CHAPTER TEN

The Story of Skinner Leech

Nan is eighty years old and always smells of talcum powder and rosewater, and even though she sometimes forgets the simplest things, she can still make a great yaprakh. I loved coming here with Lana when Mum and Dad were busy with work. Lana would lie in the garden and read a book, and I’d sit with Nan in the kitchen and listen to one of her stories.

I take back what I said about old people—not all of them have lost their imagination. When Nan ran out of childhood tales, she’d tell me all about the mysteries of Hanging Hill. Mum’s side of the family have lived here for three generations, but Dad was born in Halabja. He met Mum when she moved back home for a few years.

“Watch your step there,” Mum says, carrying a basket full of Nan’s favourite baklawa as we go up the unkempt garden. Dad follows behind with an unnecessarily large bouquet of orchids clutched to his chest.

Nan lives in a small bungalow on the other side of town. She has a rusty gate that creaks open, and floral wallpaper all over her house. Even in the bathroom. She was a florist when she was younger, so it makes sense.

“Ari . . .” Mum pauses outside Nan’s front door.

Dad clears his throat. “Yes, erm, before we go in, we just want to say your Nan is a lot more forgetful than usual, so please be patient with her if she asks you to repeat things.”

“And don’t be offended if she can’t remember your name either,” Mum adds before turning the spare key in the lock.

I take a deep breath. I only ever remember Nan being sharp and funny, so I can’t process what Mum is telling me right now. My own brain is scrambled enough today and it’s difficult to concentrate. I keep thinking about Lana and the woods, and how those vines retreated when they heard Mum coming up the stairs. I’ll have to tell Timmy about it when I see him later.

Nan is in the living room, sitting in her favourite rocking chair. She looks smaller and paler than when I last saw her, but she beams when she sees us. Her yellow eyes soften, and the dimple on her right cheek sinks into her skin. She is wearing a loose dishdasha, and her hair looks freshly coloured. Not a grey strand in sight. The room is cluttered with ornaments, and along the wall hangs the most colourful paintings. The sprawling mountains of Akre, a Kurdish woman in traditional clothes, and the glittering landscape of Dukan Lake.

“Look at you!” She reaches out to give me a wet kiss. “You’re practically a man now, aren’t you?”

“Choni.” I give her a big hug. She smells like a newborn baby today.

“Remind me how old you are now?”

“Eleven and nine months,” I say.

“What I would give to be that young again.” She pinches my cheek lightly.

“We got you the baklawa you love.” Mum smiles and bends down to give Nan a kiss.

“That’s lovely, thank you, dear.” Nan doesn’t seem any more forgetful than usual.

Mum turns to Dad. “Can you have a look at Mum’s wheelchair please? The nurse said there was something wrong with it.”

Nan lets out a sigh. “Please don’t start fussing!”

“It’s no trouble really.” Dad goes to see to the wheelchair, and Mum takes the orchids into the kitchen.

I sit in the corner of the room, swinging my legs back and forth, trying to muster up the courage to ask Nan about the Twig Man. Just before I open my mouth, Mum walks back in.

“Where’s Lana?” Nan asks me.

Mum and I both freeze. It’s suddenly harder to breathe even though the windows are wide open.

“She’s not here, remember?” Mum saves me from responding.

Nan’s wrinkles sink into her skin. “Oh yes, of course, silly me.”

“Gosh, those weeds are really growing. I’ll take some pictures and send it to the gardener.” Mum hurries outside because even mentioning Lana’s name lately is enough to send her running.

I give it a few minutes before I’m satisfied neither Mum nor Dad are lurking nearby. I edge closer to Nan. “Can I ask you something?”

“Why, of course!” She squeezes my hand.

“Did Lana ever mention anything about a black cat with white eyes to you? Or about the woods?”

“The woods?” Nan says.

I nod.

Nan’s eyes settle on me. “She never said anything to me.”

“What about the Twig Man? Did she say anything about that?”

There is another long pause, then Nan’s eyes brighten with clarity. “Skinner Leech,” she whispers.

“Who?”

“The Twig Man. His real name is Skinner Leech, that’s what my mother told me.”

“Skinner Leech is the Twig Man?” I say, double-checking I’ve heard her right.

She nods.

“So, the Twig Man was an actual person?” My heart starts racing inside my chest.

“Of course! And he used to go by the name . . . now, what was it again?”

“Skinner Leech. That’s what you just said.”

“Yes, that was it. Skinner Leech. Horrible man, I was told. Lived alone in a tiny cabin in the middle of the woods.”

I hold my breath, afraid that if I open my mouth, Nan will lose her train of thought.

“He was a thief, the worst kind there is because he had enough money to live a comfortable life, so there wasn’t much he needed.”

“Why did he steal?”

“For the thrill of it, the stolen goods were like trophies to him.”

“What happened to him?”

Nan looks at me blankly. “What happened to whom, basaqa?”

“To Skinner Leech,” I say, trying to be extra-patient. “How did Skinner Leech turn into the Twig Man?”

It’s a short while before Nan gives me an answer. Her head shakes and her knuckles turn white as she wrestles with the memory. Every now and then, I glance at the door, afraid Mum and Dad will come back, chewing the skin around my nails in anticipation.

“It was after the winter with all the floods,” she finally says. “He flew to America, told anyone who’d listen. He went to a forest, I forget the name now, but it was in Arizona somewhere.”

“What happened there?”

“They say he stole something from this forest that he shouldn’t have. It was built on ancient land you see, cursed land. When he came back, strange things started happening in Hanging Hill. My dear mother said everyone put it down to freak accidents. Then, one day, as he was chopping wood for a fire, he disappeared. No one ever saw him again. They found his axe and pieces of wood on the floor. But no sign of him. That’s when he turned into—”

“The Twig Man,” I whisper, finding myself drawn more and more into the story.

“It must have been years later when the first kid went missing, and then, every now and then I would hear of another kid mysteriously vanishing into thin air. Mum was so sure it was the monster that took ‘em.”

“But the police would have investigated,” I reason.

“The Petrified Forest!” Nan blurts out in excitement.

“Huh?”

“That’s what the forest was called because the wood was smooth like marble.”

Smooth like marble, something about that description makes me uncomfortable.

Nan goes quiet again and starts fiddling with the hem of her skirt.

“Nan, please, I need your help; do you know where the Twig Man is?”

“No one knows that!”

“But—”

Mum walks back into the room, and I jump out of my seat. Nan looks over my shoulder and smiles.

“This one will make a good detective,” Nan says.

Mum raises an eyebrow.

“I was only asking Nan some questions about my project for school.” I laugh nervously.

Mum hands me an orange juice with a straw in it. “Can you help Nan, sweetie? I need to speak to your dad.”

“Mum and Dad don’t believe in the Twig Man,” I tell Nan, when Mum closes the door behind her.

“Oh, I know.” She gives me an all-knowing smile before she drinks some of the juice.

I look at her in surprise. “How?”

“How what, sweetie?”

“How do you know Mum and Dad don’t believe in the Twig Man?”

“Oh that! Gosh, I am losing my mind!” Nan chuckles to herself. “When Lana first disappeared, I thought the Twig Man took her. I remembered everything my mother said to me, and I was straight onto the police. Mother was as honest as they come, and if she believed in the monster, then so do I.”

“What did they say?”

“I don’t remember . . .” Her eyes glaze over with a layer of confusion.

So, Nan has been telling Mum and Dad about the Twig Man all along. I’ve got no chance convincing them! Not when they don’t even believe a grownup.

The door squeaks open.

“Well, I believe you about the Twig Man,” I whisper in Nan’s ear. “Even if Mum and Dad don’t see it.”

*

On the ride back home, no one says a word. I hardly notice over the sound of squawking crows flying above the car. I open the window and stick my head out. They soar through the misty sky, hovering over the car roof as soon as we park in the driveway.

“Look at that!” Dad says, pointing at the crows.

Mum shudders, a horrified look in her eyes. “They make my skin crawl,” she says, itching her arms.

I think back to yesterday, when the cat scratched my hand, and right after, when I saw those crows. There were five of them then . . . I count the crows. Now there are four, all twisting their head in my direction at the same time. I gasp as their dark eyes glaze over until all I can see are four pairs of egg-yolk eyes.

Back in my room, I reach for the laptop and type in Petrified Forest. Immediately, an article comes up that catches my eye.

 

In Arizona, a National Park has been labelled the ‘Petrified Forest’, and it’s not just the wonders of the Rainbow Museum or the Giant’s Trail that has captured the imagination of all those who visit. Taking anything from a National Park is illegal, but at the Petrified Forest, where the wood is some 225 million years old, it is said that the rocks themselves are cursed with an ancient magic from a prehistoric past.

Since the original wood was buried by sediment to protect it from decay, locals claim that whatever curse was placed on the land was also absorbed by the wood. Every year, the National Park receives mail from visitors around the world who confess to having taken a rock and swiftly returning it after experiencing the worst of luck.

One man claims to have been involved in a horrific traffic incident, a house fire, and a serious illness within the space of a few months. Legend has it, the longer the rock stays in your possession, the more dangerous it becomes. Many have written to the park asking if the curse can be reversed, but if the myth is true, then there is no known remedy.

Whilst there is debate about the possibility of the rock being destroyed, it is unclear how this can be done. It may be that many have successfully destroyed it, but this could just be hearsay since no one has ever provided evidence on how to do so successfully.

 

At the bottom of the page there are hundreds of comments. I scroll through them quickly.

 

‘Does anyone actually believe in this stuff? FAKE NEWS, people.’

‘This has given me the heebie-jeebies . . .’

 

Then I see a comment that makes my blood curdle.

 

‘There’s a reason why we don’t know anything, DUH! Obvs, everyone’s dead or something. Or maybe the rock mutated them!’

 

Outside, behind the trees, the silver ball of the moon pokes its head out as the dark clouds drift aimlessly across the sky. If the rock curses the person who took it, it would have cursed Leech and turned him into the Twig Man for eternity, just like Nan said. But what has all that got to do with me? I never stole the rock . . . unless the Twig Man has passed the curse onto me without me knowing about it. Instinctively, I look down at my hand again, where the cat scratched me. Is that how the monster did it?

I pull back the duvet, ready to collapse from exhaustion, and let out a sharp huff of breath. Lying on the clean, crisp sheet is a twig. I look around the room in wild panic. I rotate the twig, looking for some sort of clue, anything to make sense of all this.

The crumpled photo of me and Lana is still on the floor. I pick it up and smooth out its edges. My heart stops beating when I notice it. Our faces fill most of the frame, but in the background, standing on a dimmed lamppost, are two crows. The silhouette of their bodies covers Lana’s face.

Two crows with snow-white eyes.

I turn the picture over and stare at the date, letting out a loud yelp. It was taken two days before Lana vanished. Are the crows a warning? How many did I see following the car just now? Four crows, and the day before I saw five. Was it some sort of warning of how much time I had left?

I stare at the twig and the photo of Lana right next to it. I had it wrong. I’m not cursed, it’s something even worse. The Twig Man is sending me a message. He took my sister, and I’m next!

I close my eyes and breathe in and out, but all I can hear is the familiar sing-song rhyme repeating over and over in my mind.

Beware the Twig Man, the Twig Man’s Hex, Beware the Twig Man, or you’ll be NEXT.