The Everlasting

by Tim Lebbon

  Scott moved sideways and placed his hand against the wood paneling. It was cool and rough, spiky with hardened varnish spots. When he rubbed his hand across its surface it scratched his skin, tickled his fingertips. “It feels real to me,” he said.

  Nina glanced back and shrugged. “Come on.” She followed Tigre, and Scott hurried to keep up.

  They headed for the foot of the staircase. As they came closer, Scott could make out details on the painted risers. Starting from the first one, the pictures seemed to tell a story: a chase, a hunt, a kill, and farther upstairs there looked like revelry and celebration.

  There were very few humans in the pictures.

  “My God, what are those?” he whispered. The main figures in the paintings were tall, cloaked creatures with muscled arms and chests, and bare skulls atop their shoulders. Some of the skulls still carried shreds of bright red meat, and one or two still had shriveled eyes in their sockets. But most were skeletal from the neck up, the sliced surface of their necks blackened with hardened blood.

  “Screaming Skulls,” Nina said.

  “But they’re not real, right? Not like that?”

  Again, she only shrugged.

  “Around here,” Tigre said.

  “Yes, I think so too,” Nina said. There was a quaver to her voice, and for a moment Scott thought someone else had spoken. He reached out and clasped Nina’s shoulder, and she turned to look at him. Her eyes were wide and frightened. Her face was pale and spotted with beads of sweat. The house was cool.

  “What is it?”

  “The Chord of Souls is very close,” she said. “It’s a ghost to us, but it’s like poison also. We’re breathing its air. Invading its space.”

  “And Tigre?”

  “He just can’t show the pain.”

  “Do you think—”

  “We need to move on, Scott. We’re so close. Helen, remember? All for Helen.”

  Helen, he thought. He remembered her face, and for that he was glad. He remembered her voice and her smell, the touch of her lips against his neck and her hand on his thigh. He could remember all of that, and the memory had the power and immediacy of one that would be lived again. “We’ll do this,” he said. “We will.”

  A voice shouted out behind them. It was pained and distorted, but loud enough to make Scott jump.

  “They’re here for the book!” it said. “They’re going to destroy the book! Smash it, crush it, make it into dust!”

  Scott and the others spun around, Tigre dropping to one knee and raising the gun.

  The door stood open, and bleeding in through the entrance was Yaima. She had dragged her upper body across the forecourt and up the steps to the door, and now her bodily fluids added to the moisture permeating the old marble slabs. She was raised on one hand, face held high, and there was a frightening clarity to her expression as she stared at Scott. “And they have a human!” she bellowed.

  The air exploded around Scott and he curled up on the floor. Tigre stood and fired another burst from the machine pistol, and when Scott looked again the woman was lying against the open door, her head shattered. Blood settled around her in a fine mist. Sunlight glimmered on the spread of brain matter spattered against the door, nestling in fresh bullet holes and slowly running down to the ground. All parts of her seemed to be drawing together, obeying some incredible attraction that would seek to rebuild her tattered form.

  “So much for the element of surprise,” Scott said, and then the screams came down around them.

  He had never heard a sound like it. They started as normal cries, then rose in volume and tone until they were something more, something almost solid that sliced through the air and penetrated his skull, twisting inside his ears like poisonous insects seeking escape. He clapped his hands to his ears but it had no effect; the screams were already inside. They echoed in his skull. They pierced his flesh and resonated through his bones, vibrating each joint until it felt as if his whole skeleton were readying to burst apart.

  He screamed himself, but the sound was lost. He fell to his knees, bruising them on the marble floor—it was still there, though Tigre had claimed the house to be illusory. Something tumbled into him and he saw Nina, her body twisting and face contorted with the same pain.

  Tigre stood before them, legs shaking, scarred flesh vibrating, either from the noise or the fear it instilled. His arm rose. He was fighting, struggling to maintain control, railing against the onslaught of sound that came at them again and again in solid waves.

  The screams went on. Scott was beginning to lose hold of his senses. Hearing was still there, torturing him with its honesty, but his sight was wavering, and though he opened his mouth to shout he could not utter a word.

  Tigre clasped his right wrist in his left hand and raised it, pointing the machine pistol past the staircase at the shadows beyond.

  And in those shadows . . .

  The pictures on the stair risers had come to life. A dozen shapes emerged and manifested as the Screaming Skulls, flowing slowly, long robes tied open around their shoulders and falling down to pool on the floor around their feet. Their arms were bare, muscled, pale, and mottled with flowery blood-red spots. Their chests and stomachs were exposed; similarly muscled, they flexed and squirmed as though containing a thousand lizards and snakes trying to escape.

  Their heads were skulls. They wore wide necklaces of dried, caked blood, extending down from the limit of their flesh and flowing across their chests and shoulders. Above the necks, bones had been stripped clear of all flesh. The skulls were yellow, like bones left out in the sun for too long. None of them had any scraps of flesh remaining, eyes in the sockets, or mummified scalps. They were all hairless. Most still had teeth, though there were also many gaps.

  Their mouths hung open as they screamed.

  Tigre’s machine pistol spit fire for a couple of seconds before falling empty. Three of the Screaming Skulls staggered back, clasping big hands to the wounds in their chests and arms. Then they stood upright again, and their mouths opened once more to add to the cacophony.

  Tigre shook his head and stepped back, blood flowing from his mouth. His hands moved expertly as he swapped magazines and fired again. Bullets slammed home in one Skull’s stomach and sent it folding to the floor. Tigre raised the gun and fired at exposed bone, but the bullets ricocheted, splintering the staircase banister and exploding plaster dust from the ceiling.

  Nina stepped forward and kicked out at one of the Skulls. It fell over and its scream ceased for a few seconds, but it was soon on its feet again, helped by the figure Tigre had shot. Their screams recommenced.

  Scott had taken his hands away from his ears. The pain was still intense and shocking, but if he wasn’t to curl up and die here, he had to move.

  He had no idea what he could do. He stared at the grinning faces of these monstrous things, watched Tigre shoot them down to the ground, saw them haul themselves or one another back to their feet and advance some more.

  They were slow, but what did speed matter when they could not be stopped?

  Nina came to him and cupped her hands around his left ear. Even shouting, she could barely be heard above their shrieks.

  “Go farther. Go deeper. Find the book! And when you do, stay with it. I’ll come.”

  “How can you . . . ?” he started to say, but she pulled back and shook her head. She looked weak and uneasy, and he knew it was not all from the effects of the Screaming Skull’s cries. She jerked her head behind her, urging him to go.

  He looked. He would have to pass these things . . . unless he went upstairs. Tigre and Nina had been certain that the book was beyond the staircase, but in a place this size there had to be another way down.

  Tigre’s gun spit lead for another few seconds, and several of the Skulls staggered back and fell. Most of them rolled and twisted back to their feet, but one stayed down, hands clutching its stomach. It was still moving. It turned its head, and its empty eye sockets fixed on him.

 
Scott dashed to the right and headed for the foot of the stairs.

  A Skull appeared before him, sliding into view across the marble floor. It faced him and screamed, and the proximity seemed to amplify its effect. Scott went to his knees and fell forward, reaching out and touching the first of the stair risers. The Skull bent down and moved its face closer to his, mouth agape, blackened teeth promising unknown pain were they to connect with his very real, very human flesh.

  A foot connected with the side of the Skull’s head and it spun, striking the floor on its side and flailing its limbs as it tried to stand again. Nina grimaced at him, jerked her head toward the shadows behind the staircase. Go, she was saying, but Scott already had his plan, and in a spur-of-the-moment decision he decided to stick with it.

  He stood, leaped over the sprawled Skull, and sprinted up the staircase.

  The tone of the screams changed. He thought the volume had increased, but glancing back he realized that it was because every Screaming Skull was now looking up at him.

  They started rushing for the stairs.

  Tigre opened up again, cutting several of them down, standing astride one of the fallen and emptying the magazine into its chest. When he turned, reaching into the small bag over his shoulder for another magazine, the thing below him reached out and tripped him. Then it sat up, pale orange dust spewing from the holes across its body.

  Scott ran. He did not think about direction or purpose. Where the staircase split he headed left on a whim, glancing up at the huge stag head guarding the way. It gave him no clues. He knew that the Skulls were following him; their screams cut in like heated knives, their footsteps transmitting through the stairs to meet his own. Tigre’s gun fired again, there was the sound of metal on metal, Nina shouted, and then he found himself faced with the entrance to two corridors. One led left, the other at a right angle led deeper into the house. He chose that one.

  There was a set of doors into the corridor, blocked open by objects that had lost their shape with webs and dust. He kicked them aside—dust clouded, piled books scattered across the floor—and turned to slam the doors.

  The Screaming Skulls bore down on him. They moved unnaturally, flowing rather than running, as though they were not quite a true part of the scene. Not ghosts, he thought, and they confirmed that by slamming against the closed doors. He turned a big, ornate key, and something gave a satisfying click.

  The doors would not hold for long. He ran.

  Not ghosts, but not here either. Bullets punch holes in them and dust comes out. No brains, no minds . . .

  More gunfire, more clanging of metal. He heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, and hoped that Tigre and Nina were coming this way as well.

  The book is here, he thought. Below me, deeper down, so Nina said. And that immortal, dragging half of herself to the door like that: And they have a human! she shouted.

  He ducked left into a side corridor, then right into an open space with a large table piled with books, faded tapestries on the walls, and two doors in each wall to choose from.

  Only I can touch the book.

  He wondered what the books on the table might contain, and whether any of them may be useful. Tigre had called the house an illusion, but Scott was not so sure. Perhaps it was convenient that a book such as the Chord of Souls would be hidden in a place like this, but if it was an illusion, why not have it perfect? Wallpaper hung from the walls, lath-and-plaster ceilings dipped heavy with damp and rot, and all the riches this place had once contained were now faded and holed.

  It didn’t matter.

  He looked at one of the tapestries. It depicted a fight, and the two things fighting were like nothing he had ever seen before. They had arms and legs, muscles and skin and hair, but beyond that he could not identify them. They were difficult to look at. Angels and demons, he thought, and the idea did not sit well.

  He heard the Skulls running through the house, screeching louder each time they turned a corner and found only more shadows.

  Scott had to choose a door. He did not think too hard, just stepped forward and reached out for a handle. He thought this route would take him deeper into the house. Beyond the door was a short corridor, ending at the head of a tightly curving staircase. “Down,” he said. That seemed right.

  He shut the door behind him, frustrated when he found there was no lock.

  There were no longer any windows. He looked around but could perceive no obvious light source. It was much like the Wide, evenly lit from nowhere. That gave him no comfort at all.

  The staircase was steep, its treads cast from stone, worn into shallow dips by centuries of feet. The walls were rough-cast plaster, any paint long since flaked away to reveal the paleness beneath. Scott started to descend, counting the steps as he went. He held on to the central pillar, running his other hand along the curving wall, wishing that there were a handrail. The stairs were narrow and tight, and he could see only a few steps ahead.

  He paused after eighteen steps. Should be on the ground floor again by now, he thought. He opened his mouth and breathed lightly, listening for any sounds of pursuit. He could still hear the Screaming Skulls’ piercing shrieks, but they were in the distance, muffled by floors, walls, and the spaces in between.

  There were no other sounds. The door at the end of the corridor above remained closed, while whatever lay at the base of the staircase offered no clues.

  Scott continued down. So close to the book. So where is Lewis? And what really happens when I find it?

  There were so many unknowns. Nina and Tigre claimed they wanted to read the book only to discover how to die. Lewis wanted it in exchange for Helen. Old Man wanted it for knowledge. How to achieve any of these aims, Scott had no idea.

  He moved on, descending slowly and pausing every few steps to listen.

  When he had counted thirty steps he stopped again, looking back the way he had come. He must surely be below ground level now, yet still the staircase went on. Perhaps he had gotten lucky and the book was down here. But if that were the case, surely it would be guarded?

  The staircase ended without warning. There was a room, and Scott recognized it. There were two people here, and he recognized them as well. They were sitting at a table, sharing a weekend broadsheet paper and all the extras that invariably accompanied it. They looked quite happy and content. They did not look very old.

  “Mum?” he said. “Dad?”

  They looked up, and they were not pleased to see him.

  “Scott,” his father said. “You been out with that crazy old fuck again?”

  “That’s my father you’re talking about!” his mother said, but she spoke with half a smile.

  “Well, he’s still crazy,” his father said. “Remember that time with the dominoes?”

  Scott’s mother laughed. “Yeah, there is that. You’re right. Crazy fuck. And speaking of which . . .” She stood quickly, sending her chair tumbling, and pulled off her blouse. Her heavy breasts swung free.

  “Mum,” Scott said, blinking. “Dad?”

  “Stay away from that old prick,” his father said. “He’ll bring you nothing but trouble. Just look at you now!” He also stood, unzipping his trousers and releasing his erect penis. He stroked its end and smiled at Scott’s mother.

  She turned to Scott, rucking her skirt up around her hips. “Yes, just look at you. Trouble all around. And it’s all his fault.” She glanced over her shoulder, bending and offering herself. “Dad’s fault.” Scott’s father positioned himself behind her, looking down. He thrust forward, and she screeched. She looked at Scott again, her eyes half-closed and hair swinging with each thrust. “Crazy, crazy fuck,” she said, but now she seemed to be talking to herself.

  “You’re not real!” Scott said. “You’re not even ghosts!”

  “You don’t believe in ghosts, do you, son?” his father said. His voice was distorted by grunts.

  Scott closed his eyes and walked forward. “Not real,” he said. “It’s this house playing with
me. It can’t have me, so it’s playing with me.” His legs hit a table, and he heard a cry between pleasure and pain fade away into some unimaginable distance. “I love you, Mum and Dad.”

  When he opened his eyes the room was empty. No table, no chairs, no decor, just bare walls and a rough concrete floor. Scott sighed. It had seemed so real, and he knew he had to shed it as a memory.

  “What the hell was that?” he whispered. The words echoed back at him, making him more confused than ever.

  There was a sound behind him. It had come from the mouth of the spiral staircase. A crafty footstep falling too hard, followed by the panicked shuffling of someone trying to fall silent.

  He moved across the room to the door. It was heavy and functional, an unpainted timber-framed and braced door with iron hinges and a chunky lock and handle. It’ll be locked; it’ll be locked, and I’ll have to go back up those stairs. He touched the handle. It was warm. It’ll be locked and—

  The sound came again, a secretive rustling. It seemed closer. Sound would carry well down the funnel of the staircase, but it could also mean that whatever pursued him was nearing the bottom.

  He heard its breathing: quick, panicked. Or fast and hungry.

  Scott turned the handle and the door opened. The hinges were surprisingly silent. He emerged into another long corridor, bathed in the same even light as the rest of the house. I’m below the building now, he thought. Way below. Deeper. Perhaps in an older version of the house.

  Papa stood halfway along the corridor.

  “Papa?” Scott said. He closed the door behind him. The old man smiled just the way Scott had always remembered.

  “Little cunt,” Papa said.

  Scott shook his head and closed his eyes. “Not there,” he said. When he looked again his grandfather was walking toward him.

  “Little cunt! You think I really loved you? You think I’d send you a message from the grave, when you were so useless you could barely mutter your own name?”

  “I know you’re not there,” Scott said. “And if you are, then you’re not really Papa.” The vision grinned. “You’re one of them.” Scott pointed behind him. “So show me your skull, and scream if you think it can hurt me more.”