Your web-browser is very outdated, and as such, this website may not display properly. Please consider upgrading to a modern, faster and more secure browser. Click here to do so.
I held up my hand, motioning for them to keep quiet. The Call was louder now, but it was harder to pinpoint the direction. It was all around us, like a smothering fog.
Into the forest I went, pushing aside dead branches and wet bracken. Bobby and Sam followed, lighting my way with torches. They knew better than to disturb me when I was like this. It had only been a few weeks, but they were already learning my new habits.
We were close now, I could feel it. I snapped mossy logs under my feet, crushed wattle saplings and sword grass as the the Call drew me on.
We came into a clearing and the Call subsided to a low, persistent hum.
Bobby flashed his torch around.
“Someone used to live here. Fireplace.” His torch caught a tumble of bricks. There was other evidence to, rusted metal scraps, broken bricks, a twisted pipe from an old stove. The clearing was big enough for a house. Not a large house, but a serviceable shack.
“Someone’s been here recently, too,” said Sam, holding up a sodden cigarette butt. She lit herself one, as if reminded to do so by her discovery.
“We’re almost there. Up there, behind those trees.” I pointed and set off.
We climbed the small rise to find a second, smaller clearing. There, in amongst the gums were a half-dozen small, sad graves, marked with moss covered stone. Three had been recently dug up.