Hide away.

Image by pasja100 at Pixabay

I could hear their thundering footsteps and laboured breathing coming closer and closer.

''Come on, little fox. You know we'll catch you. And when we catch you, we will hurt you. If you stop and come quietly, we won't hurt you. We promise.''

''Not much, anyway.'' The two men sniggered and guffawed at their own joke.

My heart beat like a terrified bird against my rib cage, and my legs were numb from exertion. I couldn't let them catch me. I had seen what they did to girls like me: torture, first, then the 'mercy' of a slit throat. I had to steal that bread. I had no choice. Hunger gnawed not only at my stomach, but at my mind, too.

I ran, tripped and hurtled my way through the dark woods. The moonlight provided all the light I needed to make my way through this familiar place. In happier times, my sister and I enjoyed the loamy smell, the abundance of berries in the autumn, the endless hours of fun, making up adventures and stories. We often stayed out until darkness fell, enjoying the gentle noises of tiny creatures underfoot and the occasional hoot of a tawny owl calling to his mate.

I knew where I had to go, but they couldn't know. I hoped an old trick would work, and quickly, I grabbed a small branch and lobbed it as far away from me into the woods as possible. I held my breath, trying to hear past the pumping of my pulse in my ears.

''This way. She's over there. I can hear her. We're coming for you, little fox. Keep running!''

Before I knew it, my legs jumped with fright, and I took off, powered by adrenaline, and not much else. There was never enough food.

I could make out the shadow of the barn just up ahead. Agnes and I had found it years ago as very little girls and we loved exploring the abandoned building, trying to imagine who had used it. It had been a hay barn, and there were four animal stalls along one side. A few old pieces of horse tack and rusted iron horse shoes lay discarded on the floor of one of the stalls, among mouse droppings and old straw.

In desperation I ran to the old wooden doors, and squeezed my way inside a gap between the two. Splinters caught my thin shirt, threatening to hold me there, but I managed to yank my way free. I slipped inside, and cautiously put my weight behind the slightly open door, and pushed. It sighed as it closed. I leaned against the old door, and slid down the rough wooden panels. Terror continued to claw at my throat, threatening to bring up the small brown loaf I had gobbled down only twenty minutes ago.

An hour must have passed before I had the strength to stand. The old place smelled just as I remembered. It was musty, but not unpleasant. The old wooden panels were letting moonlight spill in through cracks and knots. I could make out the ladders leading to the hay loft, and the light shone on the metal hinges holding up the half doors in the stalls. It was silent now, except for the occasional scuffle from small animals. I didn't mind: they meant me no harm.

Agnes and I used to hide out upstairs in the loft. All day we would sit up there, on a woollen blanket, making up stories about the people who had made the barn, and about where they had gone. We would make our small picnic last all day. We loved having this place to come to. It all stopped the day Agnes disappeared. We searched and searched the woods, but after three years of looking, my father gave up, and never spoke a word since then. His muteness was a daily reminder of my failing. I only went to have a quick swim in the lake, while Agnes lay on her back looking up at the cobwebbed rafters. She wasn't in the mood for a swim. When I returned half an hour later, she was gone.

I slowly made my way to the wooden ladder, testing its strength first with my hands, until I was fairly confident it could hold me. Agnes and I had replaced a few of the rungs, and it seemed to be fit for purpose. I made it up the narrow rungs, and pulled myself onto the wooden platform. The moon was thankfully still providing enough light. I couldn't risk switching on my pocket torch.

As I gazed around, my breath caught as I noticed a folded up blanket in the corner. I recognised it as one of ours. It hadn't occurred to me to take it home the day Agnes disappeared. I went over and lifted it, expecting to find it filthy and covered in mouse droppings.

It was clean. There was no dust on the blanket, and beneath it was a little tin pot. It was also clean. My heart began to beat again. Adrenaline flooded my senses. Who had been using the barn?

I searched around for more clues, and my peripheral vision noticed a small photograph, tucked in between some rafters. Trembling, I took it between my finger and thumb, and I gasped. The picture was of me. And Agnes. We were standing at the old barn doors, smiling, the blanket tucked under my elbow. My other arm was draped over my sister's shoulder. It would have been taken about three years ago.

Panic seized me in its grip and I began to hyperventilate. I sat down and clutched my legs, rocking myself in terror. Why was there a photograph of me and my sister in this barn? I knew we hadn't put it there. Why was the blanket clean, and why was there a clean tin pot underneath it?

************************************************************

I woke to the sound of birds singing in the dawn light. I must have collapsed, exhausted. I had curled up in the familiar blanket and lay down, wishing for oblivion.

I slowly looked around me, taking in more detail, and gasped when I noticed someone sitting with their back to me. A girl. A woman. With long black hair. She turned, revealing Agnes's eyes, but instead of her pink, freckled face, was a story of pain, of agony, of torture. Agnes stared at me with anger in her blue eyes, the scar forcing one side of her mouth to curve into a sneer.

''Hello, Amy,' she said. ''I wondered when you'd come.''