The Night Weaver

by Monique Snyman

  “Oh, this can get so much worse,” Rachel says, grimacing. She has no idea who her mom is anymore.

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t mind me,” she says offhand.

  She possesses a great and horrible power, an ethereal artifact forged by Death’s own hands when the Seven Worlds were still veiled in darkness. Beware her cloak, for it is as conscious as you and I.

  The next few pages go on to describe how the Night Weaver seduces her followers, how she torments her prisoners, and how easily she can corrupt a person into doing her bidding. It’s dark and frightening, but Rachel pushes through, hoping the author is one of those “every cloud has a silver lining” people. There needs to be some way to put an end to the Night Weaver’s reign of terror.

  Beside her, Greg stands up and stretches his back.

  “Coffee?” he asks.

  “Please.”

  She watches him walk out of the room and returns to the document she’s been clutching for the better part of an hour. Finally, she gets to the good part. A way to, at least, subdue the creature from Orthega.

  It is a commonly known fact that the fair folk have a natural aversion to pure substances, be it salt or iron. Silver is often considered another way to deter these creatures, although some races are more prone to the side-effects than others. None who’ve had the misfortune of dealing with the Night Weaver has ever found a true method to put her down permanently. There are certain temporary ways, tested by either Fraser or MacCleary descendants, to trap her.

  Greg sets a mug down on the desk in front of her and takes his seat. “Found anything interesting in there?”

  “I’m getting to the good part now,” she says. “Thanks for the coffee.” Rachel shifts around on the chair to get comfortable again, reading as she takes sips of her coffee. As she nears the end of the document, the final sentence—written in large, properly spaced, block letters—catches her eye:

  LIGHT WILL ALWAYS DEFEAT DARKNESS

  If only.

  Eleven

  Suffer The Little Children

  A plethora of questions run amok in Rachel’s mind as she stares at the historical documents. The symptoms of being under the Night Weaver’s influence, like the so-called mom club, eat away at her. The black letters against the crisp white pages are meaningless symbols, redundant information. She flips the page dutifully when it seems like an appropriate amount of time has passed.

  If she says something and it turns out her theory is correct, Shadow Grove will be forever changed. Whatever trust there is between the townsfolk will disintegrate and suspicion will grow into an amorphous, hateful beast that devours people from the inside out. There’s a good chance she’ll be ostracized if she opens her mouth and reveals who’s behind the kidnappings. The community may condemn her, may very well hold her responsible for ruining families in an entirely different way. Rachel’s own mother will be torn away from her, doomed to spend a justifiable amount of time behind bars for her crimes—crimes Rachel prays her mother won’t remember committing.

  If she says nothing, the possibility of more kids going missing is indubitable. Innocent, unsuspecting children will be fed to the Night Weaver so selfish adults can reminisce about the good old days with monsters parading around as their loved ones.

  Either way, how will she ever be able to live with herself?

  More importantly: if she decides to tell someone about Shadow Grove’s matriarchs’ sinister hobby, to whom should she speak? Sheriff Carter isn’t going to do jack about anything, and the deputies aren’t exactly the sort who’ll go against their superiors. The current mayor is a sniveling coward with more money than brains, while the town council is too keen on making sure people believe their illusion. The other aspect she needs to consider is how much she should reveal if she reveals anything. Nobody will accept a story about some blue-faced bogeywoman influencing the adults and stalking the quaint New England town’s children. Nobody will believe the mom club being under the influence of some supernatural force. What can she do?

  “We need a map of the town,” Greg says, sounding none too pleased about it.

  Rachel drags her gaze away from the papers she holds. “Why?”

  “Because I suspect our moms have something to do with the missing children and if we incorporate both lists onto a map it’ll be easier to see if I’m right.” He pushes his hand through his hair and slumps back into his chair. She’s rendered speechless at how fast he’d come to the same conclusion without taking into consideration the more fantastical part of the story. “I just can’t figure out why they’d kidnap the kids in the first place or where they’d hide them.”

  “Have you thought about going into law enforcement after high school?” she asks.

  Greg frowns. “No. Why? Were you thinking along the same lines?”

  Rachel shrugs. “I’m not cop material—”

  “I meant about our mothers being involved with the kidnappings,” Greg interrupts.

  “Yes ...”

  “Damn it, Rach. How long have you been sitting on that piece of info?” He pushes himself out of his swivel chair, walks toward the door. He turns on his heel and paces back. “How can you expect me to trust you if I’m not shown the same courtesy?”

  Rachel shifts in her chair to catch his eyes. “I haven’t known long, and the only reason I haven’t told you is because I’ve been preoccupied with listing the pros and cons of going public with this knowledge.”

  “It’s our duty as decent human beings—”

  “Get off it already,” she snaps, standing. “Think about what’ll happen if we go to Sheriff Carter and tell him our moms have been partaking in some good ol’ kiddy snatching around town. If that moron even believes our insane-sounding story, what do you think will happen to them?”

  He blanches. The internal conflict she’s been struggling with is now a shared burden, one with dire consequences no matter what they do from here on out.

  Rachel inhales deeply to calm herself, and says gently, “Exactly, so cut me some slack.”

  “You obviously know more than you’re telling me. So, what’s happening in Shadow Grove?” he asks, dead serious.

  She bites her bottom lip and shakes her head, eyelids falling shut from the unspeakable truth. As she stands there, considering whether to tell him or not, hands are placed on her shoulders. The clean soapy scent drifts closer. Rachel senses the solidity of his body nearing, and she opens her eyes to look up at him. “You really don’t want to know.”

  “I need to know, Rachel.” Greg stares at her until the point seems to drive home. He releases her. “You need to tell me everything from the beginning, otherwise we’re going to work against each other and neither of us will get anything done.”

  “You’ll think I’ve gone crazy.”

  He leans back against the desk, crosses his arms, and says, “You’re the most logical person I know.”

  Rachel tilts her head to the side and raises both eyebrows in bemusement.

  “Well, it’s true.”

  She relents with a heavy sigh. “We’ll both need some fresh air for this.”

  Greg nods and leads her out through the apartment’s separate entrance, which is situated on the side of the main house. They walk together into the back garden at a leisurely pace, where green lawns and expertly designed gardens are interspersed with stone pathways. A sparkling blue pool, inviting on this sweltering midday, stands to one side of the yard. The pool house—better described as an entertainment lounge—is shut up tightly, though. Usually, if there’s some activity at Pearson Manor, the French windows are thrown open to allow guests entry to the built-in bar, billiards table, and dartboard. On those eventful days, the outdoor furniture is carried out, too—beautiful rattan loungers and recliners, and large white umbrellas set into circular cement blocks—so guests can laze away in luxury.

  This used to be a hostess’ dream home, a lively house where parties were the talk of the town. Not so much anymore.

&
nbsp; Rachel tells him what she’s learned from her father’s journals, about what she and Dougal saw on Griswold Road after they left the Roberts’ farm on Friday night, about Orthega, and the late-night visit from the Night Weaver. She doesn’t skip over anything, though she hesitates when it comes to telling Greg about the creature who’d taken her father’s form. The implications of there being a Luke imposter in his house are too horrible to imagine. Greg doesn’t interrupt her once. He doesn’t scoff or look disbelieving, but Rachel can see him formulating questions she probably won’t be able to answer.

  As they head back toward the apartment’s door, she concludes her retelling of events with a disheartened, “That’s everything I know.”

  Greg remains quiet for a long time afterward, pensive expression fixed in place. “It’s a lot to take in at first,” he says, not betraying whether he believes in her fantastic recounting of the past few days. “Are you up for a field trip? There’s someone I think you should meet.”

  Mrs. Crenshaw’s voice enters her mind, urging her to keep the umbrella close. She glances up, where a few straggling, fluffy clouds drift across the forget-me-not blue sky. There isn’t going to be rain today, but it won’t hurt to have it on hand, Rachel decides. Rather safe than sorry, right?

  “Sure, let me just go get something out of my car,” she says.

  “I’ll meet you out front in five.”

  Rachel hurries around the side of the house, to her car, and pushes the key fob to unlock the doors. On the backseat, her umbrella lies enveloped in a winter coat she’s been promising herself to take out for months now. She grabs the umbrella by its wooden handle and slams the door shut. She presses the key fob and listens to the satisfying beep, which signals the locks falling into place. Rachel leans against the exterior of her Hyundai, waiting for Greg to arrive. She inspects the silver-coated clasp keeping the indigo waterproof fabric tied up neatly against the wooden staff.

  If Greg doesn’t think I’m weird yet, my hauling around an umbrella on a sunny day will certainly convince him otherwise.

  The New Range Rover Sport—a sleek, white monstrosity with a gorgeous interior that makes Rachel’s Hyundai i10 look like an insignificant bug in comparison—drives out of the garage and follows the driveway to where she’s standing. Greg rolls to a stop and she opens the passenger door.

  “Didn’t want to take the Mercedes out today, huh?” She climbs inside the Range Rover and fumbles with the seatbelt.

  “I only take the Merc out when I’m going on a date,” Greg answers, smirking. Rachel laughs, setting down the umbrella in the slight gap between the seat and the door. “What’s with the umbrella?” He puts the Range Rover into drive. “Are you trying to make an ironic fashion statement of some kind?”

  She sits back against the comfortable passenger seat, the new car scent still filling the interior, and keeps her gaze pinned on the windshield. “Do I look like the type of girl who deals in subliminal messages?” Rachel spies his subtle shrug. “No, the umbrella is not ironic.”

  “Okay,” Greg says, sounding unconvinced.

  “Oh, shush. You have your quirks and I have mine. Let’s leave it at that.”

  He grins. “I don’t have any quirks.”

  “You’re pretty particular when it comes to your study,” Rachel says. “I bet you ten dollars if I opened one of your desk’s drawers, all your stationery will be perfectly aligned and sorted by color.”

  “You’d be out of ten dollars if I’d taken that bet seriously,” Greg says as he turns the vehicle into Eerie Street. The absence of noise on this side of town is not unfamiliar but the lack of life in the prominent suburban neighborhood is somewhat disconcerting. Not a single dog barks. No children play on the lawns. There isn’t a single friendly face outside. “I’m neat, not obsessive compulsive.”

  “Not even a little?” Rachel could swear his nervous habits include excessive handwashing and constant organizing.

  He shakes his head, still smiling. “Don’t get me wrong, I like certain things done a specific way, but it’s not OCD.”

  “Everyone has some idiosyncrasies. It’s what makes us human,” Rachel says. “Anyway, who’re we going to see?”

  Greg keeps his gaze fixed on the road ahead. “A friend.”

  “Ooh, look at you being all mysterious.” She laughs, watching the expensive houses roll by. Those pretty façades hide so many terrible secrets. “Have I met this friend of yours?”

  “I doubt it,” he mutters as his humor recedes. “People like him don’t usually socialize with people like you.”

  “People like me?” she asks, surprised. “What type of person am I?”

  “You know.” Greg shrugs, but doesn’t elaborate.

  “No, I don’t know. Enlighten me.”

  Greg doesn’t reply. He turns onto Main Road and drives past the bustling historical sector, where kids cling to their mothers’ skirts and teenagers cast suspicious glances at whoever passes. There’s a cloud of mistrust blanketing the small establishments and their customers, masked by fake smiles and the curt exchange of pleasantries. The gloominess which has taken over portions of the town doesn’t seem to stretch farther yet, but the atmosphere has changed all over Shadow Grove.

  The Range Rover crawls to a stop as they hit some early afternoon traffic.

  “Where does this enigmatic friend of yours live?” Rachel asks, staring out of the passenger window.

  “You’ll see,” Greg says as the car moves forward again.

  Rachel shifts her attention back to her companion, eyes narrowing.

  The corners of his lip twitch upward again. “You hate not being in control, don’t you?”

  She doesn’t respond, because Greg is not wrong. As a self-confessed control freak, few things in life irk her as much as trusting others. Rachel turns back to face the road, deflating as her anxiety rises to the surface. Since Luke’s death, she and Greg haven’t always had an amicable relationship. He has found ways to make her life extremely difficult, but those instances were never malevolent in nature. Nevertheless, Rachel works at her thumb’s cuticle again, her nail quickly reopening the jagged wound.

  Greg steers the car down to the center of town, past the roundabout park, and toward the Other Side.

  As they enter the industrial sector, the traffic systematically dries up to a trickle. Soon, the Range Rover passes by the large junkyard and the sun-bleached sign comes up for PINE HILL TRAILER PARK. She doesn’t hold any prejudices against Other-Siders, but the area isn’t exactly known as a wholesome neighborhood. Drugs circulate through Shadow Grove thanks to some undesirable figures that have made their homes here. Due to numerous socioeconomic circumstances, even a small town like Shadow Grove has a lively, booming sex industry. On top of that, there is some gang activity to contend with. Of course, according to the sheriff’s department and the town council, even factual evidence of these criminal activities is considered no more than rumor and hearsay.

  “Where are we going?” Rachel asks. Her apprehension increases the deeper they travel into the Other Side.

  Greg grins again but chooses not to answer her question.

  “Seriously, Greg, where are we going?”

  “Sheesh, give me a moment to revel in your distress.”

  “Stop screwing around.”

  “Relax, we’re here,” he says, turning into the oversized, desolate parking lot of Shadow Grove’s tallest building.

  The asphalt is scarred with deep potholes. A myriad of massive construction debris, left behind decades earlier by a disgruntled construction crew, litters the area. In the distance, Rachel sees a burned-out vehicle turned on its side—charred, dented, and rusty wherever it was not touched by the long-ago fire. There, situated at one end of the parking lot, Ashfall Heights stands in all its putrefying glory. The nine-story structure has an H-shape layout and is constructed of concrete and hollow clay tile. There are no exterior details to draw the eye. It’s simply an ugly building, unadorned and wholly mala
propos in relation to the rest of Shadow Grove’s architectural stylings.

  Greg parks the Range Rover and releases his seatbelt. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

  “Not as bad as it looks? Greg, even the Pine Hill meth-heads give Ashfall Heights a wide berth,” Rachel says as he opens his door and climbs out of the car. She quickly unclicks her seatbelt, grabs her umbrella in case she needs a weapon, and gets out of the Range Rover. “Since when does the heir apparent hang out with people from Ashfall Heights?” she asks, walking around the car.

  “It’s a great parkour site,” he says.

  “Now you’re doing parkour?” Rachel brushes her hand through her hair in frustration. “Who are you?”

  Greg shakes his head as he walks toward the building’s entrance. Rachel catches up with him and studies the indecipherable, faded graffiti that covers the foyer walls. She grips her umbrella tightly, ready to strike back if something looks even moderately threatening. He leads her into the unimpressive elevator and presses the uppermost circular button—unmarked after years of use.

  “I don’t like this.” Her whisper is a scream in the hollow space, even as the elevator’s gears churn sickly overhead.

  Maybe the cables are fraying?

  The elevator gears squeal, and the cart starts its precarious jerking. She grabs onto Greg’s arm with her free hand and digs her nails into his skin. He says something, but his words are incomprehensible, and she can’t focus on reading his lips to get an idea of what he’s talking about. Dizzy with fear, Rachel holds her breath and waits for them to plunge to their deaths. Warmth covers her hand as Greg comforts her—or attempts to release her hold, she can’t be sure. But she can’t break free from the crippling dread overwhelming her every sense.

  Instead of a gruesome ending, however, a loud ping sounds, and the doors creak open.

  “You’re brave enough to explore the forest, but Ashfall Heights scares you?” Greg asks, prying her fingers off his wrist. He gently nudges her out of the elevator and onto solid ground. “Rach, you need to get your priorities in order.”