell was enough to coax him out, easing the fear of an angry mother.
The front door slammed open it was my brother, Dave, back from his night shift as a farm security guard.
Hey, Lily, is George still asleep? he called, his voice buoyant.
Yeah, Dave, whats up? You look spooked. Lily replied, wiping her hands on a tea towel.
We found Sam on the river. Some beast tore him up.
Oh, God! Lily gasped.
The police are here, questioning witnesses. Some lads were out fishing last night and heard a scream. They say they saw something that looked human but wasnt thin, childsized, grey.
Georges heart hammered. The creature wed seen by Victors cottage was the same thing! He thought it over and decided to tell his parents everything.
He burst out of his bedroom and shouted,
Mum, Dad! We saw a creature at Victors house yesterday. It wasnt human it was terrifying.
The next few minutes were a blur. My call to Andys and Toms families set off a chain reaction; soon almost the whole village was gathering at Victors cottage. Within minutes, we all trudged up the lane together.
After the adults left, Tom and Andy raced after them, curiosity burning bright. As they neared the cottage, they heard horrible, inhuman shrieks, followed by a few hunters’ shouts, and finally Victors desperate cry.
No one noticed the boys at first. The crowd swarmed around a grotesque sight a puddle of dark, thick blood on the ground, and atop it knelt a weeping Victor, his face twisted with grief.
My son! My boy! Why why? he sobbed.
My son is Sam, my father said, tired.
Victor tried to explain, voice cracking, I found him while out hunting. I heard a child crying from a burrow. I thought it was lost, like my own Tom once was He looked just like Tom, thin, trembling. He clung to me, begged for help. He could speak, loved cartoons, scifi, sweets He was a teen, like your George.
Aunt Lucy stepped forward, eyes red, Victor, thats a monster! Why didnt you leave it?
Victor laughed bitterly, Look at us, the real monsters. Weve felled the woods, polluted the rivers, choked the land. Where can they hide? Nothing left but us, crushing everything in our wake.
The creature lay in the mud, its long arms splayed, black eyes staring skyward.
Let me bury it properly, if youre not beasts yourselves, Victor pleaded, wiping tears from his cheek.
For a moment I felt pity for Victor and even for his son, and for Sam, torn apart by those claws. Everyone was a victim in some way. I even regretted having told my parents.
The authorities arrived, drove the monster away, and soon uniformed soldiers swept the village, ordering silence under threat of prosecution. No one knows where the creatures body was taken. Victor died within a year of that night, his home collapsing into tangled brambles.
Looking back, I realize how easily fear and rumor can turn a community against itself, how we all become monsters when we forget compassion. The lesson I carry forward is simple: listen before you judge, and treat every living thing, however strange, with the respect it deserves.
