The Shadow Fabric

by Mark Cassell

  He shrugged, which annoyed me. “I have no idea.”

  I hated that phrase, yet I was equally as guilty using it. Tugging my sleeve up, I checked the time—old habits—and noticed the second hand had frozen. There was a crack in the glass and the face had darkened as if burnt. Perhaps the Zippo flames had scorched it.

  The ruined wall presented us with no easy exit, and with a row of hedges separating us from the gardens, we chose to head back to the foyer. As the three of us hurtled past the pool area and treatment rooms, our feet pounding the floor, I spotted something. Someone had left a chambermaid’s trolley against the wall, and on top of it, beside some towels, sat a cardboard box.

  “What are you doing?” Victor asked. He ran past with his trousers flapping around bare ankles. Isidore was close behind him.

  “Protection,” I called after them. I grabbed the box and hefted it under my arm. It wasn’t heavy, only awkward to carry. When I picked up my pace again, it was all I could do not to drop it. Every other step was like broken glass grinding into powder, using my knee socket as a pestle and mortar.

  Even though I had paused to take the box from the cart, I caught up with the others as they crossed the foyer. Outside, gravel crunched as we sprinted towards the music and reached the side of the House. Finally, there was the marquee, still a distance away. Beneath the evening sky its white canvas glowed in contrast to the Shadow Fabric overhead where it thrust back and forth like an excited dog waiting to be fed.

  Isidore now sprinted in front, followed by Victor. I was losing speed, the glass inside my knee a constant smash and grind.

  Occasionally, the Fabric would rush down and sweep over the rippling canvas of the marquee roof. A line of silver birch bowed as if in awe. Collecting overhead, dark clouds threatened rain.

  We ran. Fast. The marquee seemed miles away. Nasty splinters fired up into my knee…I gritted my teeth, and limp-sprinted.

  As I rounded the hedges, hugging my cardboard box, the white walls of the marquee exploded into view. There was Goodwin, heading through the main entrance between a pair of spotlights. He held to his stomach two metal boxes, the top one without its lid. Behind him maybe twenty necromeleons—some male, some female—all carried at least one box. Most wore patient gowns, some were naked. All of them held the same stare: dead and determined.

  Between me and the marquee, Victor and Isidore flicked up dirt as they ran. All I wanted was to stop running and hold my bastard knee. Hot needles boiled inside it. Tears streaked my face.

  By now, Goodwin’s dead followers had disappeared inside the marquee.

  The music cut off and the screams began.

  CHAPTER 43

  I bounded into the dimly lit marquee. The audience was on its feet, screaming as people collided. The seats had been closely arranged, and everyone tripped over upended chairs and each other.

  Victor had taken out two necromeleons, the rancid stench of scorched flesh sharp on the air. Chunks of burning limbs lay scattered at his feet, while Isidore’s gunshots tore into the evening. The Witchblade’s flames still flickered around them.

  Onstage, the orchestra were in as much of a mess as their audience. Abandoned instruments and scattered chairs lay about the raised platform as the entire ensemble scrabbled to get away, shoving one another. Some still clutched their instruments. One bow-tied man dragged his cello and it bounced off a music stand, smacking into the shin of a woman who ran with a violin above her head. She crashed to the stage and her violin disappeared under the stampede.

  The conductor crouched with hands to his ears, while beside him the event’s organiser, Jocelyn, still stood. Her arms were folded. They wore similar expressions of confusion and terror.

  Goodwin ran towards them, holding in each hand a metal box. The lids were off. His fingers seemed abnormally long and he raised his arms. And they lengthened. None of the musicians managed to flee as he launched the boxes at the stage, his throw perhaps charged by the shadows, and propelled in equal measure by his stretched limbs. The contents of the boxes spilled over everyone’s heads like a swarm of insects, and as one, the musicians came to a halt. They reached out and grasped the fluttering shadowleaves. The conductor and Jocelyn held a handful of leaves, and together, they sat like obedient children.

  The musicians also began stitching.

  Between the stage and us, the necromeleons ran down the aisles among the uprising crowd. They all held metal boxes, more shadowleaves.

  Men, women, and children scrambled to flee. They slapped aside chairs, bashed into people, and clawed through the bedlam. A man knocked down a woman and stepped over her. People, old and young, were frantic for their lives while the dead rushed in.

  As Isidore reloaded her gun, I pulled open my cardboard box. Furniture polish cans rolled inside. God bless Suzy and her forgetfulness. I grabbed one and knocked off the lid. With a moment’s fumble, I flicked open Goodwin’s lighter—awkward because of the gloves—and thumbed the wheel. Holding it at arm’s reach, I aimed the can’s nozzle at the flame.

  My eyes searched for a target.

  Isidore fired a couple of rounds at the nearest dead men. They each held a metal box, the lids chattering as they ran. The bullets didn’t slow them.

  Victor cut down several more necromeleons. Still they came through the side entrances, carrying more boxes. Occasionally a container would drop, the shadowleaves flying—it didn’t help the dead were running, their legs unable to keep their bodies upright.

  Unlike the necromeleons we’d seen so far, these were quick. Energised, I guessed, by the stronger Shadow Fabric.

  I squeezed the nozzle and fire roared at an approaching dead man. He screamed as flames licked his head and he threw the metal box into the crowd, as had the other necromeleons.

  The stench of burnt hair and flesh wafted over me. I coughed and spat. Isidore did the same, her face contorted. Victor leapt towards us. With quick wrist flicks, he created a shield of flame above our heads. Tracers of orange crackled. It made me squint, while the comforting smell of ozone fell around us.

  Arcing overhead, dozens of boxes spewed shadowleaves over the fleeing crowd. They exploded like devil’s confetti.

  People jerked to a halt as the leaves touched them. Some frantically reached out and grabbed them unknowingly. Others faltered, and several stopped when seeing the majority of their neighbours stop. Confusion etched into every face as all around them people sat down, some on seats while others dropped amidst upturned chairs.

  With their way blocked by blank-faced stitchers, those still lucid exchanged glances. From an audience of around a thousand, there must’ve been fifty or so left standing. This number swiftly decreased as several necromeleons rushed them. The dead men, their gowns flapping, smashed their legs into the sitting stitchers. Chairs tumbled as the necromeleons hurled a handful of shadowleaves into the remaining stunned faces.

  A final scream echoed.

  The frantic sounds of escape no longer filled the marquee and the following silence was incredible. I heard an occasional shuffle as the stitching got underway. We had failed. With all these stitchers stitching, this would energise the Fabric and the Entity would soon complete its haunt. Isidore, Victor, and I stood side by side, helpless. Isidore’s weapon shook as she pointed it at each necromeleon, though she wasted no more shots. Victor would occasionally wave the Witchblade to reinforce our canopy of flame. The shadowleaves flew over us and flared on impact with it. As they burned away, the protective fire dimmed.

  The necromeleons who’d entered the crowd now stood still, while most of the others flanked the perimeter of the stitching audience like sentinels. Several were onstage with Goodwin, who towered over the conductor. The man sat cross-legged. He held a shadowleaf in both hands and pressed them together. Next to him, Jocelyn already stitched.

  To the back of the stage, a cellist—the guy who’d been dragging his instrument—dropped his cello as he concentrated on the shadowleaf in his other hand, and he fell to his kne
es. The cello boomed the last note of the evening.

  Goodwin wore a smirk that did not belong on his face. I had to remind myself it wasn’t Goodwin, it was the Entity.

  The diminishing wisps of flame fell around us without harm, and Victor stepped away. His chest heaved and dismay brought his eyebrows together. Another flurry of Witchblade swipes and another ring of fire protected us. Isidore remained close by my side as she lowered her gun. I lowered my can of polish. I was ready to use a second can if necessary. My head hammered, my lungs burned, my knee throbbed, and my eyes ached. Between the stage and the three of us, an uneven blanket of upright bodies twitched as one like a sea of rippling waves. Beneath dim lighting, the main focus was the stage where the musicians now played very different instruments.

  And there was Goodwin, standing centre-stage, palms open and slowly raising his arms. His voice came like a bark. “Let’s begin.”

  It was as though the crowd were in prayer, worshipping him. Stitch-stitch-stitch.

  A darkness crept into the marquee. The light dimmed, albeit slightly, as the lesser shadows entered. Grey ones, elongating and flitting, and then the Shadow Fabric oozed through the side entrances. Its black mass bulged through the doorways, every exit now blocked. As it pushed inwards, the canvas tore. The poles bent and popped from their housing. The rigging collapsed in a tangle of supports and cables. In sections, the lights sparked out. More canvas shredded, leaving only skeletal supports as the Fabric rushed in like a black river.

  “Victor!” I shouted.

  “Stay there, Leo. Wait.”

  “Wait for what?” Isidore glared at him. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “We’ll be dead the moment we try!” he shouted over the tearing canvas and clanking metal. He swung the Witchblade, encircling us with flame. “Stay where you are.”

  Great strips of the canvas flapped as the Fabric whipped into a frenzy. The main body of Fabric surged over the stitching crowd, pulling away the final portion of sheeting, then hurled it into the fields.

  “Victor!” I screamed at him. “We’ve got to do something.”

  While there were only a few disconnected supports, most of the marquee rigging remained in place. The two spotlights now poured their brilliance over the stitching crowd. Its glare highlighted the nightmare before us.

  The stitchers continued to stitch as we stood shoulder to shoulder. I glared at Victor. Stay there, he’d said. I clutched Goodwin’s lighter and a can of furniture polish, watching as the Shadow Fabric hurled itself upwards. It spiralled above the tree line and abruptly altered course, accelerating in an arc, and slammed into the gardens. Spitting chunks of hedges and dirt, the earth erupted as the Fabric burrowed beneath us like some gigantic worm. The ground rumbled and I staggered, clutching tight my pathetic can. My leg gave way. I fell onto my hands and knees, and Isidore tried to pull me up. Her wide eyes searched my face. They reflected my own fear.

  The shattering of windows tore into the evening, and from the south wing of the House, glinting shards poured into the gardens. Chunks of masonry fell away in dusty resignation.

  With the ground heaving and a thousand or more stitchers twitching, Goodwin stood before it all with hands on his hips. Parts of Periwick House crumbled as the earth shook its foundations.

  “What can we do?” Isidore crouched beside me, holding me. The Witchblade fire sparked overhead. “This is madness.”

  “I have no idea.” I grimaced, not wanting to move. My bad knee throbbed and sent hot spikes into my thigh.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  A weak smile was my only reply as I managed to stand. Beyond her, out in the car park, I saw something…

  The gravel bulged and the vehicles rippled as the Fabric surged underground. Several headlights flashed as alarms squawked. The rumble subsided for a moment, and in an upheaval of cars, the Fabric blasted out from its burrow. More alarms wailed in cacophonic protest as the vehicles catapulted into the air. A motorcycle spun and smacked into the House’s roof in a scattering of tiles. Its front wheel hooked onto the edge and hung there. Cars flipped and crashed, windscreens shattered, and metal and plastic rained down. Hunks of tarmac shot into the earth. Cars crashed atop cars. There were no Hollywood explosions, only an inky darkness rushing through the bedlam.

  Isidore’s hair was a flurry as the Fabric corkscrewed, whipping up dirt and debris. The air rushed into my ears and added to the roaring blood coursing through my head.

  I saw Victor running from us.

  “Victor!” I screamed. What was he doing? With flashes of bare ankles, he hurdled the stitchers. He stumbled occasionally, zigzagging towards the stage. Sparking fire trailed behind the Witchblade as he raised it. The closer he got to the stage, the brighter the strip of flame. It seared the retina, yet I couldn’t help staring. Like a burning rope, it flared and lashed the air behind him.

  All this time, Goodwin watched him approach, amusement smeared across his face.

  With his arm raised, Victor moved the Witchblade in circles, and a charge of fiery energies coiled into a lasso. With a flick of the wrist, he sent the streamer at the man standing on the stage. The blazing rope looped around Goodwin’s neck and jerked his body rigid. His arms dropped and his face shifted from amusement to something else. The features melted like wax. His head swelled and warped as the Entity seethed beneath the mask of Goodwin’s face. Its powers were escalating, yet still restricted by its human form.

  An almost welcome relief of darkness passed before us as another crash shook the earth. Shrouded by the Fabric, another portion of the House crumbled and flattened a row of bushes. Mud and debris flew.

  Under the continued protection of fire, Isidore and I stood aghast, inhaling the smoky destruction. Both of us coughed. Small fires were everywhere. I didn’t know where to look, the Shadow Fabric, the stage, or the House.

  I felt helpless. Stay there…

  The Entity reached outwards and dimmed the light. No sooner had the darkness drenched the flame, another fiery blanket burst from the Witchblade and wrapped around Goodwin’s false body.

  I yelled at Victor—I had to do something. I wanted to help.

  “Isidore, I—” My jaw ached.

  She gripped her gun in both hands, eyeing the devastation.

  Now completely immobilised, the Entity struggled as Victor, dragged by the Witchblade, flew up towards the stage. Both his feet left the ground as the fiery streamers pulled him up.

  Isidore’s hair rested on her shoulders as the Fabric calmed itself. It now hovered above the ruined car park. Why the sudden cease in its destructive rampage, and what was the thing waiting for? The answer came immediately. Its surface rippled and hundreds of tentacles shot out. Probing, wriggling, and whipping. Searching…

  And the whispers began. Indistinct at first, revealing their presence. They came from the Fabric. They suggested I should run. To escape from the canopy of protective flames. The voices writhed through my brain. I wanted to run as fast as I could. I wanted to fight. To cry. Hide. Kill myself.

  Isidore held her arms over her head. “Tell it to stop!”

  The fire around us blazed brighter still and erupted in a sputtering wall. The voices—those teasing murmurs—faded into darkness. My shoulders slumped and my head emptied. Isidore dropped her arms. Her cheeks were moist and her eyes glistened.

  “This is too much,” she told me.

  The stitchers were collapsing into dusty heaps, their shadowleaves now stitched, and floated away in dark clouds. Those transient shadows merged with the lesser shadows, hooking into new pieces of the Fabric. Given the spotlights, the various fires, and the spreading darkness, it was difficult to see detail. The necromeleons remained inactive, with new strands of Fabric snaking up their legs. Tentacles from the main body of the Fabric snatched at them and pulled them down. As the stitchers fell, so did the necromeleons. Each collapsed body and dead henchman slipped into the Shadow Fabric.

  Victor and Goodwin wrestled onstage in a
match of Light versus Dark. Sputtering streamers whipped the air.

  The Fabric’s intruding whispers echoed, though their suggestions meant nothing. The only thought remaining was to fight, yet I dared not emerge from the Witchblade’s shield. I could only peer between the tracers of fire Victor had created for us. I wanted—no, I needed—to help.

  Isidore screamed in my ear, “Leo!”

  Reluctantly, I let my gaze snap off and I gritted my teeth.

  She grabbed me and shook me, glaring past my head. “Leo!”

  An arm of Fabric had crept behind us and flattened into a scoop of darkness. It blocked out the sky. I flicked the lighter and brought up a can of polish. A roar of fire pushed through the fiery canopy into the Fabric. The black folds pressed down onto the skittering traceries of our shield.

  Isidore shouted something, her body against mine.

  The scorching flame crackled and flared intermittently, and my fumbling fingers dropped the lighter. Idiot. I bent and groped for it.

  The light dimmed.

  We were going to die.

  Victor and Goodwin grappled. With the Fabric obscuring my view of the stage—so much darkness—I saw Goodwin snatch the flaming lasso from his throat and shove Victor to the floor.

  I gripped the lighter.

  Victor crumpled, pain twisting his face, and the Witchblade flew from his hand. It landed amongst the remaining stitchers in the audience.

  The darkness lowered. Onto us. In one hand, I held Isidore close, and in the other I clutched the Zippo—my fingers too weak to use it.

  The fire shield sputtered out and the light faded to black.

  Voices invaded my brain and I cried out. Isidore said something I failed to hear through the cacophony. The filthy, mind-intruding darkness clogged my ears, my brain, my every fibre. Isidore pressed herself against me, still screaming into my ear. Our collective fear roared, twinned with millions of shrieking voices. All I tasted was death.