Seize the Night

by Christopher Golden

  I saw it all then, with a terrible clarity. Aunt Lize had fought for Jenn, because she was either misdosed or presumed to be in agreement. A blow across her jaw had sent her back, with Jenn’s blanket—a warm woolen thing against the frozen ground—wrenched from her grasp, and fallen from my little sister.

  They’d been so drunk, they’d left Aunt Lize there to bleed to death, lest stopping to help her, they lose their nerve to do what they intended.

  I picked up the blanket, crushed it to my face to stifle my screams.

  It took me a long time to get up the courage to move from where Aunt Lize’s body lay—it felt like forever, but the sun hadn’t moved much in the sky before I realized I had to see for myself, and maybe I’d be able to stop them. Maybe I could save Jenn.

  The village was so quiet. I heard a door banging, once, twice, but it was the wind. An unlatched door in Farmington was unheard of. Rather than see what had caused it, I sped up, my eyes straight ahead, my fists balled up under my apron, my reluctance to go where I must overwhelmed by my fear of what I’d see there.

  I followed the disturbed path to the one place none of them would ever have gone if they’d been in their right minds. The stones were cold and rough under my hands as I scrambled over the low wall.

  After an age, I found myself closer to the mound than I’d ever been and pushed open the rusty iron gate that surrounded its base. The lock that secured it lay on the ground; the gate had never been left unlocked or unlatched in my lifetime.

  I looked up at the mound and began to run toward the rocky outcropping. I did so without a thought, without a hesitation, and not even the old tales, told in high midsummer, slowed me. Not the warnings of my mother, my father, my aunt, and every elder I knew could stop me.

  I’d seen a tiny stripe of white against the mud by one of the granite boulders. It was not rock—it was flesh, as white as birch bark.

  There was a slight movement that was no stirring of the wind, no bleached-out part of the demon. It was human.

  I hurled myself up the hill, sliding on the scree, my hands cut by the granite chips. “Jenn!”

  As if in response, a small, chubby hand reached out. As I drew closer, I could see a familiar scar across the back of the hand, covered with the hastily, crudely wrought tattoos of lye and ash, colored with blood. The same as I’d seen on Mr. Daggett and Mr. Foyle, covered up since fall.

  Jenn was still alive.

  I screamed and raced toward the stone, the loose rock and mud keeping me from going all the way under that flat outcropping. I grabbed at her hand, felt it clutch at mine. Then there was a jerk, and Jenn’s hand slid through my fingers, slick with . . . mud? Blood, mixed with a noxious black ooze.

  Without thinking, I reached in under the flat rock, straining to grab Jenn. My shoulders jammed under the rock. A sharp bite, a dagger through my palm, and I snatched my hand back. Blood streamed across my wrist, and a yellow-white foam lined the wound. My skin there felt as if it was burning off.

  I tore my apron to rags. Wiped off as much of the foam as I could. Bound up my hand with the rest, once the burning had stopped and the blood was flowing freely. I sat back heavily, woozy from whatever poison had found its way inside me. I fell over onto the cold granite scree.

  I might have only imagined the last little gasping whimper, the crunch of birdlike bone, another effect of the poison, before unconsciousness took me.

  Or maybe I was awake. I couldn’t move, not even to shut my eyes, but perhaps I slept and dreamed or my mind wandered, as if in a fever. I couldn’t feel the wind, the cold, my body, but saw greenish clouds speeding over the sky, racing a sun the color of the stormy sea.

  I woke hours later, freezing cold, stiff, and aching, my eyes gritty, pain like a spear through my forehead. My muscles felt as if they were knotted ropes, my joints like soggy bread. Once my head cleared, only enough to realize what I’d seen, and failed to do, I turned and vomited until I thought my ribs would crack.

  I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and my eyes with the corner of my cap—the only thing left that wasn’t fouled with dirt and blood—and turned toward the stones. Nothing there, no sound, no smell, no movement, no hint of anything amiss. Indeed, there was a bird hopping idly at the edge of the brown, burned grass, pecking halfheartedly for seeds. It was something I had never seen before; animals never came here.

  It could only mean that the demon was gone.

  Too much to believe that it was gone for good. It had only found a new nest, maybe one closer to the village itself for better feeding.

  Why hadn’t it taken me?

  I was rooted to the spot, a foolish logic whispering that if the demon hadn’t taken me here, I must be safe. Finally, the urge to run overwhelmed my fear and drove me to speed with the notion I might survive.

  Without thinking, I ran, sweating and slipping and tripping over the churned-up mud, my breath coming in hitches, sight blurred, my limbs moving unguided by anything but panic. More than once, I stumbled, and once, catching my foot on a root, I fell, the wind knocked from me. My wounded hand felt as though the bones had turned to shattering glass, shearing through the muscles.

  When I could catch my breath again, my eyes focused, and I saw something on the ground, not ten feet from me. At first, I thought it was cloth and old leather, and then I saw the pink and white of cleaned bone. Mr. Minter’s skull had been staved in, his face flattened, the meat and marrow sucked from his bones. What was left of him was flat, wrinkled, and brown, like a cowpat that had dried out in the sun for a month or two.

  It was almost enough to get me up and running, but a prey’s instinct stopped me. A rustling high up in a fir tree, movement in the shadows. A glint of gold.

  Da’s ring flickered in the dull sunlight, and his hand jerked slackly, as if it were on a puppeteer’s string. I could not make out the rest of him. He made no noise, but as I strained to see, I heard a wet sound, like a smacking of lips. Then a rustling, and it was as if a curtain had been drawn back.

  Clawed fingers held on to Da’s shoulders, talons digging into his flesh. The demon’s head moved and I saw two teeth like silver daggers fastened on Da’s neck, blood running down his shriveling corpse.

  I must have made a slight noise, for suddenly my father’s head lolled away and two pale eyes glared at me. The demon’s face was otherwise featureless, but for a mouthful of pointed teeth, those two fangs, and those wide, malevolent eyes.

  The demon hissed, then returned to its feeding.

  I found myself running with no memory of getting up. I was at our house before I knew I had gone so far, and shut the door behind me, the image of Aunt Lize’s body burning into my mind.

  This place wasn’t safe, it never had been, and certainly not against the demon. I grabbed a few things, found the whiskey jug and a small, sharp knife, a lamp, and a blanket. Some guardian angel reminded me of my hoard of coins, and I put them into my pocket.

  The church was the only answer. The only safe place. I fled to there, barely feeling my feet beneath me.

  The door to the church creaked open, and my heart sank; I’d hoped to find the rest of the villagers here.

  The quiet was not because they were safely hidden, but because they were all dead.

  I barred the door behind me and only then struck a light against the glowing dark of late afternoon. I sank onto one of the benches, and then, feeling too exposed, moved deeper into the building, to the front of the church. Even sitting on the steps before the great stone table of the altar was not enough, and with a reverence, I climbed underneath, the wine and water set on the top, ready for the blessing next service. Finally, the space was small enough to reassure me. I lit the lamp I’d taken and left it just outside my hiding place, and too tired to eat the crust I’d hidden, I tried to keep awake, not certain what I’d do if it tried to get in. Eventually, my eyes closed as the sunlight faded through the stained glass cross.

  I dreamed of nothing but woke the next morning exhausted an
d freezing. Crawling out from under the altar, I stretched, still sore, and my wounded hand, and the arm above, felt swollen and tight. The daylight streamed in and I knew it would keep me safe; the demon still needed the clouds and shadows.

  The daylight streamed in because the stained glass was gone. I had woken freezing because there was no window to keep out the night’s winter air.

  A swish, a rustling, up high in the corner, and I saw it.

  The demon nestled there, dormant, between the wall and the ceiling like a moth’s cocoon. Granite gray and brown, its bony wings were wrapped around its body. They were nearly translucent, naught but a bat’s thin membrane over a butterfly skeleton, stretched thin for a hundred years of near-starvation. I fancied I could see its belly beneath the wings, distended now; a pile of cracked bones and bloodied cloth beneath it told that it had brought its kill into the church along with it.

  The wind scattered a few dried leaves across the filth, and I saw how the demon had entered this once-holy place: the fragile lead of the window smoldered with an acrid stench like a failed batch of lye soap, the glass broken and scattered across the altar and surrounding floor. All the demon had to do was wait on the roof and let its ichor drip down, dissolving the bonds of the lead. With the glass went the cross, and so there was no impediment to stop its invasion.

  I had to get past it while it slept. I took my knife and stepped out, cautiously.

  As soon as the broken glass crunched under my boot, it woke. The demon screeched and spread its wings. Short, bird-like legs extended from its body, and the wings ended in taloned claws.

  I turned away when I saw the distended belly move. I could not tell whether it was a still-struggling victim or some diabolical offspring.

  As I turned, I saw the bottle of wine on the altar. I snatched it up and flung it at the demon, and before it could react, I threw my lamp at it.

  The light was low and guttering but was enough. The wine, and the last of the lamp oil, spattered and caught against the gray speckled skin. Shrieking like a thousand pigs at slaughter time, the demon fell heavily to the ground, as the fire ate up its flesh like sugar melting in water.

  On the stone floor, the demon continued to scream, its mouth opening wider and wider, until finally it split, the jaw hanging slack from its skull.

  There was no movement for a moment, then a popping noise: flesh pulling away from flesh. A white slug-like creature, the very heart and soul of the demon, squirmed out of the broken mouth, leaving a dark green slime behind it. The only similarity between it and the body it had inhabited was its large eyes; this changed creature was small, translucent ivory, veined, its head at one end, diminishing to a small tail at the other. Like a larval creature or a misshapen snake, it kicked away from the ruin of a body and advanced on me.

  A buzzing in my head: I knew immediately, I had to grab it and never let go until it was dead. I grabbed behind what I assumed was the head. It immediately wriggled, slick and elastic within my grasp. I felt the body contract and lengthen, all muscles within a thin membrane of slippery skin.

  When I finally got two hands and a firm grip on it, the head lashed around, and before I had a chance to cry out, the monster’s mouth opened. Two long fangs seemed to uncurl from within it—how could they be so long and still fit into that evil little head?

  Another contraction and it almost got away, but I held on. The head reared back, and the fangs, like two of the finest, sharpest embroidery needles, sank into my hands. Blood dripped, acid venom burned, and I wanted to scream. Instead, I gritted my teeth and devoted all my energy, every fiber of my being, to holding on to that creature and crushing it. Unless I could kill it, it would claim me.

  The tighter I held, the more it curled and contorted and bit. My hands felt as if I’d stuck them into the hottest coals of the hearth, and I felt the poison work its way up my arms, weakening them. Still, I held fast, spots and threads of lightning blurring my vision.

  Slowly, I moved to the altar and, careful never to loosen my grasp, crabbed up the stairs sideways. I twisted suddenly and tried to stuff the wriggling demon into the chalice of would-be holy water; it hissed and twined around my hands. My fists were too big to immerse the creature, so I knocked it over, a small sacrilege to stop a greater evil. I slammed my hands on the puddle of water and felt the thing writhe violently. Even unblessed, it had some virtue against the monster. Still not enough; as the water slid away, grew shallower, the thing redoubled its attacks, stretching and snapping at my eyes now.

  The pain in my hands gave me a desperate idea. If not water, then fire.

  So careful not to fall—because if I fell, I would drop the demon—I kicked over my jug of whiskey. The long trailing altar cloth soaked up the whiskey, and the growing puddle caught the flame that still consumed the thing’s previous body.

  The altar cloth caught ablaze immediately, and suddenly, the altar was a perfect rectangle of fire. Before it could consume the thin material, I plunged both of my hands, and the demon, into the inferno.

  A thin, shrill cry, another flurry of resistance, and finally, I felt the creature droop. Refusing to believe this was not a ruse, I held on, pressing my clenched fists into the flames, until I felt nothing but numbness.

  The flames died. The demon did not move.

  Cautiously, I opened one hand, still pressing down with the flat of my palm. No movement but the sliding of my hand against greasy soot where the demon had been. I opened the other, in the same fashion, scarcely believing my eyes.

  A smear of oily green against the dying embers on top of the stone altar was all that was left of it.

  I’d killed it. I stepped back, made a reverence, and only then felt the pain that had been blotted out by my concerted efforts. My eyes stung from smoke, my hands looked like ground meat, and I was infernally tired. My head ached, from clenching my teeth in concentration and from Da’s drink and his blow to my head.

  Then I didn’t hurt. The numbness I’d felt returned, flooding my body, and for one excruciating moment, I thought I’d somehow caught fire. I looked down, and the charred and shredded flesh of my hands fell away, showing new, pink flesh beneath. I undid the bandage on my hand, and the roughness of my torn wool dress against the new skin was the only discomfort I felt.

  I understood. In defeating something so unclean, I’d received a measure of grace.

  I heard the Stone Harbor church bell tolling the hour. Could it really be only noon? I ran from there, not caring that I was in bloody rags, not caring who saw me going about without a cap, my hair untied and streaming behind me. There was a strength to the pale winter sun that I’d missed, and I laughed aloud to feel its warmth.

  Spring was finally here. Spring was here, the demon was dead, and there was light in the world again.

  I tripped across new, deep furrows: someone, in a fit of optimism or desperation or drunkenness, had begun to plow early. As I stumbled, still laughing, the fresh, honest scent of the earth filled my lungs, and as I reached the other side of the field, the ground began to climb. I knew I was at the edge of Farmington, and Stone Harbor was not two miles away. Another rise, cross the beck, and I’d be there. I had my small store of funds and I could sell my labor for a term or two, and be no worse off than I had been in the village. Captain Thrupp had told me there was a need for workers, and I believed him to be an honest man.

  As I started up the second rise, I began to breathe heavily. Thinking on all that had occurred in the past few days, it only made sense to be weary. The liveliness that follows extended effort wore away, and my pace slowed. But I could see the steeples of Stone Harbor now, and my heart was light.

  I’d won. I’d survived.

  I slowed further as I reached the stream. It was wider and deeper than I ever remembered seeing, and I paused at this last boundary between my old life and my new. I was sweating now, and itched all over, alternately shivering and feverish. Just cross the stream, and an easy walk to town, and I would be safe.

 
The stream was swollen from the winter snows beginning to melt up in the mountains. The water rushed and roared, such a monstrous racket for a small stream. But it seemed no longer a minor obstacle to be traversed by wading or going from smooth stone to stone. I felt myself shrink before it, almost, afraid to risk crossing when I was exhausted and feeling sickly. Drowning, being swept away, and a memory of the spilled holy water made me frightened.

  One last step, I told myself. That’s all. Put a foot, a hand, in the water, and you’ll see it’s nothing, an unfamiliar voice deep inside me said faintly. Do that, and you’ll find the courage to cross. All will be well.

  The sun beat down as if at midsummer, and my head seemed filled with the roiling chaos of the current, until I could not think clearly. Fear welled in me, and I was as stone.

  The brutal sun overhead, the confusion of the river that threatened to drown me even as I stayed on the shore. I was filled with terror, unable to move. The other side of the stream seemed an ocean away, the tumultuous waves as high as the bell tower.

  That thought calmed me. The distant bell tower. That brought peace; I felt my head clear. The wind shifted, carrying the sound of Stone Harbor’s tolling bell—had I really spent two hours here, by that roaring torrent, amazed? The sound grated on my ears; there must have been a crack in those lovely bells I had loved so much, for they now seemed hateful and shrill. Doom-laden.

  The wind picked up, and I caught again the scent of the tilled earth behind me. Perhaps I didn’t need to leave after all. Everything I’d feared in Farmington was gone now. I had a house, I had my housewifely skills.

  I could feed myself as well in the village as in some far-off town. I knew how to work, I wasn’t afraid of hard work. I’d never be afraid again.

  A kind of mellowing happiness settled over me as I turned away from the consuming flood of the stream. My fatigue and illness lifted. I’d made the right decision.

  I trudged, wearily, happily, and decisively, back up to Da’s house—my house, now. I kept going, until I crossed the field and found myself at the mound. I began to climb it. The intensity of the sun—when had the first month of spring ever been so hot?—was like the flames on the altar. I crawled under the flat rock, smelling the dampness and feeling the cold of the ground soothe me. I settled myself comfortably, curling around until I was a snug little ball.