The Shadow Fabric

by Mark Cassell

  Sweat spotted my forehead.

  The Fabric remained where it was, bulging and heaving. It hung as a backdrop to the spectacle like black curtains, a transient shroud of evil. It shivered in a coruscation of black folds and impenetrable darkness.

  The entity, haunting via the Shadow Fabric, had taken on human form to walk on our plane of existence, the world in which we live oblivious—up until now—to the terror behind the light. Like an actor taking on a role, indeed on a stage upon which stood humankind, the entity had walked among us. In doing so, it had put into motion its plan for our undoing. It wanted, as Victor once explained, to return the universe to the primordial darkness that once was, to pull the curtain closed one final time.

  The Fabric quivered, charged by newly stitched evils, and pulsed behind the ghostly form of the entity.

  Flames spat from the Witchblade and bounced off Victor’s shoulders as he glared at the entity. The thing had neither shape nor form, only a greyness, spreading up and outwards—a gurgling mass of nothing. Like an old photograph of a ghost where a grey spectral image floats through the air, insubstantial, yet holding an eerie presence, smothering the image. Hanging in front of Victor, trailing wisps of dark energies, it stole my focus. I had no choice, I had to see it. I tried to look away, and immediately my attention snapped back as though on a rubber band. Grotesque and incredible, it was mesmerising.

  The three necromeleons remained motionless while the last stitcher’s body fell. A chalky plume puffed outwards as though its final breath escaped. The shell collapsed under folds of clothes.

  My eyes returned to the entity. Its presence seethed against the bubbling darkness at Victor’s feet. He yelled and swiped the Witchblade downwards, fire tracing the air. Flames erupted as the blade tore into the entity’s dark body. Its scream filled the room, and I would have sworn my ears bled. Flames licked Victor’s gloves. Apparently not burning him, the damage was only to the entity.

  I thrashed against the restraining shadows, my frustration groaning into the gag…and the entity’s shrill cry tore through my brain.

  The quivering mass pulled away from Victor. The Witchblade dislodged and created more flames. The pair separated and circled one another like boxers in a ring. On one side, Victor thrust the glowing blade, fire crackling; while on the other, the entity shimmered beneath crawling flames.

  Victor’s chest heaved. His jaw set as he waved the Witchblade. Fire splashed the entity. With each move of his hand, Victor stepped forward. The bulk of greyness shifted backwards. It squirmed, heading towards the Shadow Fabric, perhaps attempting escape. Would the Fabric then vanish? I could only hope.

  With a series of sudden flicks and jabs, Victor created a pattern of fire. It clung to the air. A collection of symbols with intricate curves and lines. It seemed to be enough to hold the entity there. Its spectral shivering framed against a backdrop of absolute darkness, it froze, briefly shrinking, hunching almost—only to remain still, caged by the fiery script. The symbols swirled and sent traceries of spitting flame in all directions. They flared into white arcs to dissolve like shooting stars.

  No longer did the entity scream. I heard only the sound of crackling flames.

  The necromeleons still hadn’t moved, as though the three were tailor mannequins, just for show. Anytime now, I expected them to jerk into life.

  The Shadow Fabric hadn’t moved since Victor had cornered the entity against it. Its sharp edges no longer a roiling mass of blackness, it now hung motionless. Watching Victor stand behind those flaming symbols was like nothing I’d ever seen…at least from what I could remember.

  With another combination of intricate hand gestures, Victor scribbled more symbols around the entity. The thing jerked backwards, and its incorporeal being clung to the Fabric. Like mixing paint, the contact between black and grey churned, bubbled, and blended. The grey diluted instantly.

  The transition as the entity shifted into the Shadow Fabric left no visible trace. Relief flushed through me.

  Victor almost danced as he scrawled another set of symbols around the clinging mass of shadow. The Fabric’s presence was still incredible, yet strangely subdued. I strained against the shadows which held me, hoping that securing the Fabric as he had, the rest of the shadows in the room would release us.

  No chance, they still held me firm. Isidore’s eyes fixed on mine.

  Victor lowered the Witchblade.

  “Get me out of here!” I screamed into my gag.

  CHAPTER 36

  The flaming symbols still spat delicate streamers in the air. Victor stepped away from the Shadow Fabric and walked across the studio towards me. His wrinkled forehead relaxed. One eye half-closed, glistening red, the rest of his face was blood and bruises. Finally, I was going to be released.

  The three necromeleons rushed him.

  He leapt sideways, brought up the Witchblade in an arc of fire, and severed the dead as they ran into it. All three henchman came to a sudden stop and their bodies tore into fiery chunks. Each piece hit the floor with a sickening slap. A few smouldering ribbons of suit and shirt fluttered in the air. An arm twitched, the fire already dying as it burned away the last traces of shadow. With flames trickling over its surface, a dark tentacle flicked outwards to escape its crackling confines. Victor kicked it towards a flaming torso and it was consumed.

  Silence.

  He wasn’t idle. He released us with the Witchblade. Isidore was first, careful as he pried out the packed shadows in her mouth. She grimaced, spat, and rubbed her tongue over her teeth. Then he cut me free. The shadows fell away and dissolved, not even attempting to return to the Fabric. I assumed that due to its confinement, the Fabric’s hold over such lesser shadows had weakened. Victor stabbed at several lingering patches and they burned quickly.

  As I straightened—my knee killing me—Isidore came to stand at my side. Her eyes roamed my face, and with the back of a hand, she stroked my cheek. It was where she’d kicked me. There was an angry bruise on the side of her face. It’s a curious thing, hating yourself for a physical act you had no control over. She offered me a smile and I took it. And her, mine. I understood, so did she.

  Victor crouched beside Polly, a pained expression on his face.

  “Polly.” He grabbed her hand, the one which wasn’t attached to the Hourglass. She didn’t respond. The blind woman’s eyes were closed and her chest gently rose and fell. It was as if she’d passed out. Only the top of the Hourglass was visible and revealed plenty of white sand remaining. The lower half was sheathed in shadow.

  “I don’t know what would happen if I released her in that state.” Victor let go of her hand. It flopped to the side, palm up as though she begged. I wondered why she had passed out rather than remaining awake like when I was attached to the Hourglass.

  “You can’t just leave her,” Isidore said.

  The remains of the many stitchers lay at our feet, mounds of dust heaped about the floor. In places, bone shards protruded from chalky clothes. I felt dirty just looking at them.

  “Victor.” I walked towards him. “Surely—”

  “No, Leo, we can’t risk it.” He stood and met me in the middle of the studio.

  “What do we do now?” I asked, wanting to walk away. Wanting to ignore the revelations of my past. I’d been a criminal and had no idea what crimes I committed.

  Victor took his time to answer, and when he spoke, his voice was soft.

  “This is all a mess,” he said. “Stanley. Katrina. Those people, the stitchers.”

  Isidore joined us. Her knuckles glowed against the black metal of her gun.

  The Shadow Fabric remained behind the wall of fire, its edges sharp and unmoving. The black surface gleamed and reflected the occasional flame. Chunks of dead flesh littered the ground, resembling little more than volcanic rock or bits of coal. Several cauterised limbs lay around; my gaze didn’t linger on those. And there were the remains of the stitchers… Natalie, not my fault. Dean, the Periwick manager, entirel
y my fault. As were all the others. My old life had leaked into my new life. I was no better than before.

  “This is madness,” I said.

  My thoughts strayed towards my white shadowleaf. It proved I was pure again. Right?

  Victor spoke, “The Fabric is held at bay. We’re safe.”

  The Fabric, like a magnet, kept pulling my attention. Its thrall had lessened, yet it raged behind those intricate patterns. It was as if I could sense its frustration.

  “Safe for now,” Victor added, and groaned as he rubbed his neck. “The entity is back inside the Fabric. Locked within the darkness again. I don’t know how long we can prevent its haunt. It will still fight, and seeing how the Fabric is so large, I have doubts the fire will contain it for much longer.”

  “We need to stop this thing.” I glared at him. He gripped the Witchblade in bloody gloves.

  “If it fights,” Isidore said, “we fight.”

  I gritted my teeth. Looking at her gun, I wondered if I’d ever used one, whether I’d ever shot anyone. Maybe that was my crime.

  She waved her gun towards the mass of Fabric. She had a weapon, not that bullets proved effective against the dead. Nor the shadows, for that matter. Victor had a better weapon—powerful and one with serious results—and there was me without any protection. Lame, standing between blade and bullets, empty handed. I straightened my back and puffed out my chest, and felt pathetic.

  “That’s all we can do,” Victor said, eyeing the Fabric.

  I grabbed my gloves from the floor, thinking of Lucas exploding into pieces. It was reassuring to pull the leather over my hands.

  “Stanley and Polly once had a thing together,” Victor said.

  I frowned and flexed my fingers. “Really?”

  “He was different. Kind of, but Polly loved him. Then, as always, Stanley would muck it up.” He swallowed hard. “And then he really mucked it up.”

  “What happened? What did he do?” Whatever I’d been in my previous life, I hoped I wasn’t on Stanley’s level.

  “What did he do to Polly? What did he do to make us all hate the vile, evil bastard?” His lips parted to say something. He dropped his gaze to Polly and he snapped his jaw shut as though whatever he’d been about to say would finally break him. In silence, he took steady steps towards the remains of the stitchers, and stopped at a metal box. There were several shadowleaves scattered about the floor. He dropped to a crouch. “Where did these come from?”

  “Under the House,” I said. “There’s a lot more down there.”

  Victor’s bloodshot eyes widened.

  “A lot more,” I added.

  Isidore nodded.

  Victor looked up at us and waved the Witchblade in front of him. Flames spread across the shadowleaves and they flared. As the rush of fire shrank, smoke curled from the shrivelled clumps that remained. The smell was like burning rubber. Putrid and lingering.

  He coughed and said, “If each box contains shadowleaves, we’ve got to burn them. All of them.”

  “That thing,” Isidore said, pointing at the Fabric, “was here before humans, right?”

  Victor snapped his head in her direction. “Most entities were here before life, yes.”

  “Before there was light,” I added.

  “Before there was fire,” Victor mumbled. “Come on.”

  “Where to?” I asked, hoping he’d say away from there, away from the House. But I knew the answer, I knew we couldn’t leave. Not yet.

  “I need a closer look at those boxes,” he said, clutching the Witchblade to his chest.

  “Don’t you want to get cleaned up first?” I asked him. He looked awful.

  “This is more important,” he said as he walked away.

  CHAPTER 37

  “The concert, Victor,” I said, checking my watch. Its second hand stuttered around the dial: tick, tick, tick… “It starts in about an hour. We need to get those people out.”

  We entered the foyer where a few guests were heading into the restaurant and bar area. A busy hum floated out to us, reinforcing my concern. All those people ready for an evening’s entertainment, not to mention those in the marquee or walking the gardens.

  “We can’t just tell everyone to leave. It would create hysteria.” Victor ran ahead into Goodwin’s office. Being covered with blood and sporting a bruised, puffy face wouldn’t look good if anyone saw him.

  “We can pull the fire alarm,” Isidore said.

  “That would alert the services.” Victor slammed the door behind us. “We can’t have them seeing this.”

  “Good point.”

  “What about all those people?” I said.

  “The marquee must seat a few hundred.” Isidore grabbed my arm.

  “Maybe a thousand.” I winced. “Not to mention however many are in the orchestra.”

  “We can’t do anything about that right now,” Victor told us. “Leo, our mystery corpse was actually Stanley after all.”

  It took me a moment to realise what Victor meant. “And we thought he was a necromeleon.”

  “It couldn’t have been the case. I should have realised even when we’d suspected it.”

  “Why?” I had Goodwin’s lighter gripped tight like a lifeline. I was glad I found it back where we’d found Polly. That seemed a long time ago, and it had only been a few hours.

  “Necromeleons can’t speak. Tongues. That’s what I’d been struggling to translate. Tongues. The dead can walk but not talk.”

  “This is crazy,” Isidore said. “Absolute madness.”

  I agreed with her, but said nothing. My head pounded and I doubted I could handle much more. As always, my knee was screaming. Victor favoured one leg himself; with every step, he’d been grimacing. Standing before Goodwin’s bookshelves waiting for the lift, he spoke of the entity. Mostly for Isidore’s sake.

  Victor explained how he believed the entity to be The Entity, and it needed an earthly being—in this instance, it was Stanley—to begin the unrolling of its plans. The Entity’s aim was to stitch all humankind’s evils into one all-enveloping Fabric, and return the universe back to the original primordial darkness. In creating a new Shadow Fabric, its expanse would be powerful enough to absorb the life force of all living beings, no longer needing actual stitchers. Eventually, each pocket of natural shadow around the world would become a separate piece of Fabric as every being on the planet was absorbed. No longer stitching the Fabric, but fuelling it.

  “Since time immemorial,” Victor concluded as we made it into the corridors beneath the House, “the Entity—the very presence of darkness itself—has hidden behind a veil of precisely that: darkness. Since its near success back in the 17th century, humankind’s evil has reached such a potency that the Fabric is able to be stitched. Once it’s large enough for a complete haunt, the Entity will break through onto our plane and mutate the Fabric into darkness. Returning the universe to how it was at the beginning of time. Before there was light, life, you, me…everything…”

  The way he said it chilled me to the core. I gritted my teeth.

  “Haunt,” he added and stopped walking. His eyes bulged. “The entity, Haunt. How could I have been so stupid?”

  Isidore and I gaped at him. What the hell was he talking about?

  His lips tightened and he shook his head. “There are many levels, or ranks, if you prefer. The darkness is home to infinite abominations. In all the text I’ve read, there have been many references to a haunt and how it’s achieved. Something I overlooked…”

  “What?” Isidore’s eyes leapt to mine, then back to Victor. “What are you saying?”

  He stared at his bloodied shoes. “According to sources, the entity born of the shadow from Man’s first sin dubbed itself Haunt. Referring to the way in which it came into being. They are all arrogant bastards.”

  “Reflections of Haunt?” I asked, remembering the shattered mirrors at the farmhouse.

  “Precisely!” Victor shouted, then lowered his voice. “Haunt has been
referred to as a demon. Mistaken for a fallen angel. He is also known as Turlamov, one of the first entities. Born, as I said, of Man’s first sin. Think about it.”

  “I am thinking about it,” I said. “It’s crazy.”

  “You’ve seen enough to recognise that I’m not making this up.” Victor pulled at his gloves. “But understand that I’ve read extensively about the shadows, about haunting. About everything which exists between the folds of darkness around us. Yet there is only so much I know. Turmalov, the entity known as Haunt, has been rumoured to be part of the big picture. I always assumed the texts referred to haunt as the gateway and not Haunt, the entity. I didn’t understand.”

  “I guess you can’t know everything,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

  “I’m too old for this.” He raised one leg and shook it. The bloodied trousers hardly moved.

  Isidore shrugged, almost saying something. Her lips whitened and she averted her gaze. I, too, felt for Victor. He was a mess, and defeat tugged at his face.

  “Haunt,” he said, “the entity, is said to answer only to the Being of darkness. The main Entity. Absolute evil, it has no label. Turlamov bows only to this Being.”

  “From the beginning,” I said, “I thought the Shadow Fabric was the bad guy.”

  Isidore looked at her gun and her mouth turned down slightly. She knew it was a useless weapon. “Which entity are we dealing with?”

  Victor glanced at me. “Evidence could suggest either one. However, I doubt it’s Haunt.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “From what I understand, only the Entity itself can possess someone. The lesser entities could never be powerful enough.”

  “Haunt sounds powerful.” I thought about Lucas’s contact, Thomas. The shrivelled body pierced by countless slivers of mirror. Reflections of Haunt. And I remembered the massive shard rammed down his throat.