The Children at the River's End

Chapter 1

A summer’s day, sometime in 1983

My memories of summer are halcyon. But in many ways… exceptionally strange.

I remember boys were invited to the village to beat me up. Actually, invited! Friends, who I would loosely describe as ‘part-timers’, would call to me from across the other side of the road, and I, unsuspectingly, would cycle to greet them. A pal from yesterday, previously remiss of bad intentions, was now a gangster with a new heavy. This big brooding heifer from a neighboring village would - frequently right there and then - punch me straight in the face. Just as I was leaning forward on the handlebars, saying Hel-.

Smack in the gob, or cheek.

No warning.

It was a very public thing; finished in a second. Other kids would watch on, possibly gasp, but life would reset its ‘normal’ trajectory almost immediately. Then, the perpetrators cycled off together, under the lusty sun, and I’d maybe see them later at the park. I’d be wary, but there was seldom more trouble. Sure, there may be a little bruising, but young kids learned that punching hard was surprisingly painful. You’d never get thumped more than twice in a single session.

Location was important for these acts; outside a bus stop, the local school, or the small village shop. Never the pub because dads were drinking on the tables outside. Never by the river either. The river was different. Nobody ever went there to fight.

This place captured our minds in some kind of collective utopia; a real treat - a place of escape. The thugs stayed away because they could neither absorb, nor understand the joyous emotions it evoked. Far too many screaming kids, perpetually overwhelming their limited neuronal highways - any aggressive physical action would be lost, inappropriate - and they knew it. If they did ‘happen’ upon it, they’d frequently lob bottles into the waters and then cycle away - bored by the sight of true, uninterrupted happiness. And for five small souls, this was our go-to.

A special place, a place replete with mystery.

Of course, it wasn’t really a river at all. It was a beck. I guess, based upon observation, a beck was one up from a stream, and maybe one down from a river, but the very definition, in turn, was subject to local dialects, and subjectivity. At the point where we would gather and chatter, it was simply a quiet and secluded body of water at the end of a farm track, with reeds of varying lengths sticking out of the sides, and a small cattle bridge connecting one side to the other. A large bramble bush attached itself to a wooden post on the south side, and we would readily consume blackberries to the point of belly-ache sometime in July and August. Despite the bush’s size, we were always disappointed with the scant fruit it would produce. But, hope and optimism were aplenty, so it didn’t matter.

You could easily step down tiered bank into the shallow beck itself, and the earth around always seemed dry. More importantly, our parents had played there when they were younger, so it always seemed to carry a timeless quality of generational love, and appreciation. The sandy bottom was visible and the water seldom rose above mid thigh. At its widest part, it was no more than seven feet across.

It was cool but never cold.

On sun-baked days, within the warm treasure troves of our minds, you never shivered for long when you departed the calm waters. Joy masked the memories of shivering… always.

The sun was yellow, and the sky was always blue.

My first memory of this place was formed back in 1983.

It’s hard to recall the exact point in the year we first ventured there.

Certainly, our massive games of tag in the small village consumed a lot of our time, and they were certainly fun, as were games of football in the fields. Likewise, the farming community were generally very generous to us kids, letting us play on the safer parts of their expansive land; acre, after glorious green acre.

But, the river we loved was further away, right on the outskirts of the village, nestled away at the edge of Hislop’s farm. It was popular with every child - for the space of about a week - but for the five of us, it was a secret preference; our hallowed haunt. We knew that when the fair-weather and fickle crowds dispersed, we were the ones who always remained, savoring its majesty.

Robert would tenderly maintain the tree house he’d cobbled together in the branches of an old birch tree, jutting out from the northerly bank. Effectively, it was two boards of wood tied together with some rope, but it made for a sturdy perch. I remember belly-laughing the first time he jumped from the highest bough into the beck (and being jealous of his bravery). As did Hazel and Scarlett; rolling around in hysterics. Water had never been displaced to that extent ever, not in this part of the river. It was a bit of a heroic thing; that’s how I remember it. Jumping off the side of a swimming pool was a brave enough endeavour for me.

I also remember, in that moment, Scarlett laughing but then strangely crying, upset over the river somehow being hurt. Or perhaps she believed the ambiance of this magical place had suddenly and temporarily become unsettled.

They were quite a queer pair, in hindsight, those two girls. At first I thought they lived near a village on the other side of the dual carriageway (which cut straight over the beck due west). There was another primary school serving this particular village, and we never, ever really mingled until June came around. To be fair, the initial tentative stand off - girl and boy - occurred at the start of every holiday, taking less than an hour to thaw, before normal service resumed.

Apart from Robert and the girls, the only other regular attendee was Ishaq. I liked Ishaq. He was polite and inquisitive. Always staring at you through those wide-rimmed spectacles, ready to deliver a ‘logical’ observation about whatever you were discussing. They were pretty interesting statements, too. He was renowned for his contraptions, and he’d drag them absolutely everywhere. Combustible engines, go-karts or rockets; he’d have a right good crack. He never succeeded, but he did have heart. Ishaq was a rational kid - his parents being respectable doctors in the area - but he also had an organic appreciation for the river. So, one day, when Scarlett claimed she saw fairies dancing across the surface, Ishaq wasn’t dismissive in the least. Instead, he sought to fetch a device that would verify her claims. And the next day he did, and it was a real thing - a microscope. Round peg for square hole, of course, but the investigation was on, and I was impressed with the science. Ishaq brought huge reams of paper too, one with annotated lines pointing to a large hypothesis emblazoned at the top.

It simply read: I, Ishaq, propose to study the behaviour and distribution of Jinn in the river.

We had no clue that Jinn were evil spirits in Islam, and roundly wound him up about his mis-spelling of gin, told him he was getting drunk on the river bank. He didn’t like it. Eventually, we stopped because he teared up quite a bit. As a kid, you know no such concept pertaining to alcohol and haram, and his was a very real fear attached to spirits. The river was a totally inappropriate place for upsetting people, and I regretfully remember teasing him there, even to this day.

Looking back…

It’s as if our parents purposefully directed us there.

Of all the things they encouraged us to do in the holidays, the river was the number one spot in their eyes. Get us out of their hair. A safe location for them, automatically became a safe location for us; innocently white-washed with their rose-tinted seal of approval.

Their mischievous story-telling about yesteryears down the beck was eye-opening. Long-winded yarns, as always, covering a different reality; an alternative time. Their youth to me - neither medieval nor Victorian - was some whimsical blend between. Beyond question, the vivid recounts, somehow, matched what I always remembered, namely, forever-blue skies stretching over endlessly verdant fields. But - far more infuriating - was the dearth in concrete details about one particular claim; that there was something truly ‘magical’ happening there. That always got me. Intangible, almost ethereal. Could never get to the bottom of it. I’d bend an ear to the mysterious tales, but it was difficult to discern - what, if anything - our parents were referring to: some kind of rock-dwelling sirens; troubled ghosts from distant days gone; time-travelers displaced in a different land. Each and every anecdote, was distinctively woolly, like they were recalling legends passed down by great, great, grandparents; increasingly diminishing returns when it came to accuracy and elegance. But, the same enchanted themes remained, and I gladly settled for a sense of something ‘other’ always residing in those waters. Whereas Ishaq would be all out for empirical evidence to prove or disprove, I was happy not to push too hard for the smoking gun.

Trails of smoke in themselves could be very interesting.

One evening, as I sat at our kitchen table eating my two meaty Findus crispy pancakes, each bathed in a sea of freshly washed garden peas, I’d listen, (or even imagine listening) to mum telling me more stories about the children at the end of the river. When I asked, she always obliged. I’d place myself at the scene, visualising past events; far more alluring than my real life.

All this would change, of course.

We were the first generation to discover the secret.

Chapter 2

A summer’s day, sometime in 1984

It was the beginning of June, exactly a year later.

After a telling-off, I’d finally got round to fixing a puncture that was closing in on its first year. A neglected birthday gift. I guess I resented my bike, purposefully not tending to it, because it wasn’t the blue and yellow BMX Burner I royally pined and begged for. This hadn’t stopped me from performing stunts anyway, and now the handle-bars were slightly sagging forwards. I figured if I kept being boisterous, they’d eventually snap off, and I’d force my parent’s hand. As yet, this increasing curve (with smatterings of rust) hadn’t been noticed by my folks… the flat tyre had.

Our flecked, green garage door stood permanently open, itself, too rusted around the hinges to close. Whilst cursing my feeble attempts at inserting spoon ends in the wheel rim, Robert cycled up our drive. He stopped, watching me prise out the inner tube.

‘We should be the first at the river this year. Claim it. It’s ours.’

I liked what he was saying, and I agreed. ‘How?’

‘Ishaq says something about creating defenses.’

‘Defenses?’

‘Submarine defenses.’

I smiled as Robert stooped down to help. Despite going to the same school, we’d only been friends for a couple of years. A mistake ruined our initial, blossoming acquaintance. Having both reached a table tennis final at a youth event (which I’d won, but only just), he’d accidentally been declared the winner. The distracted host (who bore a comb-over, and winked at women) invited him up on stage to receive the star-shape winner’s award. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. As the blue and yellow ribbon was placed around his neck, he stared down at me… but didn’t say a word.

The following Monday morning, as I arrived at school, he was there waiting by the stone wall. He tried giving it to me, but I was sulky, refusing to even acknowledge him. In the back of my mind, my vengeance would be my soon-to-be-owned blue and yellow BMX; far more worth than his poxy blue and yellow ribbon! But nothing blue or yellow came my way… not for quite some time. And even though I knew it wasn’t his fault, it set the tone for our first few years together. Only gradually did we reconcile through the healing balm of time and the commonality of childhood.

Now, he was one of my best friends.

And this is how our river-summer of 84, started.

In fact, this time, Ishaq had gone one better. This small boy (with his impeccably posh English accent and his measured, gentrified manners) had already boldly approached the farmer who owned the land the river coursed through. He’d requested ‘limits’ and ‘crowd control’. And, the friendly farmer gruffly replied that if Ishaq could, Round up them there sheep in tawd field yonder, he could have whatever the hell he wanted. (He didn’t care.)

Ishaq gave it a go.

Failed.

~~~

By the time we arrived one warm, sunny morning, the girls were already there.

Of course.

Hazel and Scarlett, standing side-by-side, like they were waiting for a dance at a school disco. Asking a girl to do that was the most terrifying thing a boy could do; but not as bad as playing with their dolls. The awkward stand-off ensued. I was amazed that they never brought bikes, and there was never a need it turned out. Here, within half-an-hour (with them instigating conversation), I learned they came from two nearby farms and didn’t even live in the village with the suspected primary school. It was far easier for them to reach the river than us, and this genuinely intrigued me. All I saw, from beyond the cattle bridge, was a winding farm-track, culminating in a small forested copse. It headed - I assumed - in the direction of their village. However, their farms were actually only a stone-throw north of the beck. I was startled! I couldn’t visualise them living so close, let alone walking here. When they told me it took less than five minutes, I was flabbergasted. Place, and perspective are a weird thing, when you’re a kid.

Two girls, living exceptionally close by, who don’t even come to your school! That stuff thoroughly messes with your head as a kid. So, all they had to do was scoot across the periphery of fields to reach us. They won the race every time, and this irked me.

Regardless, we were soon in advanced discussions about notable changes since last year. They were actually lovely girls. We all had a lot in common, and both were endearing: Homely Hazel, a true earthy lass; a caring, perceptive soul. And Scarlett, who could equally enchant and annoy with her airy-fairy nature. Hazel would bring ice-cream cartons full of freshly baked butterfly buns. Her mum must have liked us because she would appear with a new ice-cream carton nearly every day. We were exceedingly grateful for these wonderfully succulent gifts. Honestly, you’d lick the crumbs the off cake-case - they were that good - and I’m sure I once saw Robert, turn away, and secretly devour a whole one.

Hazel seemed to enjoy looking after us all.

Although more restrained and quieter than Scarlett, her goodness was evident for all to see, even at an early age. She had the warmest smile and her kindness would certainly feature in my top twenty-five, or maybe even, top twenty, memories of growing up.

Scarlett, on the other hand, would bring something unique to the beck… on every occasion.

Her insight; as good as the buns, but contrastingly so. And this year, like last, her ideas steadily clamped hold of my imagination. Every time. On a night, I would muse over the new pieces of the jigsaw puzzle she’d present, incessantly weaving them together in my mind, blossoming and exploding with endlessly mystical scenarios and sagas. However, at this point, it was still only a river. To us, anyway.

It was our beck.

It was isolated, and that was it.

Nothing truly magical here.

~~~

On that particular summer’s afternoon, I considered both sky and water, and the peace they held. Early June, was late spring, of course - which I didn’t actually realise - subsequently securing myself a losing position with Scarlett as the debate became as heated as the day. Scarlett won, obviously. I remember this June-thing being a bit of a revelation, to be honest; I was seasonally incorrect and puzzled. All was quickly forgotten. Wispy clouds hung high over our youthful heads. We’d been there for hours, complete and content in one another’s company.

My arms had turned pink, and I lightly prodded white marks over skin with dusty fingers. Bees carelessly glided and gathered on flower heads, and sheep called out their nonsense to one another in the surrounding fields. The indescribable smell of the surrounding nature - innocent and fresh - complemented by a vividly lush world at its very vibrant best. This had been a really good day; my soul being soothed by the afternoon’s rays. I’d laughed with friends. We’d adventured. We’d splashed. We shared triangular, potted beef-paste sandwiches my mum had provided. That beef paste was great.

In the distance, I eyed the dual carriageway that crossed the beck due west. An eye-sore; sure. But it had always been there, certainly for us. Part of the furniture. Nobody travelling along this busy stretch of road would ever know they’d crossed an overpass; seamlessly blending into road below. And, it was far enough away to not trouble us. The underside of this bridge possessed two deceptively steep slopes, each converging down, allowing the beck to flow through the middle.

Grey, smooth concrete.

And last year we got as far as the southern ramp, even making it a few feet along; cars, and trucks rumbling overhead. Despite the noise, and the fumes… it was the stillness of the river, and shadows bleakly cast, that coalesced to halt our intrepid brigade. Something felt prohibited and amiss, even then. A sacred border of sorts - to a land - fools dare venture. Beyond the pale, on the other side, was a stretch of impossibly dense trees. Forbidden. An invisible line separated the far side; coaxing you forward into a willful transgression; a trespasser in an unknown world. I wanted out straightaway. As soon as I clambered onto the acute slope, I chickened out. Despite my desperation to see the origin of our beck, the vegetation was inhospitable; the path, entirely unnavigable. It was darker and cooler, with the complete absence of any wholesome sun.

And the water - and by that I mean its depth - uncharted. It may as well have been Lake Baikal. If you tumbled in, you were sinking into the Mariana. Not been able to deduce any of this, of course, especially as we stared at the strangely calm currents, frightened the most steely of our frightened hearts.

Inevitably, during our first attempt - right on cue - Ishaq slipped, losing his footing, part-rolling, part-sliding down one of the underside slopes, straight down and in. He got trapped, submerging in the reeds at the bottom, halfway in, and halfway out. I remember his wide-eyes. Sea serpent fodder. He knew this too. His fearful squeaky cries cemented our collective sense of foreboding. It was Robert, of course, who bravely slid down on his back, and yelled, Grab my ankle. And then he - somehow - shimmied, using his natural strength and guile, pulling a stricken Ishaq to bank-side, away from concrete and the clamour up above.

Sack that off.

We never went back.

In fact, we didn’t enter any part of the brook for the rest of the summer, not even our special spot much further back from the dual carriageway. That was the first trauma; next level. Lesson learned. Not least, because Ishaq’s subsequent and pointed claim didn’t help matters at all. Said he’d been startled; relinquishing his hold in shock at what he beheld… at the sight of seeing clothes and boots on the far side. His voice quivered, as he explained, ‘Logically speaking… a dead body.’

No thanks.

Enough was enough.

But, there was another big reason for being apprehensive here. As yet, we’d had no direct, nor personal experiences. Parental tales of mysteries - here, in and around our river - were firmly sealed in our heads, and expectancy can cloud the mind, and negate sound judgement, especially when they’re the type of story a child never forgets. Tales passed down, to terrify - although embellished, and largely in jest - because the passage of time dulls and coats fear in the solace of rational thought. For the adult mind, anyway. A good ol’ yarn. That’s all.

I know now, maturity causes you to resist, and lose the true reality you experienced in your youth. Concerns, responsibilities; all assisting the process. Time helps you postpone the unseen. It comforts you as you reclassify your experiences over time, clutching for common sense, confounding the possibility of the paranormal. This complacency is a form of neglect. And this - definitely for our parents - and certainly for the five of us… turned out to be a grave mistake.

Chapter 3

The first half of the June school holidays

At the very end of the first day back there, while sitting on the dry and parched bank, our conversations finally turned to the folklore. Over the course of the year, there’d clearly been a gathering of information, of sorts.

Robert tied a stopper knot to the end of a rope, now hanging from the birch tree’s lowest lying branch. Caught in a light summer’s breeze, it delicately skimmed the surface of the water, swaying lazily from side to side. It was here, now hanging upside down, that he informed us about two huge rusted hinges on the inside wall of the cattle bridge. His, was an observation with no real conviction. Easily brushed aside. No response either, from the other four - lost in the feel-good reverie - of an outstanding day. There’d be plenty more to come; I was sure. Youth was lost on the young.

‘Maybe it had doors once.’

Robert’s tone bordered on lazy self-disinterest at his own flippant comment, but we all politely looked in the direction of our inverted friend. That’s a daft thing to say, I thought. Who would put doors in water? Around us, Red Admirals and Peacocks fluttered out of the long grass, delicately dancing past us. The day had left us tired, but happy. Without words, we watched the polka dots of vibrant reds and blues and whites as they fluttered in the near and far.

‘My Great aunty once said they heard the children playing in the river at midnight.’

That was Scarlett, nonchalantly volunteering her thoughts while rubbing her reddening knees; her pale skin, particularly prone to abundant rays.

I was skeptical. Immediately so. ‘How? She’d be too far away to see.’

‘They watched them walking through the fields, from their bedroom.’

‘Which fields?’ Ishaq said.

‘The one behind us.’

Scarlett dusted the straw from her dress, stood and pointed across the cattle bridge to a more northerly field as I shook my head and smiled.

‘She’s telling the truth.’ Hazel said. ‘My aunty told me the same thing.’

‘Both aunties? I don’t believe it.’

‘My Gran is Scarlett’s aunt,’ Hazel replied, disappointed at my disbelief. ‘They’re sisters; they used to share a room together on Ivy Farm. They saw them out the window.’

‘Which farm is this?’

‘My farm.’

The ever enthusiastic Ishaq, was already making haste up the bank; too diminutive to see above the barley fields beyond.

‘I know the farm,’ Robert idly agreed, tying and untying another knot. ‘I’ve seen it… at the top of the tree.’

‘Ahh, indeed.’ Ishaq said, stretching his neck.

Standing, hands on hips, he stared far into the distance, satisfied at this corroboration. Robert didn’t care either way, resuming with his knot, still upside down.

‘So what did they look like? How many of them were there?’ I regulated the level of intrigue in my tone.

‘They said they looked like ghosts… transparent, but then fuller.’

There was a quiet pause, as all pondered. And I was giving great consideration to the word transparent, when Robert interrupted. ‘Ishaq, can you bring a ghost-busting device so we can settle this once and for all?’

It was a joke. No such device existed. It made us laugh, though.

Ghostbusters, the movie, would hit our local cinema later this month and every kid I knew was going nuts for it. The adverts looked thrilling. There was no wonder we were readily identifying with spirits, and all things ghostly.

‘I can do that! I can bring something!’

Ishaq was serious.

‘You’re kidding.’ Robert said. ‘I didn’t mean it.’

‘Ghosts come out at night,’ I quickly, and smartly added, swift to nip this in the bud. ‘And, there’s no way I’m camping out here. Besides, most our parents say things happen during the day. They’re lying. It’s nonsense.’

‘And we haven’t seen anything.’ Ishaq added.

‘Exactly. Nothing to see.’

‘I think we will. We just need to be patient,’ Robert said. ‘Remember, Scarlett claims she saw a boy.’

‘I did.’

I scowled, looking squarely at Scarlett. ‘Where again?’

Like a jack-in-the-box, bouncing back to her feet, and signalling the spot where we’d been playing for the larger part of the day. I didn’t like this one bit.

‘Okay, so mum and I were passing over the bridge when we saw a little boy bobbing up and down in the water. Right there.’ Her finger remained steady, as she fixed her gaze. ‘My mum asked him if he was okay… cos he was by himself. He kept bobbing up and down and didn’t say a thing. Then he went under… and didn’t come up.’

This had to be a lie.

Nobody said anything. We’d heard this at least half a dozen times. It had the same effect every time. Scared the hell out of me. Last year, we’d even asked Scarlett to get her mum to write a note of her account. And she did.

Both Scarlett, and her Mum immediately ran to the farm to fetch a stricken Mr Hislop, the farmer who owned this land, green welly racing to the scene, wading straight in and finding… nobody.

It was a bit too visceral; a bit too real. In August of last year, Ishaq had subsequently conducted an ‘interview’ with Mr Hislop about it all, while standing at his massive front door. His response had been, ‘Them there ghosts… up to no good, lad. That’s all I have to say.’

He was a measured man; quiet even. Definitely good-natured, but he hid it. He didn’t elaborate, nor did he need to. His simple, honest answer chilled me to the bone because I was standing right next to Ishaq as he interviewed; a disbeliever. But, I saw the look on the farmer’s face. I heard him with my own ears.

Despite not finding anything, Mr Hislop had - not only confirmed Scarlett’s account - but cryptically built upon it with a reference to more.

Later that afternoon, now back at home, I reflected on the day.

Scarlett had promised to bring her mother’s project book of newspaper clippings, and magazine articles - written over the years - about the river.

I rubbed Aftersun lotion into my arms and forehead, because I’d been told to, and then came downstairs, taking my place for tea. It was Alphabetti spaghetti with crispy pancakes tonight; slice apart, and roll a fork full in orange sauce. Absolutely perfect. Of course, I’d already asked mum to recount her tales of the beck once again, and she was happy to oblige… as always. Her own account, in equal parts, fascinated and alarmed me.

On the day in question, she’d been part of a larger group, sometime in the backyard of the greyish 1950s (a weird, unimaginable time period for me). They all gathered in the river at the same time, on a particularly hot day, by all accounts. Most were splashing and grabbing each other in youthful abandon, trying to dunk one another. My mum said she felt hungry, but she was enjoying herself too much for it to matter. There were other fruit trees around to pick at back then. She was so caught up in a fun occasion she wasn’t paying attention to the increased numbers of older children beginning to hush each other. Eventually, she said, she followed suit, went quiet - not knowing why - and watched. Despite being one of the younger kids there that day, her memory of the event hadn’t faded; recalling how several of the bigger boys stood bolt still in the water.

They were a little way under, and past the cattle bridge, further downstream… pointing. Her height, being a disadvantage, she couldn’t see at what.

A few of the others waded towards the middle of the beck, to get a better view of what was catching everyone’s eye. So she did too and saw it. Now, caught in the universal silence, she watched a small wooden boat floating against the current towards them all.

It kept a steady trajectory, not once deviating from the centre. At no point, did it remotely come near to being caught in the reeds, as if being steered. The closer it got, the faster it picked up speed.

‘Against the current!’ mum emphasised, her eyes widening as she searched my own at the dinner table. She said, a boy shouted, ‘How’s it moving? It’s got no oars!’

And there was nobody inside, either.

Every child screamed and scrambled onto the bank, cutting and grazing themselves on stones and bricks jutting out from the side. Kids were sliding back in; everybody - out for themselves. When she finally made it to the top, all were running hell for leather away from the beck, towards the farm. Mum said that she’d glanced back and watched the boat disappear under the small cattle bridge right at the point where they were all playing… exactly where me and the gang play. It didn’t come out the other side.

She took flight, screaming all the way home.

The very next evening, every parent in the village met in the small parish hall to discuss the event. Corroborating and convincing terror tales from their sons and daughters, necessitated it. Older kids were relied upon for a more mature testimony. There, my mum heard grown adults recall their own similar experiences from years and years ago.

And, for the rest of that summer, parents took it in turns to supervise the kids by the beck. Regardless, the numbers of children dropped significantly within a few days, down to none.

Her account… without fail, scared me. Each and every single time. Importantly, a local news reporter came to the meeting that evening - having heard of a dramatic incident in the midst of the sleepy hills - and the story about the ‘Ghost Boat’ made the local newspaper within a couple of days. The journalist, and a couple of colleagues, even traced the river up and down for a few miles on either side, before it joined the River Swale, but there wasn’t a single boat of any description throughout the entire course. To compound matters, mum brought the news-clipping out for me to read, shortly before I went to bed. I never wanted to see that boat in our beck, ever. That evening, as I cocooned within a superhero duvet, I had second thoughts about visiting the river again. In fact, I hoped it would rain that evening so Scarlett wouldn’t bring her mum’s project book with its spooky articles. Before I kissed mum good night, I asked her why she continued going back.

She replied, ‘I think the children just want to talk to us. We went back next year too, and the year after.’

‘What children?’

‘I don’t know what makes me think they’re children,’ she wistfully replied, staring over my head in my dim-lit room. ‘I thought they might be just like us. It was a very small boat.’

I got the impression she wasn’t telling me everything; a nugget of key information, being concealed.

‘What do you think they wanted to talk about?’

Mum shook her head.

‘Maybe not even talk. Maybe they just wanted us around.’

A steady mix of fear and intrigue pumped in my head, and I remained quiet and alert, smitten by her every syllable.

She winked reassuringly. ‘I don’t know, honey… maybe you, Robert, Ishaq and the girls can find out what they want on behalf of us all.’

‘What? No way. Why?’

‘Well, some mysteries need to be solved, don’t they?’

Kissing me again, mum instructed me to put sun-cream on my forehead tomorrow. As she left my bedroom, her hand resting on the door frame, I asked: ‘Mum… how do you know they’re even children… and not something else?’

She didn’t reply; shaking her head at first, unsure.

‘Enough ghost stories for tonight… you’ll never sleep.’

She was absolutely right. With my heartbeat thudding in my head, I flipped my pillow to the cooler side, and yanked my sheets over my head. I didn’t care how hot it got under here. And as soon as I pressed my head down, the rhythmic throbbing in my ears sounded like somebody running up the stairs. They were coming for me; they’d found me. I’d rather take another punch in the face at the bus-stop. As the hours passed, I regretted asking her.

In our house, eighteen steps led to the first floor landing, and a further four would reach my open door. With pulsing veins in each temple, I could not grasp hold of any rational, happy thoughts. None whatsoever. Each pulse was a footstep. Even when I counted well past forty - more than enough to see something enter and pounce on my bed - I reset and started again. It was always at the foot of the stairs, waiting. Again, and again, and forever again.

Creeping up.

I was awake for hours.

Terrified out of my mind.

~~~

The next day would be slightly cloudier, but just as warm.

At this point, shortly after eight in the morning, the air carried its customary early morning chill.

Instead of taking a left on to the field, I cycled to the end of the farm track and across the grass to a more easterly part of the river, secluded and set slightly back from where we usually gathered. It was the first time I’d been here, and I was wary of loose, enthusiastic sheep dogs prowling around. Was I even allowed in this part of the farm? The same river, just further down stream. Nothing stirred, nothing moved, and it was more a drop - not a staggered descent - into the beck below. To peer into the waters, I would need to climb off my bike. And with the grass here being particularly rugged and unkempt, a brash fool could be in danger of tumbling in, mistaking river reeds for solid ground.

But I had to look. I had to face the fear that kept me awake for hours.

So, I carefully, almost hesitantly, made my way forwards, past an old, dilapidated barn to my left. The beck was wider and a little faster here; the shadow of the dawn sun making it harder to see to the brown bottom. In fact, I couldn’t. Thick, like gravy. A turgid, chocolaty syrup. Long stalks stuck out in clusters on both sides, and the river here - in larger parts - seemingly sucked the submerged stems into the uninviting dark. Centrally, snail-like trails gathered in bubbling pools, caught in scummy spiral. This wasn’t remotely a pleasant part of the beck at all. All around, massive weeds - with pretty white flowers and thick, peppered trunks - grew out from the bank side, throwing themselves partly across the body of water. This was a dirtier, more abandoned area. Lots of rusted farming implements were now coated in straggly, yellow grass.

Dried, and left behind.

It felt as if I was standing by a different river, entirely.

In the distance, I spied our cattle bridge and studied the whole stretch, with great suspicion. Up and down, over and over, and all with great trepidation. Despite its name, I’d never actually seen any cows cross to the other side, and even though I’d heard some calling in the distance, apparently there weren’t many left on Hislop’s farm. I knew I’d be the first one of our gang here today; I made sure of it, but why? I wasn’t sure. The sun glinted off my washed and polished handle bars. With the morning chill receding, I found it hard to savour the eerie silence.

Something… wasn’t in keeping.

Outside the field of vision.

But with no obvious visible clues, I was content for my eyes to over-rule my brain.

A little further up the murky stretch, I noticed something shimmering in the morning light, with water ever cascading over and around it. Clearly, it was nothing, but it still made me uneasy. In my heart of hearts, I knew it was a rock - only a rock - and so I steadily moved along the long grass to inspect, and reassure. My mind tried to keep order, and a balanced perspective, but I couldn’t help the odd glance over my shoulder… just in case. If that boat came swimming against the current, I’d be out of here like a blue-arse fly. And so it was - as anticipated - a big ol’ rusted bucket; shining surface water sliding over and around its abandoned adversary.

I mused over boat and bucket for a good, long while.

Was this all a case of mistaken identity?

From further up, where we played, this might look like the hull of a capsized boat. But mum described wood, and this looked more metallic. However, the rust was key. As minutes passed, I found myself assessing the parish hall meeting. The journalists had even walked the length of the river searching for clues. They found nothing.

No evidence.

Surely, this wasn’t real.

It was all utter rubbish, like the previous evening’s fiendish footstep freak; all in my imagination.

Only voices in the distance dislodged me from my reverie. Staring up and squinting, I made out the floral attire of two girls heading over the cattle bridge. (So, this is what time they got here.) Glancing down at my Casio watch, I could read 8.17.

Early birds.

They arrived from the opposite direction to me, Ishaq and Robert, and they did come from over the fields on the opposite side after all. At least one mystery had been solved this morning. Why they would get here so early was anyone’s guess? Now… had Hazel brought any buns today? This hope alone, would curtail any horrible thoughts. I was grateful for company. I didn’t want to be here by myself for too much longer.

~~~

Chocolate butterfly buns, in fact.

Over the course of the day, I was hoping for two or maybe three at a push: the ice-cream tub, brimming full with the things.

‘If real butterflies were made of chocolate,’ Scarlett said, ‘would you catch and eat one?’

‘No.’ Hazel replied.

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s wrong.’

‘I agree.’ Scarlett slowly nodded.

I was glad I wasn’t asked. It was still quite early - too early to listen to this tripe - but if one fluttered by, they’d definitely reconsider. Sitting on the bank now, flanked by both girls, I examined the giant book with black paper that was way too large for my lap. Robert and Ishaq had arrived, and were standing behind us. Four massive pages in, I found the article my mum described.

"Haunted river gives children a right old fright."

‘This is the one my mum was part of.’ I said.

‘Which one’s your mum?’

Tracing the names at the bottom - thirty, in fact, including parents - I singled her out on the bottom right. My Granny W stood directly behind her in the grainy, black and white still.

‘Why are both your Gran and mum’s surnames different to yours?’ A little perturbed, Hazel continued studying the names at the bottom. ‘You’re not… adopted, are you?’

‘No, that’s her maid name… before she met my dad.’

‘Maiden name.’ Scarlett corrected.

‘She married my dad and became an Austin.’

‘Ahh, good.’ A blushing Hazel was relieved.

‘I read that article again last night,’ - Scarlett was eager to take charge - ‘and it was really scary.’

Together, we all stared down at the beck. Everything was quiet and sedate. Needless to say, I could visualise a boat steaming towards the horrified children.

‘Are you sure you weren’t just imagining that boy?’ I asked. ‘Like a hallucination or something… or maybe you saw the belly of a fish. That would look like quite like a head, wouldn’t it?’

‘I’m telling you straight, me and mum saw him bobbing up and down, right there. He had hair on his head; and the water came up to chest height.’ She pointed at a subdued patch, directly in front of us.

‘Right, let’s sort this out once and for all.’ Ishaq crouched, forcibly opened his satchel, and moved to the water’s edge. Carrying a portable cassette recorder, he pushed it into tufts of dry grass, wedging it as firmly as he could. We all watched on in astonishment.

‘Ish, what on earth are you doing?’ Hazel asked.

‘I’m going to record any voices we hear.’

‘Voices?’

Ishaq had been true to his word; this, his rational attempt at ghost-busting. But, to me, it was quite absurd, despite his insistence it might pick up whispers and echoes that untrained ears were not accustomed to. Ignoring him, I continued flipping through the saggy pages instead. That’s where clues lay as far as I was concerned, noting… my finger-tips were quite moist, leaving marks on the black backing. A particular article from the nineteen forties had grabbed my attention, my eyes drawn to the accompanying photo and headline:

Are these ghostly faces in the mysterious mist?

A farmer and his four sons, standing next to the beck. Black and white. They looked rigid and austere, clearly unacquainted with a camera. The cattle bridge was visible in the background, so I surmised they were only forty or fifty feet due east of our location. The image troubled me. Stretching the entire width and length of the beck was a blanket of thick fog, contained within basin; never spilling over the sides. It billowed straight up, but not out, and at some height too; probably seven or eight feet. I read it went back miles and miles, right into the dales, and no expert could explain the source. The newspaper speculated everything, from Nazi bomb contamination, to the chemical constituents on the river bed. A chain reaction. All explanations were half-baked and unconvincing. What’s more, the journalists were happy to perpetuate river myths; this was definitely the slant of the story.

Now, with my all my friends back by my side, we carefully examined the picture for clues, and it was damn creepy. Faces were everywhere. Although most… were subject to wild and fantastical interpretation; some seemed distinctly human.

I heard myself swallow, furtively glancing above the page as I carefully scanned the beck. I’d experienced nothing but joy here. Maybe what was once here… left, and I bloody hoped so? For comfort, I stared at Hazel’s ice cream tub; still unopened. In the photo, the clusters at the bottom were the most convincing: spectral infants - to the right of welly-clad legs - staring directly up at the farmer and his sons. A frenzied mass of gaping mouths, imploring the able-bodied to notice.

‘Nah, it’s the camera,’ Robert said. ‘It’s a problem with the reel.’

‘Old too. Double exposure,’ Ishaq said.

‘I agree.’ I said.

In the twilight, when I stared at my bedroom curtains, fear eventually formed faces in the patterns and folds. The more I looked, the more they appeared. Even though I knew I was doing it, my eyes would still do it. In later years, I came to learn of pareidolia. A small