The Soul Auction

by Amy Cross

  “No, he won't, because he knows you're nearby.”

  She pauses, before scrunching her nose. “Maybe he thinks I left him behind.”

  “No, he can sense you. I promise, Kate, Mr. Puddles knows you're here, and he knows you're going to go back for him. And tomorrow, I promise, I'll fish him out from those rocks.”

  “You promised you'd do that before bedtime.”

  “Sometimes promises slip a little, honey.”

  “Daddy promised he wouldn't go away.”

  I take a deep breath. A better mother would know exactly what to say right now. A better mother would find a way to make her daughter feel better. All I manage, however, is to stroke the side of her face while I struggle to hold back tears.

  “I will get Mr. Puddles back tomorrow,” I say finally, “even if it's the last thing I do.”

  Okay, maybe that wasn't the best choice of words, but I guess it got the message across.

  “And now,” I continue, “before I go and settle Alice down, how about I sing you a little song to help you get to sleep? Would you like that?”

  “You promised you'd get him back,” she replies, “and he's still missing!”

  ***

  “You look like you need this,” the landlady says, placing a glass of whiskey in front of me as I sit with Alice at the bar.

  I shake my head.

  “Trust me,” she continues, “it'll do you the world of good.”

  “I don't drink these days,” I reply.

  “It'll just loosen you up a little. You're too tense, honey. If you keep on like this, you're gonna end up cracking at some point. Take it from someone who knows these things.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” I reply, “but I'm fine. I just have to find a way to locate a fluffy bear in the morning.”

  “Well, then we can't let this go to waste,” she mutters, taking the whiskey and downing it in one gulp, before wiping her mouth. “You missed out, honey. That was a good one.”

  “I'm just going to take Alice out and get some air,” I reply, getting to my feet. “I won't go far. If you hear Kate moving about at all, or calling for me -”

  “I'll be sure to let you know.”

  Carrying Alice over to the door, I step outside into the cool night breeze. This is never a busy pub at the best of times, and tonight it's been pretty much dead. I'm the only one around, other than the landlady, but I don't mind the peace and quiet. As I take Alice across the beach, I can hear the sound of waves hitting the shore nearby, although it's too dark out here for me to see anything more than a few distant lights out in the English Channel. Ferries and boats are making their way through the night air, and it feels good to see that the rest of the world is still running as normal.

  Some day soon, I hope to feel like I'm part of that world again.

  Suddenly hearing footsteps coming this way across the pebbles, I turn just in time to spot a silhouette. A moment later, a familiar face appears, and I feel myself tighten up immediately.

  “Oh,” Dora Ohme says, clearly equally unimpressed, “it's you. What are you doing out so late?”

  “I was just giving my baby some air,” I reply. “How about you?”

  “I don't really see that it's any of your business.”

  I force a smile, even though I want to point out her hypocrisy.

  “It's too cold for a baby,” she continues. “You should wrap her up tighter so she doesn't end up getting pneumonia.”

  “She's fine. We're only out here for a minute or two.”

  “She doesn't look fine.”

  “Well, I'm her mother and I'm telling you, she's warm enough.”

  “Are you still staying at that public house?” she asks, although from the tone of her voice it's clear that she already knows the answer.

  “We're booked in until after the weekend,” I reply.

  She mutters something under her breath, but it's clear that she doesn't approve.

  “Listen,” I continue, “I just came out for a few minutes of peace and quiet, so -”

  “The poor thing's shivering,” she says suddenly, reaching out and trying to take Alice from my arms.

  “She's not shivering!”

  “Of course she is!” She reaches under Alice and tries again to lift her free. “I'll show you how to -”

  “Stop!” I hiss, pulling Alice away and almost losing my footing. Stepping back, I adjust Alice in my arms. “I almost dropped her!”

  “Well, you should look after her a little better, shouldn't you?”

  “Okay, that's enough,” I continue. “Please just leave me alone. I'm looking after my daughter just fine, and I don't need your interference. So just keep your comments to yourself.”

  “I -”

  “And take a damn hint,” I add, “before I tell you what I really think!”

  “I've never been spoken to in such a way!” she replies, before turning and walking away toward the nearest row of cottages. “I pity any child who has to grow up in a household with such awful language!”

  “Yeah, take a hike,” I mutter under my breath, before looking back down at Alice and seeing her face in the moonlight. Her eyes are open and she's staring up at me. “Don't listen to Mummy when she's peed off,” I add. “Don't worry, honey, you're only six months old. I don't think I've quite managed to corrupt your innocent little mind just yet.” I lean down and kiss her forehead, and she giggles in response. “Give me time.”

  Turning, I'm about to head back to the pub when I spot a figure standing a little further along the beach. All I can make out is a silhouette, but it looks like a man is standing right down by the shore. He's twenty, maybe thirty feet away, and it's almost as if he's simply staring straight toward us. I can't help feeling just a little creeped out by the fact that he seems to be watching us.

  Then again, I guess right now I'm doing the exact same thing to him.

  “Bedtime,” I tell Alice, turning and carrying her to the pub. “And tomorrow, we have to find a way to rescue that bear so Kate doesn't hate me forever.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Alice

  Today

  “Thank you so much,” I say as Dorothy takes my plate away, “that was the best breakfast I've had in a long time.”

  “You just wait right there,” she replies with a smile, “and I'll bring you your dessert.”

  “Dessert?”

  Without answering, she shuffles back through to the pub's kitchen.

  “I'm not sure I need dessert after breakfast,” I call out, but again she doesn't respond. “Exactly what kind of dessert are you thinking of?”

  A moment later, hearing her moving some plates, I realize I probably can't stop her. Turning back to my phone, I resume scrolling down the page for The Haunting of Belvedere Asylum and see that I'm now up to fifty-one reviews with an average of just 1.48, and Dora Ohme's review remains the only post that gives me more than two stars.

  People hate the book.

  I mean, they really hate it.

  “The characters are completely unrealistic and unlikable,” I whisper, reading out loud as I check the latest bad review, “and I found it impossible to care about any of them. Frankly, I wanted them all to die after the first few chapters, just to save me from slogging through the rest of the book.”

  How did I lose my touch?

  “Nothing really happens in the opening chapters,” another review states. “I was waiting for some kind of hook, but it never came.”

  “Stuff was happening,” I mutter under my breath, “it was just in the background. It was supposed to be subtle and -”

  “Here you go!”

  Startled, I turn and see that Dorothy has brought over a plate piled high with ice cream and what looks like little chunks of chocolate.

  “Breakfast dessert pizza,” she explains, setting the plate in front of me. “A little speciality of mine. You won't get anything like this, not anywhere else in the world. Only right here in Curridge!”

  �
�Thank you,” I reply, even though I barely had the appetite for my 'main' breakfast, “it looks... lovely.”

  She tells me I'll love the pizza, but as she turns and shuffles away I'm already wondering whether I could empty the plate into one of the nearby plant pots and clean up the evidence later. A moment later, glancing at the window, I see that not only is the sky gray this morning, but a few spots of rain have already begun to fall. The storm might be taking its time, but it's going to get here eventually.

  ***

  “Okay, can you hear me now?” I ask, stepping a little further away from the pub, making my way across the pebbles as I try to get some signal. “How about now?”

  “- with the brakes,” I hear the mechanic reply, before his voice is briefly lost in a fuzz of static. “- another day, but I've put a rush on the delivery.”

  “So I won't get my car back today?” I reply. “Is that what you're saying?”

  Again, all I hear in response is a mess of static, buzzing and occasional fragments of sentences.

  “I'll email you later,” I continue, feeling as if this attempt at a conversation is hopeless. “Just hold tight and I'll email you, okay?”

  Cutting the call, I'm about to head back into the pub and ask to extend my stay for another night, when I spot a familiar figure outside one of the cottages. Graham is once again holding the parcel, and I watch as he knocks on the door to number five. Figuring that I should probably go and apologize for running off so quickly last night, I start making my way over, and he quickly hears me as I trample across the pebbles.

  “Still no answer?” I ask.

  “Maybe she's away,” he mutters, before knocking again. “I'd have thought she'd mention it, though. She always tells Mum if she's going somewhere.”

  Looking up at the cottage's top windows, I see that the curtains are open.

  Next to me, Graham gets down onto his knees and opens the letterbox.

  “Dora!” he calls out. “Dora, it's Graham from next door! Are you in there?”

  We wait, but a moment later I hear a beep from my phone. Slipping it from my pocket, I find that I've received another alert, and to my surprise I find that Dora Ohme has left another book review.

  “Wherever she is,” I mutter, “she's reading at a heck of a pace.”

  Bringing up the review, I find that it's for a book called Doom of the Golden Butterfly, which I've got to admit I've never heard of. Checking the page, I see that the book is some self-published horror tale with a lurid cover, and Dora's is the only review so far. She's given the book three stars, so I scroll down to see what she's written.

  “Not bad as a monster horror tale,” I mutter under my breath, “but could do better in terms of describing the fear of the void. Or at least, I assume that's what the author was going for with the interminable section in the middle, where he described lost souls flashing through a vast dark space. Maybe I'm wrong. Entertaining, but deeply flawed and unrealistic.”

  Scrolling up, I check the blurb and find that the book is about a man who goes on an adventure in the afterlife.

  “Unrealistic, huh?” I mutter. “Well, Dora, you might have guessed that from the description.”

  “Dora!” Graham calls out again, with the letterbox still open. “Are you home?”

  He pauses, before looking up at me.

  “Do you think I should be worried?” he asks.

  “How long has it been since you spoke to her?”

  “Months,” he replies. “Mum's away too, and she doesn't have a cellphone so I can't ask when she last saw Dora. You don't think anything could have happened to her, do you?”

  “She's still busy online,” I point out.

  “But maybe she's in trouble.”

  “I don't think people usually take time to write book reviews if they're in mortal peril.”

  He hesitates, before getting to his feet and – in the process – leaving the parcel on the ground.

  “Wait right here,” he says, and then he heads to the next cottage along. I watch as he makes his way into the hallway, and a moment later he comes back with a fresh set of keys.

  “What are those for?” I ask.

  “Years ago, Dora left a spare set with my mother.” He holds up one of the keys. “Just for emergencies, you know? Mum left a key with Dora for the same reason. Do you think...”

  His voice trails off.

  “Do I think you should let yourself in and check she's alright?” I ask. “Honestly, I wouldn't worry. She's clearly reading a lot of books. Maybe she's on holiday.”

  “I'm worried.”

  “She seems to get online several times a day,” I point out.

  “Sure, but...”

  He pauses, before trying to slide the key into the lock. As he tries, however, he seems to be having trouble, and finally he turns to me again.

  “I think there's a key in the other side,” he says with a hint of concern in his voice. “Why would she leave a key in the other side of the lock, if she wasn't even home?”

  “Maybe she just doesn't want any company,” I reply. “It's not that unusual.”

  He checks the other keys on the ring for a moment, before muttering something under his breath and heading around the side of the cottage.

  “Hey, where are you going?” I ask, before starting to hurry after him. “You're clearly worrying over nothing. This poor woman probably just wants to be left alone!”

  By the time I catch up, he's reached the cottage's back door and he's already slipping a key into the lock. I open my mouth to tell him this is an overreaction, but he turns the key and pushes the door open, and I immediately realize that I can hear a strange buzzing sound coming from inside the cottage.

  “What is that?” I whisper, stepping closer.

  “Oh God,” he says, as several thick, juicy flies come buzzing out past us, followed a moment later by a few more.

  And then a smell.

  The most horrible, rancid stench I've ever encountered in my life.

  “That's awful!” Graham says, turning away and pinching his nose. “Okay, something's wrong in there. I'm calling the police!”

  As he hurries back around to the front of the cottage, I realize he's right. The smell is overpowering, and more and more flies are coming out every second. I once went to a mortuary to conduct some research for my first novel, and I distinctly remember the odor of death. This stench is sweeter somehow, but it has the same foul undertone and I can't deny that something seems to have died inside the cottage. And yet, even though I know I should go and wait with Graham, I can't help stepping through the door and into what turns out to be the cottage's kitchen.

  “Hello?” I call out, waving flies away as I pinch my nose. “Is anyone here?”

  I hesitate for a moment, before stepping over to the arched doorway and peering into the next room, where there are even more flies.

  “Is anyone -”

  Stopping suddenly, I see to my horror that there's a body slumped in a chair at the dining table. Withered and rotten, with flies crawling all over its face and maggots wriggling in its empty eye sockets, the body has its mouth wide open and its head tilted to one side, while its arms hang down at the sides.

  And on the table, there's an open laptop.

  Chapter Twenty

  Lizzie

  Thirty years ago

  “Thanks,” I say as the woman takes our breakfast plates away, “that was really nice.”

  She smiles shyly, but she quickly hurries back into the kitchen.

  “Her name's Dorothy,” the landlady says, polishing more glasses behind the bar. “She's a timid little thing, but she knows how to shuffle plates about. She'll probably outlive the lot of us.” She sets one of the glasses down and picks up another. “So what's your plan for today?”

  “We're going to rescue Mr. Puddles,” Kate says sternly, from the seat opposite me. “Aren't we, Mummy?”

  ***

  “Come on, Mr. Puddles,” I mutter, crouching down an
d trying once again to peer beneath the rocks. “You have to be here somewhere. Please, tell me a crab hasn't taken you away.”

  Hearing laughter nearby, I turn and see that Kate is splashing about at the water's edge. For the first time in ages, she actually seems to be enjoying herself, although I have no doubt that there'll be tears if she doesn't get her bear back soon. She'll probably blame me if Mr. Puddles is lost forever, and there's not a replacement bear in the whole world that would ever be able to fill the gap.

  I have to find Mr. Puddles.

  “Lost something?”

  Startled, I turn and see that a man is standing just a few feet away. The first thing I notice about him is that he's roughly my age and extremely handsome, with chiseled good looks and the kind of half-shaved stubbly appearance that I've always really liked. The second thing I notice is that he's wearing what looks like a full suit, which seems a little formal and impractical for a wander along the beach.

  “I'm sorry,” he continues, stepping closer and holding a hand out for me to shake. “I didn't mean to intrude. I just happened to be walking past and I heard you saying something about someone named... Mr. Puddles?”

  “My daughter's toy bear,” I reply, getting to my feet and shaking his hand. “It fell between the rocks.”

  “And now you can't find it?”

  “I think maybe it's been taken by something.”

  “That's unfortunate,” he replies. “I suppose it'll soon be time to go to the bear shop for a new one, then.”

  “I'm not sure that'll work,” I tell him. “The bear was a gift from her father, before he...”

  My voice trails off for a moment.

  Turning, the man looks toward the shore, where Kate is still playing happily and where Alice is still resting on a towel.

  “She's not going to be there for long,” I stammer, trying to preempt any criticism of my parenting approach. “It's just while I try to find this bear.”

  “They both seem happy,” he replies, turning to me with a smile. “I always have great admiration for anyone who can raise a happy, healthy child. That seems to be such a wonderful skill, and one that is so rarely recognized. The older girl, in particular, seems to be having a great time.”