The crumbling cottage that belonged to Uncle Victor was avoided by every soul in the hamlet of Willowbrook. It was an easy habit; Victor lived on the very edge of the village, almost out in the fields. He was a recluse, a man of few words. His appearance matched his solitude: hunched, dishevelled, dressed in a grubby checkered shirt and camouflage trousers patched at the knees. His hair was a tangled mass of grey, his cheeks weatherworn. Strangely enough, Uncle Victor never drank a drop.
Tenyearold Harry trembled at the thought of Victor. His mother, sighing, would say, He used to be a good man, a handy fellow! All the girls in the parish envied his wife, thinking what a catch shed landed. His father would echo, He went hunting six years back; something snapped in his head after that. When his son died, he lost his mind entirely, his mother added, arguing with the father.
Harrys mother was friends with Aunt Lily, Victors former wife. Whenever Lily dropped by, she would moan, Oh, dear, Im sorry for him, but I cant live like this. Its not enough that little Tom died; Victor stuck a knife in my back! She never explained what Victor had done, even to Harrys mother, her closest confidante. Lily herself had barely survived the loss of her only threeyearold son, and Victors betrayal cut even deeper.
Rumours swirled: some said Victor had taken to drinking, others that the death of a child and a bitter divorce had driven him mad. There were whispers of a strange creature seen near Victors cottagea gaunt, hunched figure with ashen skin and long, thin arms.
Tell me, what did he do? someone would ask.
No choice was given, Lily, the aunt would sigh, refusing to speak further.
The summer that year was unusually hot and dry. Harry, along with his friends Vicky and Andy, finally dared to ride their bicycles to the river alone. They spent whole days on the bank, swimming and casting lines. When a catch was plentiful, Harry would dry the fish in the sun, and at dusk the boys munched the dried minnows instead of peanuts, prompting Harry to gulp several mugs of water before bed.
The short path to the river skirted Victors overgrown plot, tangled with weeds and wild maples. His cottage sagged under time, its roof mottled green with moss and its windows frames flaking away. A lone satellite dish perched absurdly on the ruin, the only sign that someone might still live there.
The boys knew every gossip about Uncle Victor and tried not to look back when they passed his land.
Harry, have you heard what they say about Victor? Vicky asked, deftly reeling his line.
A lot, and its all different, Harry replied, brushing away a buzzing fly and pulling a lardpacked sandwich from his backpack.
Ever heard of the grey man? Andy chimed in, tossing a fat carp into the bucket.
Yeah, the locals swear they see the grey and green folk after a drink, Vicky laughed.
The day passed in perfect, lazy bliss, and the boys were so engrossed in their fishing that they didnt notice the sun slipping toward the horizon. The rivers surface reflected the crimson of evening clouds, crickets chirped, and frogs crooned their night songs.
Time to go, ladsMum will be worrying, Harry snapped, eyes flicking to the bruised sky.
As they began packing, the sun had already set, and a warm summer twilight settled over the fields. The boys hurried home. Suddenly, Vickys bike chain snapped just opposite Victors fence.
Harry, Andy, wait! Vicky shouted, leaping off his bike. He knelt, fumbling to rethread the chain. A rustle rose from the hedges, branches snapping.
Did you hear that? Andy whispered, eyes wide.
Theres something big, Harry murmured, a shiver racing down his spine. Vicky, help melets get out of here.
The rustling came again, this time nearer. Vicky and Harry struggled with trembling hands to fix the chain. Their efforts barely succeeded when a gaunt, ashen figure emerged from the brush.
It stood about the height of a tenyearold, its skin a sickly grey, head bald and small, arms unnaturally long, ending in clawed fingers. Its eyes were enormous, pitch black pits. It emitted a crackling noise, baring tiny, razorsharp teeth. Two round nostrillike openings replaced any nose.
Mum! What is that?! Vicky shrieked, and the boys bolted on their bicycles, abandoning the bucket of fish.
Harry glanced back just long enough to see the creature clumsily lurch toward the empty bucket, peer inside, and snatch a fish with its hooked fingers. Then, as if summoned, Uncle Victors hoarse voice rose from the cottage, and the monster turned, letting out a guttural sound that barely resembled a human word before stumbling back toward the house.
After the frantic escape, the boys swore never to ride past Victors cottage again. Their parents, however, met each boy with a stern lecture for their tardiness.
Later, the kitchen filled with the scent of fresh scones. Harry tiptoed to the door, listening for his mothers reaction. The air was calm; the smell of buttered pancakes coaxed him onward, easing his fear of an angry mother.
The front door slammed open: it was his father, Tom, a farm guard returning from a night shift.
Hey, Lily, is Harry still asleep? he called, his voice tinged with relief.
Yes, Mick, whats wrong? Why look so startled? Lily answered, wiping her hands on a tea towel.
We found little Sam Merzlik at the river. Something tore him apartsome beast.
Oh, my God! Lily gasped.
The police are here, questioning witnesses. The fishermen staying overnight heard screams. They say they saw a figure, not quite humanskin grey, gaunt, like a child.
Harrys heart hammered. The same creature theyd seen yesterday near Victors place! He thought for a moment, then decided he had to tell his parents everything.
He burst from his bedroom, breathless:
Mum, Dad! We saw that that thing at Victors cottage yesterday. It wasnt a manit was horrific.
The next minutes unfolded like a storm. Tom phoned Andys and Vickys parents, who in turn called other villagers. Soon a crowd gathered at Victors ruined cottage, the whole hamlet marching under the urgency of a nighttime alarm. Within minutes, the adults swarmed the property, while Harry, Vicky, and Andy followed, driven by a desperate need to know.
Approaching the house, they heard guttural snarls and shrieks from near Victors plot, then a chorus of horrified criesvillagers, hunters, and finally Uncle Victors own wail.
No one noticed the boys as they slipped into the clearing where the ground was slick with dark, fresh blood. A pool of ordinary human blood lay in a shallow ditch. Victor, his face twisted with grief, knelt over it, sobbing.
My son my boy! Why did this happen? he croaked.
Your son was Sam! Tom said, weary.
He couldnt have done it himself Sam must have angered something. I found him that day while hunting, heard a wail from a burrow. I thought a child was lost my own boy, Tom, had just died a few weeks before I saw a little one, just like Tom, trembling, eyes wide. He clutched at me, thin hands reaching. I took him in, and he hugged me, frightened, a sad soul. He loved storiessciencefiction, fairytales, cartoons He could barely speak, but he understood everything. He liked sweets. He was a teen, just like you, Harry. Victor turned to Tom, his voice breaking. You judged without a trial!
A monster! Aunt Lily shouted, arriving at the scene. Why didnt you leave it there? Maybe its kin would have found it!
Victor sneered, Look! We, the people, are the monsters! We felled the forests, poisoned the rivers, choked the oceans with waste! Theres not a scrap of clean earth left for them to hide. What do they have? Nothing! Who killed their parents?
The crowd stared, stunned, as the creatures lifeless body lay stretched, its long arms splayed, black eyes staring up at the sky.
Let me bury it, if youre not the beasts yourselves, Victor pleaded, wiping tears from his weathered cheek.
Harry felt an unexpected pang of pityfor Victor, for the creature, for Sam, for everyone caught in this tragedy. He wondered if any of them were truly to blame. He even regretted having told his parents.
The villagers werent allowed to drag the monsters corpse away. Police arrived, dispersing the crowd, then military units in uniform swept through the hamlet, ordering everyone to keep silent under threat of severe penalties. No one knew where the creatures body was taken. Uncle Victor fell ill soon after, never living a full year after the monsters death. His cottage finally collapsed, swallowed by tangled brambles, a forgotten relic of the terror that had once haunted Willowbrook.
