They say the moorlands could sing.
That one might hear it faintly in the wind after the sky darkened and offered little light to the barren fields below.
It was this moorsong, the locals say, that took their kin away.
The first, the second, and then a third. A fourth, fifth, and so on. All gone, lured off the road and taken deep into the moorland.
Perhaps they reached the forest, though no sane man would wander those trees alone or without a trail of salt to help them find their way back. And it was that bit of superstitious nonsense that tickled Conor with disbelief.
“Salt?” He asked, pocketing the pack of cigarettes he’d just purchased and feeling for his lighter. “Forgive me, but I’d rather take the Winchester if it’s all the same. I don’t have time for shit about songs and salt.”
The barkeep stared at him narrowly, his wrinkles deepening into troubled furrows that judged Conor as little more than a fool.
Everyone else, the old regulars who sat silently in their worn seats watching the two speak, had nothing to say that their grim expressions didn’t already.
“If you must go alone, then stick to the road. All roads.” The barkeep handed Conor his change. “And stay out of the woods. There’s nothing for you there.”
Conor took the money with an unforgiving smirk. It was though the man hadn’t heard a word he said as to why he’d come all this way, and Conor glanced over the rest of the pub. The place looked like it hadn’t been updated since it was built, which might explain the musty piss smell.
Hell, even the patrons looked older than the nicotine stains on the wall.
Their evening stopped the moment Conor stepped inside with a rifle and questions, but the only answers he got were wasted on ghost stories.
“I don’t suppose you have police in this town?” Conor asked, fiddling with the coins in his hand.
“Not for miles.” The barkeep turned away dismissively and began putting away bottles and mugs he'd been cleaning before Conor arrived.
“Then is there someone familiar with the land?” Conor’s voice rose slightly, and his frustration started to get the better of him. “Someone who can—”
“There’s no one who will help you here,” One of the patrons said from his corner seat.
Conor glanced in the man’s direction, and if he weren’t pinched for time, he would’ve split his skull in two. Instead, Conor grabbed his things and headed for the door, ignoring the synchronized stares following his every step.
“Stick to the roads!” The barkeep hollered just before Conor left.
The air was, as Brennan described, wet and humid as hell. He didn’t know what his brother saw in this rainy countryside, but something brought him back for another weekend, and Conor wanted to believe it was something harmless like a woman. It would explain his unusual disappearance, and maybe Conor would be willing to forgive Brennan if he found him safe and in bed with a beautiful, fiery-haired vixen.
But, their last call worried him. Brennan sounded distant and filled with static like he was calling from the middle of the ocean where no one would find him.
Somewhere, a howl rose, and the clatter of herd bells caught his attention as a man led his sheep up the road.
Conor took a quick drag of his cigarette and checked his phone. No new messages.
He’d spoken with the police department in a city several hours away, and it was the chief who assured him that the moorland was home to harmless but secluded recluses stuck to their old fables and superstitions. They truly believed their loved ones were taken away by evil spirits or otherfolk, and the chief explained, with some sense, that the moorland was more dangerous than locals cared to admit. One unfamiliar with the land could wander for days through fields of heather and shrubs before running into a wolf or bear. Some might’ve drowned in a lake or taken a fall in the forest. Even so, the man assured Conor that a healthy, well-experienced hunter like Brennan wouldn’t fall victim to the moorland as easily as a missing child or elderly man.
Conor admitted he felt a little relief after their conversation and agreed to look for Brennan first before jumping to conclusions like a mother hen.
He took a look around then started down a road leading toward the fields. From the town, Conor could already see the miles of dried land painted with streaks of heather, bilberry, and the bones of rowan trees. Murky clouds turned the sky dark and swallowed what remained of daylight, blanketing the moorland in a frigid evening glow.
There’d be enough time to walk along and question a farmer or two, and he’d pick back up early the following day. Conor was prepared to get lost, though he hoped that wouldn’t be the case. He wasn’t as carefree about the wilderness as his spontaneous older brother. Though they were practically raised outdoors, taking trips with their dad and his friends every other weekend to hunt, fish, and hike, they both had their dos and don’ts. And one of Conor’s don’ts was never to hunt alone, which happened to be Brennan’s specialty whenever he wasn’t available for a trip.
Conor finished his cigarette and lit another.
He saw deer grazing over the mounds and heard sheepdogs in the distance. It was a beautiful walk, past stone walls and old fence posts where the road branched off to different parts of the town or, as the signs read, led to farms or mills a few miles away. Conor took one of those roads, the less-traveled of them since Brennan wouldn’t have chosen to hunt close to any farmland, and hiked to where the air tasted like mid-morning mist and sounds faded behind him.
His phone lost and gained signal every few steps, which helped cement the idea that it also happened to Brennan, and Conor attempted to call him.
Thankfully, the man’s phone wasn’t dead, but there was still no answer, and Conor hung up without leaving a voicemail.
Then, he heard something. Hooves and cattle bells that matched his footsteps—and he turned.
Nothing. There was nothing behind or around him, but the feeling of being watching caressed his cheek from all directions.
He turned again, searching for any half-hidden form, but saw no one.
Strange, he thought.
Conor kept walking after crushing his cigarette into the road and dug out a small bag of jerky from his pocket.
He took a bite and chewed until a gag caught his throat.
A rancid taste, something more akin to shit and rotting flesh than bad meat, almost made him vomit, and he spat everything out.
“Fuck!” Conor wiped his mouth and threw the bag into the grass. He smelled his fingers, catching a whiff of pepper and burnt meat that countered the awful taste still lingering on his tongue.
He reached for his water and swished around mouthfuls till there was nothing left but memories that made him heave.
“Fucking Christ.” A shiver moved down his spine, and Conor wiped his mouth again. He glanced down at the bag then walked forward, trying to figure out what in the hell caused the jerky to go bad. It was only a day or two old, and he’d eaten meat older than that without it ever tasting that foul. And he hoped to God he’d never have to relive that taste.
Daylight began to fade and darkened the sky to a sunless shade of lavender.
The townsfolk were probably getting ready to settle in for the evening, and it seemed like a bad idea to cut through someone’s farm to bother them so late in the day. Conor had a feeling that late visits from strange men asking questions about the moorland wouldn’t fly with the locals. He didn’t want to cause trouble, especially after his strange, irritating pub experience that left him questioning his better judgment.
Conor glanced at his phone, then paused on the road after another sound flowed through the air like currents of uneven wind.
A song—someone singing into the vast wilderness where echos carried each foreign word to him.
It was beautiful. He couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman singing, but there was an enchanting presence woven into this song that no man could resist. And maybe Conor just hadn’t been with anyone in a while, but his cock tightened against his thigh the longer he listened. Somehow, the voice almost sounded like moaning, the kind he’d hear at night writhing beneath him.
What the barkeep said stuck to his mind, things about moorsongs and otherfolk, but there wasn’t a chance in hell any of that was real. He believed that. The song sounded too clear, too real, like listening to the remnants of a concert miles away.
Conor searched the moorland, noticing he’d walked further than he realized since the town was out of sight. The road ahead was faded and untouched, eventually becoming one with the grass and asphodel.
The song continued for a moment longer before drifting away into the late evening horizon.
But Conor didn’t want it to go.
He took a few frantic steps forward onto the grass.
Then, everything went quiet.
He heard the wind, but there wasn’t anything mystical or ethereal about it. No moorsong, no song at all—just the wind.
“What in the fuck am I doing?” Conor said out loud in a second of self-awareness. He stood like he’d forgotten everything and had to trace back through his thoughts to find the right one.
Amid his recollection, he heard hooves and bells again.
Conor turned, though his eyes wandered across the moorland where the woods sat still and dark.
There, he saw someone walking, no, hurrying along the treeline.
“Hey!” Conor ran forward and sprinted across the field, avoiding high scrubs and rows of Queen’s lace.
He tried keeping a careful eye on the rough terrain ahead without losing sight of whoever was out there. And he couldn’t have been less than a few yards away from the trees before he started to slow down.
The last thing he wanted was to frighten anyone by looking like a crazy fuck with a gun.
“Hello?” Conor called into the darkness.
There was no answer, nor was there any trace of noises that should’ve been within earshot. No birds, no wind, nothing but the presence of trees, all lined in a checkered pattern. It wasn’t likely anyone hunted in these woods, not with the trees so small and close together, but, for one reason or another, Conor stepped in. He squeezed through tight spaces of overgrown maple and hawthorn, trying to avoid catching a strap on a branch as he peered into shadows dancing under the final glow of twilight.
Conor didn’t hear other footsteps around him, but he carried on, eventually making it past the grove and stepping into a wider space in the woods. He glanced around, more frantic than he should’ve been, and fought the feeling in his gut that almost forced him to reach for his rifle.
But, he didn’t imagine using it on a wolf or bear. No, what made his stomach turn was the image of putting the rifle under his chin and pulling the trigger.
Conor heard the gunshot like a deep ringing in his ear, and the rancid taste returned to his tongue as fresh as the first bite of jerky.
“Fuck,” He said, squeezing the bridge of his nose and rubbing his eyes until they stung. He wanted to rid himself of this weird, embarrassing fear simmering within him. A questionable fear made Conor hate himself because he knew that no matter what was going on or what could happen, Brennan wasn’t afraid of anything.
He’d been chased by a mountain lion and laughed it off like a mad man.
And just hearing the story made Conor more nervous than his older brother had ever been throughout most of their lives.
A branch snapped.
Conor looked over quickly, thinking he saw shadows moving like hunched children behind large trees and out of sight.
“Hey!” He called out in reflex and moved past a rotted birch where he paused at the edge of a clearing.
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