A scary chat story in four parts
By Algernon Blackwood
Adapted to Chat Story format by Captivated Chat
What a river! To think of all the distance and varied waters we’ve traveled from its source.
The river won’t stand much nonsense now, though, will it? That first week in the Black Forest, in contrast, was all getting out and slogging through shallows and pushing our boat, eh? We’ll have scary chat stories to share on our phones for years!
But today we were only concerned about the boat possibly being ripped open by the jagged shale beneath those rapids. Yet despite it all, we made it! Now you rest on the sand right where you are. You single-handedly tugged our boat ashore, after all, so rest and I’ll survey this little willow island of ours in preparation for camping here. *********
I’m back, and it really is a small place and quite as overgrown with willow bushes as the shopkeeper warned. It’s enough to make walking unpleasant, but I made the tour. The island is triangular, wind-swept — with almost no full trees — and quite unwelcoming.
Certainly, I could see those last features from here. Any luck?
Yes, there is a slight depression in the island’s center, where we may pitch the tent. The surrounding willows break the wind quite a bit there.
**********
The rising wind
A poor camp it is, with no stones and precious little firewood. This sandbar won’t hold up against the flood for many hours; I’m for moving on early tomorrow — you?
Sure. Later this evening we can set about collecting a store of wood to last until bedtime.
With that incessant cold wind, this is not a fit place for a man.
What’s worse, willow bushes drop no branches, and so driftwood will be our only source of fuel. I hunted the shores pretty thoroughly. Everywhere the banks are crumbling as the rising flood tears at our tiny island and carries away great portions of it every few minutes.
The place is much smaller than when we landed. It won’t last long at this rate.
We’d better drag the canoe close to the tent, and be ready to start at a moment’s notice. I shall sleep in my clothes.
‘The wind is still rising’
Ho-ho-ho, ha-ha-ha! By Jove!
I heard your laugh, but now you are hidden by the willows, where are you?
But what in the world’s this?
Suddenly you sounded quite serious. Stand still; I’m coming right over.
Good heavens, it’s a man’s body out there! Look!
All I see is that black thing, turning over and over in the waves. It keeps disappearing and coming up to the surface again.
No, it’s an otter, by gad! Ho-ho, ah, ha-hah!
It is an otter, very alive, and out on the hunt, yet it looked just now like the body of a drowned man turning helplessly in the current.
You saw it too? Thank heavens, for the mind plays tricks when you’re tired. Look, there goes a boatman along the far shore!
He’s crossing himself! Look, he’s making the sign of the Cross!
I believe you’re right.
He tried to call to us beforehand, but the wind is still rising and it drowned him out.
But what in the world is he doing at nightfall on this flooded river?
Not welcome
Where is he going at such a time, and what did he mean by his signs and shouting? D’you think he wished to warn us about something?”
He saw our smoke, and thought we were spirits probably, ha-ha, ha-hah! These Hungarians believe in all sorts of rubbish; you remember the shopwoman at Pressburg warning us that no one ever landed here?
She said it’s because it belonged to some sort of beings outside man’s world!
I suppose they believe in fairies and elementals, possibly demons, too. That peasant in the boat saw people on the island for the first time in his life, and it gave him a scary story to chat about, that’s all.
Heh. If they had enough imagination, they might very well people a place like this with the old gods of antiquity.
The river’s still rising, though, and it will be under water in two days.
‘The psychology of places’
True, two days at most.
I wish the wind would go down. I don’t care a fig for the river.
The scarcity of wood will make it a business to keep the fire going. The wind that’s driving the smoke into our faces right now will make a fierce cross draught.
We can take turns fighting it and making expeditions to grub in among the bushes for wood. **********
When this next bundle of branches is in camp, I shall turn in. So I’ll make this final expedition brief.
Good. I’m dog tired.
Glad to hear you are tired, it proves you can get tired. I’m bushed and all your loads of wood have been twice as heavy as mine. So long for the moment, Swede!
(Thinking) The psychology of places is vivid for the wanderer; thus camps have a note, either of welcome or rejection. And the note of this willow-camp has become unmistakably plain to me; we are interlopers, trespassers; we are not welcome. The damn willows are against us.
(Thinking) And talking of bad omens, I could swear that boatman, if it was actually a man, was warning us against some danger, warning us off this filthy island.
Look for Part 2!
Or read another scary story concerning travel and adventure, The Most Dangerous Game.
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