FROM AWAY ~ BOOK THREE

by Mackey Jr. , Deke

  Empty-handed, Dawn resolves to face the consequences. Only as she turns to leave does she notice: Someone is watching her from the shadows of the back room.

  Her heart stops. Freezing her to the spot.

  Her watcher remains motionless.

  Dawn’s eyes burn. Forcing their way into the darkness. Soaking up every bit of light available. Desperate to make sense of it. To process what she’s seeing...

  Herself. Her own pale face. Her own cheekbones. Jawline. Eyes. Framed on the wall. Peeking out from the back room. A mirror?

  Relief washes over her. Chagrin at her own silliness. The creepy locale getting under her skin. Making her susceptible to any suggestion of weirdness. Classic horror movie mistake: She’s given herself a jump-scare.

  Definitely time to leave: The shop. The town. The vicinity. She takes a step towards the door. Her reflection does not. Doesn’t move. At all. Because it’s not a mirror.

  Dawn’s brain breaks a little. If it’s not a person and not a mirror...

  Enough. She strides across the shop. Rounds the counter. Past the old-fashioned cash register. Pulling out her phone. Swiping its flashlight to life. Shining it through the doorway. Into the shadows. Finally seeing what’s actually back there: A life-size black and white photograph in a frame.

  Not a mirror, but no one could blame her for the mistake. If the pale blonde girl in the photo isn’t her, it’s her twin. Expression serious. Looking directly into the lens.

  Was this a relation? After searching through Grampy’s old photographs for anyone who might bear the slightest resemblance and coming up empty, it’s difficult to grasp: Finding exactly what she’s been looking for. Somehow hanging on the wall in the back room of a rotting toy shop. In an uninhabited town. Where the air is poison to everyone but her.

  As odd as that is, far stranger is the last element of the photograph that draws her attention: The thin silver chain around her double’s neck. The charm suspended from it. Fine wire filigree giving it a texture of coiling spirals.

  Dawn’s fingers go to her collar. Dig beneath the sweatshirt. Find the same charm. On the same chain. Given to her only the night before by the Waxes. They’d said it belonged to her grandmother. She’d assumed they were referring to her father’s mother. Who - in Grampy’s photos - looked nothing like her.

  But now that she thought about it... The Waxes hadn’t specified which one.

  ~

  Slowly, Max asphyxiates himself.

  Shirt tied around his head. Mouth and nose covered by folded layers of flannel. Held tightly closed with one hand.

  Running.

  Passing the ocean of flags rippling softly in the breeze. Much farther down the road to Adderpool than he’s ever managed before. Of course, the distance wouldn’t count. The use of masks, air filters, or any other form of assisted breathing apparatus? Highly frowned upon. Getting lightly poisoned is all part of the fun.

  His lungs strain with unaccustomed exertion. Far too much demanded of them in one day. More than Max has been prepared for by his standard daily regimen of video games and getting high. Nevertheless, he forces himself onward. Powered by adrenaline and endorphins. Refusing to leave Dawn to her fate. He’d brought her there. No way was he leaving without her.

  He reaches the buildings. Braces against the graffitied siding. Avoiding the ubiquitous black ivy. Gasping beneath the fabric. Trying to loosen the tightly wrapped flannel without letting the bad air in. Beyond exhaustion. Breathless. Light-headed. Dizzy. His makeshift mask has effectively kept out any airborne contamination. Also? Oxygen.

  Just ahead: The shop Dawn disappeared into. He pushes off in its direction. Stumbling. The edges of his vision becoming foggy as he gets close.

  Through the empty window frame: A creepy pile of dolls. The two on top bear a disturbing resemblance to Mandi and Allison.

  Beyond them: Dawn. Standing behind the shop’s counter. Shining her phone’s flashlight into a blackness Max’s eyes can’t hope to penetrate from where he stands. Completely unaware of what Max is now seeing:

  The pile of dolls animating. Rising up as one solid shape. Moving across the shop. Reaching towards Dawn.

  ~

  He hates the horrid children. Their ridiculous little flags. Hates them.

  They are not welcome in his town. Adderpool is not their playground. They have no business running in and out. Screaming and laughing at first. Coughing and gagging later. Sticking their little flags all over the roadside.

  The air keeps them back, mostly. Though, every so often... It doesn’t. Most recently: Those geniuses with the scuba gear. But he dealt with that little problem.

  So he’s careful whenever they come. Hides when he hears them. Disguises himself. Watches until they’re gone. Until the town is his again. And all is as it should be.

  But now... This one. This girl. Over the wall. Down the road. Onto the street. Into the shop. His shop. A strange one. Unaffected by the air.

  She comes right to him. Looks directly at him without seeing. Fooled by his disguise. His to take. And yet, if she would only leave, he’d allow her to go. He’ll just stay hidden, and she can simply walk out. If she leaves, there will be no need for more than that.

  Instead, she comes in farther. Rounds the counter. Compounding her trespasses by straying into the back room. His back room. She shines a light. Gazes at the photograph hanging on the wall. Her photograph. And this cannot stand. He cannot allow it.

  Facing away, she doesn’t see him rise up. Doesn’t sense him advancing on her. Chisel in hand. The sharpest one. The quickest. It will go in easy. Come out easy. That’s all it will take. The town is his. The shop is his. And the photograph? It is only for him.

  He slides silently across the floor. Lifting the chisel over his head. Ready to strike.

  The girl pulls a chain from around her neck. Holds it out. Compares. The charm matches the one in the photo. Which is impossible. Absolutely impossible. Because it’s one of a kind. And he should know. After all, he made it. A lifetime ago. Made it special for her. Gave it to her before she left. And now, this girl...

  He readies the chisel again. Then - reflected in the glass - he sees the girl’s face. Staggered, he steps back. They’re the same: The girl in the photo and the girl looking at it. The charm in the photo and the one in her hand. Identical.

  It’s her. It has to be. She’s come back to Adderpool. After so many years. Finally...

  She’s returned to him.

  ~

  No breath to shout a warning. Throat raw from vomiting. What little rasp he can produce, all-but muted beneath the flannel.

  Max aims for the entrance to the toy store. Staggers past. Stumbling through a tangle of black ivy. Caught in its brambles outside the shop window. Max struggles. His erratic movements stir the plant. Its serrated leaves unfold. Revealing clusters of sickly yellow berries.

  Through the window: Dawn. Unaware of the living pile of dolls moving toward her. Holding out something sharp. Gleaming.

  Max tears at his mask. Rips it free. Desperate to alert Dawn to the approaching danger. He gasps for air to fuel his warning. As he does, the berries compress. Puff little yellow clouds into his face. Unavoidable. Max inhales a lungful of spores.

  He doesn’t register the noxious smell. Doesn’t have the chance to feel nauseous.

  Just drops instantly to the sidewalk.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Five nuns pass through the dark forest. Single-file. Following a path they can no longer see. Neither hesitating nor stumbling. Moving by rote. Muscle memory. Homing in on instinct.

  Each carries an urn. Holds it outstretched. Ahead of her body. Offerings to someone they have yet to encounter.

  They do not speak to one another. Nor to themselves. Nevertheless, their lips are in constant motion. Reciting a silent litany as they glide toward their destination.

  One-by-one, the sisters emerge from the woods. Continue under moonlight. Travelling along a cliffside. Perilously close to t
he edge. Eyes only ever ahead of them. Never seeing the black water and broken rocks below. Focused on their goal, now coming into view. A crumbling sandstone castle perched atop the cliff.

  Their nunnery: St. Neot’s.

  ~

  Through a stone archway. Along a cloister. Finally, into a large courtyard. Open to the night sky.

  Most of the sisterhood are gathered there. Under flickering torchlight. Attention focused on their aged prioress: Mother Agatha.

  Overlooking her flock. Beatific. Standing atop a rocky outcropping. Head and shoulders above them all. First to spot the newcomers with their urns. She smiles. “You have succeeded.” She beckons them forward with a pair of heavy shears. Red drips from the blades. “Come forth, sisters,”

  The crowd parts. Clears a path to their leader. Revealing the flat stone table she stands behind: A natural rock formation jutting into the courtyard. Quivering atop it: Paula. Eyes rolling skyward. Moaning piteously. Her casts and dressings cut away. Left in bloody piles around her. Exposed limbs jutting at odd angles. Jointed where they ought not be. Irreparably broken.

  The returning quintet take their places in a row behind Mother Agatha. Gazing at her. Pointedly avoiding looking down on the shattered woman on the table.

  “Paula Fields...” Her voice booms. Easily reaching the farthest corners of the courtyard. “We have, all of us, suffered for our beliefs. This shared pain binds us together, even as our shared faith lifts us each from our anguish in turn.”

  The first nun holds forth her clay jar. Mother Agatha takes it. “Of those who are called, much is required. To those who give freely, still more will be returned.” She removes the lid. Tosses it aside. “You have heard the call, Paula. We have borne witness to your agonies as you accepted the cost.” She holds the urn aloft. “Sisters, shall we welcome Paula into the fold?”

  The assemblage cheers in affirmation.

  “I hold in my hands your salvation, Paula... Do you believe we can bring to an end your torment?”

  Paula struggles to answer. “Y-y-yes... P-Please, YES!”

  “Then thusly is your belief rewarded.” She pours a clear, viscous slime out of the urn. Coating Paula’s arm. Her shoulder. Her neck.

  Paula howls!

  Inasmuch as she can move at all, she writhes in agony. Her flesh burns wherever the slime falls. Charring black. Ravaged by invisible flames.

  “On faith alone, you’ve sacrificed everything to join us. Adding your strengths to ours. Taking ours as your own.” Mother Agatha passes the urn back to its nun. Takes up Paula’s arm. “And so you see: Your faith is justified. Our claims are proven true!”

  She pulls at the blackened skin. Peels it away. Beneath, the flesh is pink. Pure. Unblemished. The limb is whole. Cuts healed. Bruises faded. Misaligned angles mended.

  With great wonder, Paula holds out her arm. Works the elbow. Flexes her fingers. Injuries evaporated. Everything operational. After all she’s endured, it’s almost beyond her ability to accept. Tears pour from her eyes. She sobs softly as Mother Agatha leans over her. “Do you see what is within the power of our Sisterhood? Will you take it unto yourself?”

  “I do!” Paula cries out. “I will!”

  The ancient nun ushers her five young sisters forward. Removing the lids from their jars. They hold them out over Paula.

  “The Sisterhood has broken you and promised you would be made whole in us. And so you see we cleave to our commitments. Will you honor yours? Will you join yourself to us, Paula? Now and forevermore?”

  She nods. Eyes blazing in her desperation.

  “Tell us, woman!”

  “Yes! YES! Make me one with you!”

  “So shall it be!” The nuns tip their jars. Dump the contents over Paula. She screams as she burns. Beyond pain, the sound is mixed with an insane laughter.

  Once emptied, the pottery is thrown onto the rocks, where it crashes against other earthenware fragments. Sharp shards sticking out of fine clay dust. The remains of many earlier ceremonies.

  The nuns turn their attentions to Paula. Her entire form now reduced to twisted charcoal. They set to work: Peeling away the scabrous black shell. Midwifing their sister into the world. Freeing her.

  Miraculously: She emerges whole. Healed.

  Mother Agatha steps forward. Arms outstretched. “Your former life now left behind, you are reborn: Our sister. The equal to us all. And we will serve together, from this day, until the ocean rises up to take us home.”

  The crowd shouts their approval: “Our sister!”

  Still in great pain, Paula hisses in reply: “My sisss... Stars!”

  Mother Agatha gathers Paula up into her arms. Both women laughing and crying at the same time. The other nuns push in to join the embrace. Paula is surrounded by love and acceptance as the entire nunnery cheers. Shouting hallelujahs into the sky.

  The sounds of their celebration continue long after. Carrying into the clear night air. Out over the ocean and away from Mossley Island.

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Deke Mackey Jr. has spent most of his life

  sitting cross-legged in a corner. Rocking in place.

  Knocking his head against the wall.

  Quietly telling himself stories.

  Recently? He’s been getting louder.

  Occasionally, he can be found making trouble at:

  www.dekemackeyjr.com