Page 14 of The Cut
Nate typed, ‘What’s a scaredy cat?’ Three laughing emojis.
‘A pussy,’ Freckles wrote. ‘A wimp.’
‘No way.’ Sunglasses cool emoji. ‘Why?’
‘Check this out.’ Three more symbols slowly popped into Nate’s DM. A ghost, a camera and finally a scream emoji.
Nate typed a question mark. Freckles responded, ‘Click the link … this is right up your street.’ Wink emoji.
Nate moved the cursor and opened the link she’d sent. The screen flickered and a high-definition close-up of a shiny 50mm vintage lens from a film camera filled the frame. It turned slowly and an out-of-focus image grew closer and sharper in the reflection of the highly polished lens.
An orange streetlamp brushed the silhouette of a faun standing in the shadow with an umbrella tucked under his arm.
‘Come with me, Son of Adam.’
A graphic faded up briefly on the screen, then died. Nathan had played Mr Tumnus in the Christmas play the year before and ever since then he’d been tapping on the backs of wardrobes, obsessed withThe Chronicles of Narnia. He felt stupid, like a little kid, but he’d re-readThe Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobeevery year since he was ten.
The faun with the umbrella leant in close to the screen and knocked on the glass; his eyes twinkled with a digital flare. A graphic appeared on the screen.
Are you coming or Knot?59
Nathan blinked as the graphic faded. Knot was spelt with a K, like his surname. Was this some kind of a joke?
Mr Crow wants you … click the link.
Nathan racked his brains; there were no crows in Narnia. Friendly beavers and all kinds of other strange creatures, but no crows. Click the link. His fingers scrolled and the cursor tapped on the little box, shaped like a wardrobe. Knock knock and the doors opened.
I’m hunting for young storytellers to come on a brand-new adventure. A feature film made especially with you in mind.
As the graphic faded, a tiny bead of light appeared in the distance. The lamppost from the opening sequence.
This is a spine-tingling story: unlike anything you have ever seen before.
The darkness grew brighter as the lamppost came into the foreground, illuminating a tree-lined alley, leading to the silhouette of an industrial building with a tall tower.
Submissions before the end of October. Requirements below.
The curious faun glanced over his shoulder, waiting in expectation.
Well?
As Nathan read through the description in the article, his throat became dry and his fingertips tingled with excitement. The brief outline of the film made the hair on Nathan’s arms stand on end. It was spooky – frightening, even – but Nate loved ghost stories. He wasn’t a show-off or a natural performer but when it came to60drama class, something special happened to him. It always felt deeply personal and he could never talk about it afterwards, like trying to hold smoke in his hands. He had the same feeling when Mr Tumnus tapped on the glass: it was just for him and no one else. It made him feel special. It spirited him away from all the loneliness.
Nathan’s finger hovered over the track pad. The cursor moved slowly across the screen and he clicked again.
The figure standing by the lamppost winked, swung his umbrella over his shoulder and began to saunter down the lane into the distance. In a final flourish, more words appeared on the screen.
You’re in. Prepare to be spooked!
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OCTOBER 1993
The ritual of hiding in the blackberry bushes to avoid the first cross-country run of the year is always a thorny affair. Mr Branchflower, the strapping sports teacher just out of Loughborough College, watches from the second-floor window of the chemistry lab, eager for the sprinters to turn the corner by the Nag’s Head so he can sneak off to the back of the French huts for a crafty cigarette. Coast clear, Mark Cherry and Catherine Maddock emerge, scratched and giggling, from the brambles and pool their 50p emergency phone money for their afternoon skive. The straggle of Year 8 runners has long gone by the time they’re heading down Miller’s Lane and past Hayes Hospital in the direction of the legendary local chippy, Codswallop.
The vinegar tang of the fat chips dipped in curry sauce leaves a tingle on their lips. A sudden gust of chilly wind whips their bare legs pink as they huddle together on the broken bench inside the bus stop. Greasy fingers pinch the salty scraps at the bottom of the newspaper before Mark screws up the soggy remains and lobs it at the bin, missing it by a mile.
