Vixen's Cry

The lascivious cry of a vixen calling her lovers is an eerie sound to hear upon a winter's night; for the mating scream of the fox is indistinguishable from that of a child in great fear or pain. I have always disliked that uncanny screech but now I simply cannot bear to hear it at all, and I'll explain why.

It happened one Christmas when I was cat-sitting for my friends Rob and Jude. Jude is a partner in a city accountancy firm, and they own a very nice town house with a huge garden in the old Victorian centre of Walthamstow "the village" in estate agent speak. Like every Christmas the couple were to go sailing with friends in warmer climes but their two-house cats Siouxsie and Rocky needed to be fed and so they asked on Facebook if anyone could stay there for two weeks over the holidays.

That very week the boiler in my tiny flat had expired and despite frequent calls and emails my landlord was sluggardly in getting it repaired. After a few days of cold showers and wearing two jumpers indoors I jumped at the chance to stay a big comfortable home with a real open fire. My mother had passed away two years ago, and I was single and at a loose end anyhow. 

Rob, an affable schoolteacher with long hair and a big beard let me in and showed me around the place as his wife yelled at her inept underlings on a conference call in the lounge. I was to stay in the guest room at the back of the house overlooking the garden. And what a garden it was. There was a fine conservatory leading to a long lawn that ended in a small gate and then beyond that a great wild area. The previous summer at a barbecue Rob had explained that portion of the garden was too much for him and he'd left it to the foxes. Later that evening as if to illustrate his words a handsome red furry fellow had jumped over the wall and strolled straight past us. The animal turned to give us a foul look as if we were trespassing and then wandered off towards its den.

The house itself dated from the mid-nineteenth century with many fine original features including the tiled fireplace I coveted so much and a basement where Rob and Jules tinkered with brewing beer. The cats soon warmed to me after I had learnt how to feed them, the WIFI worked and a couple of very cosy pubs were but a short walk away. I could plan on a quiet but very comfortable Christmas. That night I shared a take-away curry with my hosts in front of a movie and then the next morning bid them bon voyage.

The first few days passed without incident – I did some Christmas shopping in the cute little shops on Orford Road and drank a pint in front of a roaring fire in the Castle. But as Christmas day approached an increase in the nocturnal noises from outside disturbed my sleep. From the wild end of the garden would come a terrible shriek like a banshee's wail – a set of cries that tore me from my slumbers and chilled my blood. It must have been a vixen in heat, but I'd swear by Christ somebody was being murdered out there.

With the calls came the nightmares. I dreamt I was lying at night in the bed in this guest room. The house was the same, but the room was different, thick curtains hung across the windows, the walls were covered in heavily patterned paper and in the gloom, I could make out the trapping of an old children's nursery. There was a wooden rocking horse and in my arms a porcelain doll with black eyes and a lacey dress. Nameless dread filled me and at the door stood the tall shadow of a man – a man I feared.

Alone in the big house and facing sleepless nights like these I began to avoid retiring to bed and stayed up later and later in the living room. I made my way through Rob's film collection drinking the homebrew beer they had left me. The cats snuggled up with me on the sofa for warmth and I could hear nothing from the garden – the lounge being at the front of the house and the racket of action movies covering anything I might have heard.

One night I fell asleep on the settee. My sleep was deep and completely without dreams, but I awoke the next day with my back, always my weak spot, in complete agony. After some fruitless stretches, I promised myself that I'd spend less time on the couch and only sleep in a proper bed.

That day was Christmas Eve and I had arranged to meet some friends in the village pub. We worked our way through mulled wine, ale and Irish whiskey until last orders after which I staggered back to the house. Mounting the staircase, I climbed upwards when I spied Siouxsie the tortoiseshell cat standing hissing upon the landing. She was facing the doorway of my room her back arched, her ears back, her fur standing right on end. I was too full of Dutch courage in that moment to be perturbed and chuckled "Strange cat," before stumbling onwards and throwing myself upon the bed into a drunken slumber.

But again, the nightmares came. Now I lay paralysed in my cot in the nursery as that shadow of that man I feared so much crept closer, stalking me with menace. I awoke in terror to the sound of a vixen keening the scream so human I sat bolt upright. Angry at being afraid and perhaps still somewhat inebriated I climbed out of bed and tore back the curtain to confront my vulpine tormentor.

The view of the garden clearly illuminated on that frosty night by the moon sobered me up immediately. Standing at the gateway between the tended garden and the portion left wild stood the figure of a child, a young girl with long hair covering her face, wearing just a white nightgown and something, a dolly perhaps, cradled in her arms.

At first, I stood motionless, my head spinning, body frozen to the spot when she let out a scream so awful, it chilled my blood. At that I turned tail and fled, slipping on the stairs and tumbling down hard.

When I came to, I was in pain, but nothing seemed broken. I stood up limping and considered my position. I did not believe in ghosts – either what I had seen in the garden was a child in distress who dearly needed help or a drunken hallucination.  Either way, I decided to immediately investigate to set my mind at ease. I threw on my coat and switched on my phone's flashlight as I fumbled for the conservatory key.

Gingerly I stepped into the garden, the night was bitterly cold, and I had to pull my coat tight around me as I advanced. As I approached the gateway, I called out "Hello? Do you need help?"

Then suddenly I caught site of a glimpse of the girl's white nightgown in the blackness of the overgrown field, she was about some twenty yards away. I passed through the gateway and stepped forward again calling out to her – half hoping for a reply and half fearing it.

She stood with her back to me pointing at the ground. As I approached again, I spoke "Hello? Do you-" before I could finish my words she turned and with the wan light of my torch I caught site of her face, or rather what was left of it. Where eyes should have been were just hollow voids in a bare white skull and her skeletal jaw hung open as she let out another terrible scream.

I dropped my phone and charged backwards running as fast as I could towards the house not looking back. With shaking hands, I locked the conservatory door, grabbed a bottle of vodka from the kitchen and barricaded the living room door, keeping the fire burning until morning light.

It was only at midday with the pale winter's sun giving me as much grey light as I could hope for, I dared to venture into the garden to retrieve my phone. It was just where I had dropped it, the battery completely drained. I looked around furtively before picking it up and then noticed something. In the daylight, I could now see clearly the spot the apparition had been pointing to. Amongst tangled weeds was a small cairn of stones piled up as if to mark something.

From that Christmas day, I spent the remaining nights in the lounge on the sofa wrapped in a duvet, the television constantly on. Finally, on the second of January, my hosts returned looking tanned and relaxed in contrast to my now pale haggard appearance. After Jude and Rob had regaled me with tails of sailing exploits and sea snakes, they asked me how things had been in the house. Haltingly I enquired if any other guests had noticed anything strange happening in the garden.

Jude answered, "No but we are always away at Christmas and you are the first person to stay over – normally we get a neighbour to feed the cats."

I didn't know what to say, "I think there is something at the back of the garden, buried."

"Buried?" asked Rob suddenly excited. Rob had read archaeology as an undergraduate and was still something of an amateur antiquarian. "This house is very old; I wouldn't be surprised if it had a few secrets to tell. Shall we have a look?"

"No, no it's probably nothing."

"Nonsense," Rob roared in his jovial way "I'll just get some tools"

In the garden, Rob pulled away the stones, and I broke the frozen ground with a pickaxe as he shovelled away the stones and soil. It wasn't very long before we hit something – an old luggage chest about four feet long in the shallow pit we had dug. The wooden timbers were rotted, and an old thickly rusted padlock held it shut. Rob struck the padlock with the pickaxe and the lock flew off. He started to prize it open and I turned my face away – I dreaded what we might find.

"Well, that's odd," said Rob.

I looked into the case fearing to see the bones of a child but the only item that lay in that buried chest was an old porcelain doll in the tatters of a lace dress.